Chapter 11ANGELO

Chapter 11

ANGELO

The room Candi leads me into is straight out of an Arabian nights fantasy.

Candi indicates a spice orange, velvet, three-section sofa that covers the entire ornately carved back wall and part of the two walls on either side. "Why don't you take a seat?"

Stalking forward, I shove aside a bunch of silk pillows and sit down in the center.

I don't know what I'm doing back here with her. She doesn't know who I am. This mask doesn't even show the color of my eyes.

Thought it was appropriate for tonight. Death at a Halloween party. Mask, or no mask, I'm the Angel of Death year-round though.

It's nice to have one night where the real me is on the outside, the monster there for everyone to see.

And it's the monster that Candi offered a lap dance to. Which pisses me off. Because she didn't offer it to me , but came strolling into the VIP area and offered her pretty body and sexy moves to a stranger.

Sure, she's one of the top earning lap dancers, despite her no touch rule. But it's that no touch rule that keeps the customers at Pitiful Princess breathing.

So why the hell did she venture into the VIP area tonight? She knows the rules. Customers who are looking for more sit there. They are handsy sons of bitches too.

The dancers and cocktail waitresses who serve that section encourage it, because they're looking for the extra money selling extracurriculars provides.

Candi doesn't go back there. Not ever.

What the hell happened tonight? Did she decide to start offering her ass up for sale? Fury rages through me. That is not happening.

If she needs more money, the foundation will increase her mother's monthly stipend. Since the foundation is me, news of the increase will be given to her mother tomorrow.

No way in hell am I allowing her to offer extracurriculars to other men. Not that she seemed eager to come back here with me until I promised I didn't want to fuck her.

What if she's looking to start giving lap dances with a happy ending or blowjobs?

Seeing red, a low growl rumbles through my chest.

No way in hell is her mouth going on anyone's dick but mine. My men already know not to let the customers touch her when I'm not around to take care of it, but I'll remind them that their continued presence among the living depends on it.

"Did you enjoy my set tonight?" she asks in a sultry voice.

My teeth grind together, and I bite out, "Yes."

Wearing my mask, I planned to approach Candi without her knowing who I am. Flirt with danger. Enjoy a lap dance.

But not like this.

Not after she came into the VIP section.

When she came down off her stage and started walking toward the darkest area in the club, I stayed put, waiting to see what she would do. And fucking lucky for her and the other stronzos sitting at the tables in the shadows, she approached me first.

Not that any of them were fool enough to even look at her with intent. That area is reserved for men in the life and mostly in the Genovese Family. They all know who I am, and they all know that I don't want anyone touching her.

No one knows why because I haven't taken her to my bed and they all know that too. I made sure of it.

I would have claimed her right after the dons kissed Severu's ring, but there's unrest in Sicily. The godfather in the old country has his panties in a wad because our new North American godfather isn't from one of the traditional ruling families.

There are plenty in the Sicilian mafia that think the De Lucas are upstarts since Severu's grandfather only became a don because of how many leaders got put in the slammer in the 70s and 80s by the RICO act.

A behind-the-scenes money man, he proved himself to the Five Families with his ruthlessness and ability to rebuild under the FED's radar.

Things are different in the old country. And those differences are getting on my nerves.

I want Candi in my house and in my bed. Pretty soon those hidebound stronzos are going to find out that annoying death isn't good for their life expectancy.

It's time for a change in leadership in Sicily. I'm just waiting for Severu to give me the go ahead, but right now he insists we play nice. Build bridges, not battles, or some such shit.

He says his grandfather brought the doubters around and he will too.

Yeah, I don't see it.

"Chair or bar?" Candi asks.

"Bar." My voice is hoarse from the strain my rage is putting on the muscles in my throat.

Just the fact she knows the bar is an option in these rooms pisses me off. She doesn't work back here.

But her friends do and I bet they talk about it. It better be that, and not that she's been doing her research in preparation for bringing customers back here.

Candi presses a button in the wall near the door and a bar lowers from the ceiling.

She seems mesmerized by its descent, but I'm looking to see if there are streaks of left over fluids on it. I don't see anything but that's not a guarantee.

"You need to wipe that down with sanitizer before you start." A shudder rolls through me at the thought of Candi's skin touching a pole covered in other people's germs.

"The dancers sanitize it before it goes back into the ceiling," she assures me.

I shake my head. "Better safe than sorry."

