PrologueCANDI

Prologue

The Spring Before Severu De Luca Becomes Godfather

CANDI

One of the bold lookers is ogling my tits and ass.

Like he's been doing all night, he leers at me, trying to get my attention. I don't eye-flirt with bold lookers. It's too easy for their interest to tip over into action. So, I've been ignoring him.

Only, that's easier to do on stage. I'm not on the pole right now. I'm on the floor doing lap dances for extra tips. Tips I need for the new hydrotherapy they want to try with my mom.

"Hey, Candi. You taste as sweet as your name? I bet your pussy tastes like sugar, huh?" The bold looker's fingers slide over my ass cheek, heading toward my no-go zone.

My whole body tenses and I have to remind myself, I cannot brain the guy. I hate this stuff, but it happens. And if I react the way I want to, I get fired. So, I don't.

Ignoring his crass words, I shift sideways fast, moving out of range of the grasping fingers.

The guy I'm dancing for isn't looking at my tits anymore. His gaze is locked on his friend behind me.

Crap. What is the perv up to now?

I spin around to see, and all the air expels from my lungs.

A guy wearing an expensive suit and black latex gloves has the bold looker by the scruff of his neck. With the face of a fallen angel and death in his eyes, he meets my gaze and nods.

Like he's saying hello, but without words?

I'm not sure. But I nod back.

He starts dragging the bold looker toward the back exit. A bunch of guys in suits come out of nowhere and chase after him, yelling his name.

Angelo.

Needing a better look at my savior, I abandon my lap dance customer and follow right behind them. I'm as fast in stilettos as these guys are in their shiny dress shoes and I reach the alley right behind them.

Just in time to see Angelo drive his knife through the hand of the guy who tried to cop a feel. The man screams and starts begging.

Showing no mercy, Angelo twists the knife, saying something I can't hear.

The bold looker's scream turns into high pitched sobs.

One of the suit guys says, "Calm down, Angelo, man. He gets the message. No touching the stripper."

"Dancer. She's a fucking dancer." Angelo glares at his friend.

I'm pretty sure I fall a little in love right then. I am a dancer. Yes, I strip too, but I dance while I'm doing it with moves most athletes would find impossible to keep doing for an entire shift on the stage.

My ovaries definitely explode and for the first time ever at work, I soak my G-string with arousal.

I must make a sound because Angelo's piercing gaze snaps to me.

Staring back, no words come out of my mouth.

"You're scaring the dancer ," one of his other friends claims, emphasizing the last two words.

I'm not scared. Not of Angelo.

It's my reaction to the violence he's perpetuating on my behalf. Ashamed of how turned on I am right now while another human being is wailing in agony, I spin on my six-inch heel and rush back into the club.

I don't see Angelo again, but sometimes, I feel the constant tension in my spine relax and I realize he's in the club.

Watching.

I want to tell him thank you for what he did, but that makes me feel like a bad person. You shouldn't thank someone for skewering a man's hand, should you?

I definitely shouldn't get turned on thinking about it.

That's just wrong.

But no one has ever protected me like that. Mom would if she could, but with her arthritis, sometimes she can't get around without her chair or walker.

She's sure not throwing a guy up against a brick wall and stabbing him in the hand.