Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“That sounds like we got a slush fund,” Dom said, shooting Luca a smirk.
Luca shook his head but reached out to one of his guards that was nearby. He placed two black zippered pouches into his hand. Luca handed them to us.
“Whenever possible, establish alibis. Get chips from various casinos. Get drinks. Do some gambling. Be seen on cameras far away from wherever Remo wants you to be working.”
“Got it,” I said. “Be in touch,” I said before making my way to my car.
There was a sizzling in my veins, something I always got at the beginning of a new (possibly really profitable) job.
And, yeah, it would be nice to get out of town and have some fun on Luca’s dime too.
It had been all work for me for a solid year. I needed a night or two out. And Dom was decent company. After years locked in a cage, he was usually up for drinks or hitting a bar, finding women, the usual.
I just had one unpleasant thing to handle before I got home and got packing.
I stuck my phone in the holder and dialed before pulling out of my parking space.
“Ma, I got some bad news about Sunday dinner…”
CHAPTER TWO
Roe
I dropped the mascara wand into my pink makeup case and exhaled. My gaze flicked up to the corner of the light-studded vanity mirror.
“You made this sound a whole lot more fun than it is,” I said to the picture of the woman taped there.
My grandmother stood there in all her showgirl glory—legs for days, perfectly coiffed bleach-blonde hair, red lips, and blue eyes, and a headdress with feathers standing two feet off her crown that looked like it weighed ten pounds.
Her body? Killer in her bikini that acted as her uniform.
She was beaming.
My gaze flicked back to my own reflection.
I looked a lot like her: the same high cheekbones, dainty chin, delicate nose, blue eyes. The only real difference was that I stopped bleaching my dark brown hair years back after an unfortunate salon visit that had all my hair breaking off until I had no choice but to give myself a bob and slowly regrow the length.
To give myself the elegant, vintage look the casino required, I had learned to set my hair so I managed “Old Hollywood Curls” that curved toward my face and managed to give me an old-school glam look even when I was shuffling into work in my sweats to get ready for the day.
I wasn’t a showgirl. Not the way my grandmother had been in her prime. Mostly because there simply weren’t many of those jobs available anymore. And even when there was an opening, the competition was so fierce that I had next to no chance to make it.
I wasn’t the best dancer anyway.
So I leaned into my strengths.
I was a lounge singer.
Same sort of glamour with slightly more clothing most of the time.
My dress was hanging in a garment bag behind me, fresh from the dry cleaner with that warm starch scent that I always found oddly comforting.
I had six dresses—one for each night of the week when I was working. Only six because, well, the damn things were expensive as hell. You know, if you wanted to get well-made ones that looked like quality under the stage lights, which had a tendency to highlight any slight flaw in material or cut.
And, well, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to invest more in this job.
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love the stage, the singing, the oldies I crooned, the applause of the crowds. I’d eaten all that up since my days on the beauty pageant circuit.
But this particular job?
Not so much.
“Knock knock.”
And there was the very reason.
Right on time.
“Hope you’re not decent.”
It took actual work to keep my lips from turning into a grimace as my boss came into the dressing room.
Maybe I wouldn’t be so disgusted by the behavior if I hadn’t learned from the past when he came barging in while I was standing in nothing but a thong, and his beady eyes raked over me. I needed to scrub my skin raw to get rid of the slimy feeling that clung to me afterward.
Now, I made sure to stay in my sweats until after his usual drop-in. And he always popped in.
In my mind, it was only because he wanted to catch another eyeful of me. Or, let’s face it, worse.
“You know,” Frank said, blue-eyed gaze sweeping over me, “men don’t like women who dress like slobs.”
I ignored that, knowing that if I let myself, I would say a thing or two that I’d regret when my rent bill was due. While I was looking for a way out, I knew I had to be smart about it.
“Did you have some requests for me?” I asked instead, pretending that organizing my makeup case required all my focus.