Before each set, cleaners come on stage and sanitize the poles for the ones getting new dancers, but there's no one here to watch and make sure the dancers are as fastidious on their own.

Her mouth twists in a grimace, but she grabs a spray bottle and paper towels out of a decorative chest. She doesn't half-ass it, but cleans the pole thoroughly.

"Satisfied?" she asks with a hand cocked on one hip.

I jerk my head in affirmative.

She smiles. "Good."

After she does something by the door, Closer by Nine Inch Nails starts to play. It's the song she danced to onstage.

And one on my playlist for working out. It makes me think of her.

Someone else might think it's funny that we both gravitate toward an industrial rock band that started before either of us was born. But to me, it's just proof we're meant to be together.

My eyes are glued to her as she dances her new routine just for me. My boner is so hard, its probably pressing a permanent indent in my leather pants.

We didn't negotiate how long she would dance for me, and neither of us says anything as the next song on her list begins to play.

Leaning back against the pole, her tits lifted like perfectly round melons lifted toward heaven, she reaches behind her. Then her bra straps go slack.

My breath stutters in my chest when she grips the front of her bra.

Candi pulls the mesh away from her body, revealing the soft, flawless skin of her breasts. The bra flutters to the floor and I have to swallow against my suddenly constricted throat.

My throat's not the only thing constricted. My cock is trapped in leather and drooling with the need to be let out. I curl my hands into fists to stop myself from opening my fly and taking myself in hand.

Candi notices and her eyes flare with satisfaction.

She likes turning me on.

But it's not me, she's turning on, is it? As far as she knows, it's some rando she brought back here.

Fuck.

Moving away from the pole, Candi slinks toward me, every curve of her gorgeous body moving with sinuous grace. She dances closer and closer until her tassel covered nipples swing in front of my face, the creamy skin of her tits making me salivate with the need to taste.

"Is this what you want?" she purrs.

I swallow and have to clear my throat before I answer. "Yes."

I fucking want her naked, that tiny triangle of white silk that makes up her G-string gone, the pasties peeled away from her nipples. Nothing but Candi flavored skin for me to taste and touch.

But I promised not to fuck her and if I get her naked, I'm not sure I can keep that promise.

Reaching for one of my hands, she pulls it toward her. "If you take off your gloves, you can feel me."

There's no holding back the groan her invitation pulls out of me.

"You want me to touch you?" I ask, to be sure.

"Yes."

Fury fights with desire.

Desire wins. This is my woman. And whether she knows the man she's inviting to touch her perfect flesh is me, or not, I'm the only one that ever will.

I peel one of the gloves from my hand and pause. I'm not putting it on this sofa when I have to put it back on later. Of course, tonight is the one time I'm not wearing my cargo pants with extra gloves in one of the pockets.

Sitting here I can feel the DNA of others crawling over my skin despite the barrier of my clothes.

Candi puts her hand out. "Give it to me."

I do before removing the other glove and doing the same.

She walks over to the chest and takes out a new paper towel before laying it on top and then putting the gloves on top. She's so fucking perfect for me.

Her strut is confident as she walks back across the room, but there's no mistaking the nerves reflected in her eyes, the vulnerable way she bites her bottom lip, the way her long nails curl into her palms.

She doesn't stop until she's right in front of me though, her body undulating to the music.

The air grows sultry with want around us, the vulnerability replaced by desire in her gaze. There's a pulse pounding in her neck to match the one thundering in my chest.

She wants this.

I fist my hands on my thighs to stop myself from reaching for her. She's not ready for my hands on her, no matter what she says. But she will be.

Leaning back on the couch, I spread my legs to give her room to dance between them and then beckon her with a backward jerk of my head.

Her pupils dilate with excitement as she steps forward, bending at the waist so her gorgeous tits sway in front of me. Then she spins around, her arms lifting so her hands can slide under the silky brown hair. She lifts it away from her nape, giving me an unfettered view of her curvy ass as it jiggles with her movements.

Nothing about Candi is fake. Not her tits. Not her ass and when that bountiful flesh shimmies in front of me, all I want is to touch. Who she believes I am be damned.

Then she steps forward and bends down, giving me a glimpse of naked pussy lips barely contained by a thin strip of white satin.

She's wet and the satin clings to her lips, hinting at the slit I want to bury my cock in.

The sound that comes from my throat is pure frustrated need.

