Chapter 10ANGELOCANDI

Chapter 10

ANGELO

My phone rings with a tone exclusive to one person.

My mother.

I'm tempted to ignore the call because I don't want to miss even a moment of Candi's set, but I answer. Severu and I have been waiting to see if Perla would reach out looking for information on behalf of her father, the Sicilian godfather.

I swipe to answer and the phone connects immediately to the earbud I wear constantly, but I still have to lift it close to my face to be heard on the other end through my mask. "What do you want Perla?"

"That is no way to answer the phone to your mother," she scolds me.

I don't bother to reply to the rebuke. She and I both know I don't care what she thinks of my actions. And I have no intention of engaging in pleasantries with this woman.

"I'm coming to New York. I would like to see you. Your stepfather has never met you, and he'd like to."

"I doubt that very much." She and Barone, husband number three and don over Calabria, a territory in Southern Italy, have been married for four years.

"Then you are mistaken. You are my son, regardless of how you wish to see yourself."

"I am not the one who decided not to be family."

"You didn't want to come to Sicily with me. What was I supposed to do, force you?" she asks in a tone meant to make me feel guilty.

"Haven't you figured out by now that playing victim with me is useless?"

"I would have thought that now you have a girlfriend, you would be more in touch with your emotions. You can't tell me the little stripper is fine with that dead eyed stare you're so good at."

Cold seeps into my limbs. Despite all my precautions and not claiming her yet, she knows about Candi. Which means the godfather does too.

"My life and anyone in it is of no concern to you," I warn her.

"How can you say that? Your grandfather and I are your only living relatives." Which means she knows that Henrico is dead.

Or strongly suspects it.

Don Caruso approved the hit, but that doesn't mean his Italian counterpart was happy with the plans they'd made for the succession being derailed.

Apparently, Don Caruso never told Don Messino that he planned to back Severu as the next godfather in America.

"Don Messino made it clear he considered me no family of his over twenty years ago." He was ashamed of the child he considered defective, telling my mother it was probably the IVF that made me the way I was.

Not a stellar human being, or particularly intelligent.

"I don't have time to get into old history right now," Perla dismisses. "We'll be in New York in two weeks. I expect you to make time to see me and meet with your stepfather."

"Send me your schedule." I make no promises, because she is not a priority for me.

Even if finding out what her father is planning is.

Frankly, I have more reliable spies in Sicily already.

CANDI

Uncertainty adds fizz to the bubbles of anticipation rising inside me. Buoyed up by it and performing a perfect set, I walk straight into the VIP area.

Except for Angelo, the men who sit here believe they can touch the dancers however they want. It's an unspoken rule, but the dancers who go into the VIP area are open to doing special favors in the backroom, or right there at the table.

I'm not, but Angelo is there and the past months have proven he's not coming out. If I want to see him, I have to go in.

Why my craving for him is so unmanageable tonight of all nights, I don't know and honestly don't care. I just want a glimpse. Then I'll leave.

That's what I tell myself, but I'm not sure I believe it.

Unafraid, I maneuver through the darkness covered in the certainty that Angelo won't allow anyone to touch me unless I give them permission.

Would he let a man I gave the go ahead to touch me? The fantasy of him being so protective he wouldn't even allow that sends inappropriate arousal zinging along my nerve ending.

That thought should definitely not turn me on.

But it does. A lot.

Despite my certainty of the mafioso's protection, I weave between the tables, using my tried and true techniques to avoid being touched.

Only, they aren't necessary. None of the men sitting at these tables even leer at me as I walk by.

Because of Angelo. I'm sure of it.

When I see him, at first my heart thunders in my chest. His face is painted like a death skull. The blacklight giving the impression that the skull is floating in the air above the table, its empty eye sockets watching me approach.

I'm only a couple of feet away when I can make out a hooded cowl and muscular body encased in unrelenting black. Angelo is eerily still as I approach his table.

I could doubt my certainty that it's him, but I don't. I can't see his eyes, but I can feel them on me. Just like I always do.

As I get closer to the table, the panic I should have been feeling all along hits me out of nowhere.

Do I really want to risk destroying the status quo? If I disgust him, he might stop protecting me. Do I want to take a chance of that happening? What if he rejects me completely and I'm left standing like a fool amidst men who will be eager to take what he doesn't want?

The questions swirl in my head as I stop in front of him, my body rooted to the spot. None of my fears can overcome this uncontrollable fascination.

My heart is beating so hard, it hurts. I'm supposed to be confident, a dancer who knows her place. I should cock my hip and ask if he wants anything, letting my fingertip play along my bottom lip.

But I can't get a single sound past the golf ball lodged in my throat.

It's been longer than six months since Angelo skewered a man's hand for me and over three months since he dealt with Ronnie.

What if the sensation of him watching me all that time is a figment of my imagination? And if it's not, there's a reason he's never come out of the shadows to talk to me.

Right?

Why didn't I think of that before I let my ovaries do the walking?

"What are you doing back here?" he demands in a tone so cold it gives my heart frostbite.

But relief pours through me too. That feeling? Not my imagination. If there was any doubt in my mind that the man dressed as the Angel of Death is Angelo, that doubt is gone now.

The connection between us is real.

He might be wearing skull face-pai…no wait, it's not makeup, but a mask fitted as close as skin to his face. But it's too smooth and the mouth doesn't move when he talks.

Also, I can't see the whites of his eyes and face paint wouldn't be able to hide that, no matter how well done it is. The black holes must be some kind of mesh he can see through though.

"Do you want a dance?" Did those words really just come out of my mouth?

Angelo surges to his feet and my frost-bitten heart starts to sink. He's going to leave. Whatever his reason for watching and watching over me, it's not because he wants me.

His head jerks in a nod toward the other side of the main floor. "In the back."

That beleaguered organ in my chest stutters.

"In the back?" I squeak, sounding more like a scared little doe than a woman who has spent the last four years stripping for a living.

He waves his hand in a hurry up and get moving action.

But the back? That's where all the extra curriculars happen. I don't work those rooms. He must know that, but his air of expectancy says otherwise.

"I uh…I don't work the back," I manage to get out.

"I'm not going to ask you to fuck me. But if you want to dance for me, it's not going to be in front of anyone else."

Little does he know I dance for him in front of a room full of customers every time I'm on the stage. But the opportunity to do it in private, with no one else watching, makes my heart sing.

Turning, I wave my hand in a come-on motion and start back the way I came. He doesn't say another word, but I know he is there and my steps don't falter as I bypass grabby hands and tables filled with men shouting for me to come over.

When we reach the door to the back, there's a bouncer guarding it. Another new policy implemented by Bianca. He looks at me in concern. "You leaving early? If somebody accosted you…"

His words trail off as shock that quickly turns to horror covers his face.

He noticed Angelo behind me.

The bouncer looks between me and Angelo, the horror not abating from his features. "You want a room? With him ?"

No time for cold feet now. I nod firmly. "Yes. Is the Pasha's Den open?"

"Yes." The bouncer gives Angelo a wary look, and then looks behind him, like he expects someone else to show up.

It's then that I realize the bouncer does not recognize the mafia enforcer, despite his costume being literally the Angel of Death.