Her hands slide around her ankles from the inside, the grip holding her in place as she whips her hair in a move I've seen a thousand times from other dancers. But with her, it's always different.

Fantasies of jacking myself off with her long ponytail morph into burying my hands in her long locks as I fuck her mouth.

I groan. "You're so fucking sexy, Candi."

She straightens and looks at me over her shoulder. "I'm glad you think so."

Are those words for me, or for the stranger she agreed to give a private lap dance?

Shoving the irritating thought aside, my eyes devour the sight of this beautiful woman moving so sensually for my eyes only.

The song playing goes into a staccato beat and she spins back, kicking her leg high, swinging her stiletto covered foot in an arc over me.

The music shifts to Nine Inch Nails again and she moves into a familiar pose she does on the bar, but there's no bar there to support her.

Candi repeats the moves she did against the bar in the air right in front of me. Her hand holding her leg up in a vertical split as she spins, her hair flying around her. I'd like to see the men I train in hand-to-hand combat with show that kind of core strength and agility.

As the music reaches one of its crescendos, she drops to her haunches, offering me her tits like she did on the bar.

I know it was just part of her act. I'm not that far gone, I do realize that even when it feels like she's dancing for me, I'm sharing her with a room full of other guys slavering in lust over her.

But as she shimmies her ass and shakes her tits, undulating her body with sensual abandon, it feels like this dance was designed for me.

It's not true. She designed this dance for the guy she was willing to take into the backroom.

When her next set of moves brings her onto the sofa, straddling my hip, but not touching it, my desire is back to warring with rage at the thought of her doing this for another man.

She grabs my wrist and lifts my hand to the side of her generous tit. Her skin is every bit as soft as I dreamed it would be and for a second I am completely lost in the sensation of touching her for the first time.

Her eyes meet mine, her pupils blown, like she is as sexually excited as me.

Or… "Are you high?" That would explain a lot.

Candi falters in her attempt to slide my hand down her body and stares at me. "What did you just say?"

"I think someone put GHB in your water, Candi. This isn't you."

"What do you mean it's not me? This is what I do. "

"You don't come into the backrooms for anyone."

She stares at me as if she doesn't understand my words, and it convinces me even more that someone slipped a roofie in her drink. I'll kill the son of a bitch but right now I need to make sure she's safe.

Ignoring the need raging through my body, I grab her by the waist and lift her away from me. "You need to go home, Candi. You're not safe with your decision-making impaired like this."

Neither are the men she could invite into the backroom after me. Them I don't care about.

Her I do.

Even knowing I have to let her go, my fingers reflexively squeeze the soft skin under my hands.

But she's not looking at me with sexy need anymore.

Dark eyes narrowed in a glare that would kill if it was a bullet, she yanks on my wrists, trying to dislodge my hold. "I'm not high and you don't get to make me feel bad for doing what you pretended to want."

"I don't pretend shit."

"Right. Why did you come back here with me?" she demands.

"Because I wasn't letting you offer what you were offering to me to someone else," I tell her honestly. "Fuck, Candi, who would drug you?"

"For the last time, I'm not drugged." She shoves at me.

I step back because she's clearly distressed.

"I know exactly what I'm doing. Do you think I could dance like that…" She waves her hand toward the bar. "If I was under the influence of GHB or K?"

"Don't try to tell me dancers never work high."

She shakes her head, kicks her leg up into another split and spins with smooth strength that gives lie to the idea that she is high. Dropping her leg, she cocks her hip. "If I was impaired, I never would have been able to keep my hold on the pole doing that, much less do it standing."

"Then what the hell is going on?" I demand. "You don't take men into the backroom."

"It's none of your business if I do." She stomps away to grab her sheer bra and jerks it on with short movements.

She's so magnificent when she's angry, I almost miss her next words in my lusty haze. She's not impaired and my body is telling me to take what she's offering.

But she's not offering it anymore.

If those stilettos were the knives they're named for, I'd be bleeding right now.

"If you didn't want to watch me dance, you could have just said no." Her voice is choked with emotion. "You don't have to be an asshole about it."

Her angry tread takes her to the door and she jerks on the handle to open it.

But then she stops and looks back over her shoulder at me. "I don't know why you protected me like you did those two times, but consider the dance payment. I'll square it with management."

The fuck she will, but I let her leave, a weird feeling fizzing in my chest.

Happiness.

Candi, my woman, knew who I was all along.