2. Butterfly

TWO

BUTTERFLY

GENEVIEVE

T he Devil’s Playground is packed tonight. Not so surprising considering its rep, though this is only the second time I’ve been inside; as daring as I am, even I couldn’t risk it before, back when the Sinners were my brother’s enemies. Hell, it took months after the Dragonflies and the Sinners Syndicate agreed to a truce last summer to convince Christopher to let me check it out the first time a few weeks ago.

I’d heard rumors about the girls who service customers upstairs, and the money that passes hands in the casino at the back of the club. Christopher didn’t think it was the place for me, but I wore him down, and proved that I came him for one reason: to dance.

And if I found someone I wanted to dance with…

I didn’t that night. After Christopher’s warning, I doubt I will tonight, either, but as a dancer to my core, it was inevitable that I’d find my way to the dance floor eventually after I spent the last few minutes watching the club-goers dance and grind and sway and, okay, I’m pretty sure those two over there might actually be screwing each other…

I pause in the middle of the throng of people dancing around me and, yup, that’s exactly what they’re doing. The woman moans in time to the beat of the techno song blaring through the speakers, while the guy moves his hips completely out of sync to the music.

She seems to be enjoying herself, though I can’t help but shake my head. If you’re going to fuck in public like that, at least do it with a little rhythm.

Now, I like to think that I’m not a prude. Between my dad bringing home hookers when I was too young to really get it to spending my pre-teen years with a Damien in his mid-twenties, I knew about sex early on. And, true, my dad died before he could try to pimp me out—as if Dame would let him—and Damien started bringing his dates to hotels once he realized that curious Gen was eavesdropping outside his bedroom door, but, once again, I can blame two things for my virgin-at-twenty-five state: ballet, and my brother.

So preoccupied with my dance career, there was no time for boyfriends. And even when I found a dancer who filled out his tights and actually liked pussy, there was Damien, effectively cockblocking me. Same thing happened whenever he brought me out of the manor for Family events. If anyone in the East End so much as looked at me like a woman and not a little girl, he was standing between me and them, fingering the hilt of his stiletto in a not-so-subtle warning.

No one wanted to fuck me bad enough to test Damien. Dragonflies knew that, in the Family, to betray him was a death sentence. Going after his beloved baby sister? That clearly counted.

I’d hoped that settling down with Savannah would make him realize that he has his own life to live, and so do I. I mean, the first time I met my new sister-in-law, he already had her on her knees. He doesn’t shy away from sex, and he has to realize that, by now, I’m really fucking curious about it.

Even if I did threaten to have to wash my eyes out with bleach to forget what I walked in on, but can you blame me? I’ve seen dicks before. From porn to changing in the same room as Christopher and a couple of other male dancers, but when it’s your brother’ s?

Ew. Gross.

No, thanks.

Since I’m not so curious that watching someone thrust on one-and-threes instead of two-and-fours sounds appealing, I do actually what I came out on the floor to do: I dance. As soon as I noticed that Christopher took a seat at the bar, leaning in to flirt with the redhead, I knew it would be a while until he came back with my pi?a colada. Might as well work up a thirst for it.

I love this song. It’s electric, and though I’m trained in ballet, I’d taken every single type of dance class offered in my youth. Even if I didn’t, dancing can be instinctive. Your body knows what to do, and without any inhibitions or care, you just let yourself do it.

This is a solo, not a duo, and I turn away whenever someone tries to join in. Christopher told me to be careful, and maybe he’s just a bug in my ear, but tonight is about letting loose. Being free. It isn’t often that I’m allowed out of my prison on the third floor of the manor, and almost never that I can leave without Damien there to watch over me.

I stop paying attention to everything around me. It’s just the music. It’s just the dance. What begins as a sway and a bop becomes a little more theatrical until, as the music slows just before it crashes into a new beat, I’m twirling in the middle of the dance floor.

It was a triple pirouette. Nothing elaborate, even if it’s out of place in a mafia-owned nightclub, but sometimes twenty years of training takes over and I mix ballet in with other types of dance.

I’m not trying to show-off. In fact, I’m in my own little world as I throw one arm up over my head, grasping the crook of my elbow with my other hand, shaking my hips in time to the music. I take a step with my left foot, turning so that I can do a quick check in on Christopher’s progress with the gorgeous waitress when I notice that someone is watching me .

I grew up on a stage. If the eyes of the crowd aren’t on me while I’m performing, I’m doing something wrong. I’m used to it—but when I catch his stare, I do something I never do.

I lose my footing and stumble.

It’s not my fault. Not really. I stopped dancing as I took him in, but another couple behind me kept moving. One of them bumped into my back, and though I right myself immediately, regaining my balance, the stumble brings me even closer to the man who was watching me dance.

And, oh, what a man.

He’s about my age, or maybe it’s just his pretty face that makes him seem younger. Because, yeah, he’s pretty . Not in a girlish way, though. His features are undeniably masculine, with a chiseled jaw, full lips, and a pair of cheekbones so sharp, they remind me of blades. His hair is as dark as his eyes, and it’s cut longer than most men I know. Dragonflies all seem to have the same high and tight haircut that Damien favors. This guy looks like he once wore his hair long, but decided for a change. The front pieces are carelessly tousled, with the back a little shaggy. It’s styled perfectly to suit him, and I find him incredibly attractive.

And that’s just his face.

Beneath the neon of the Playground, his tanned skin is enticing, and that’s just counting the parts of it I can see. Even dressed, it’s clear that he is covered in tattoos. The only parts that aren’t are his face itself and his hands.

I know I’m staring, but now it’s his neck that fascinates me. Up the sides of his neck and covering the hollow of his throat, all I see are flames created from ink.

Holy shit, that’s cool.

I’m staring, but so is he. I figure that gives me license to gobble him up with my gaze a little longer.

He has a can in one unmarred hand; I recognize it as an energy drink brand that many dancers in my local company guzzle for the high amount of caffeine in it. He’s holding his phone in the other hand. I get the vibe he just picked up a drink from the bar and was cutting his way through the floor to head out. The door is behind me, and he has on a weathered leather jacket over a plain black t-shirt that’s tight enough to highlight the muscles on his chest.

In his mass of beautiful hair, he has a stick pen tucked behind his ear. Palming his phone, he reaches up, grabbing the pen between his pointer finger and his thumb.

And then he says the last thing I ever expected he would:

“Dance for me.”

This stranger’s voice is a deliciously deep grumble. To be honest, I’m almost so shocked that he’s speaking to me, I barely make out what it is that he said.

When I think I did, I ask, “You want to dance?”

Christopher told me not to, but Christopher is busy with Jessie. And even if it is just one dance, I have this strange feeling like I’ll regret it if I say no.

And then he does.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I want you to dance for me.”

Oh. I must have misheard him then. Fair enough. It’s loud, and I’m distracted.

Hm.

Dance for him? That’s not weird, is it? Considering what the girls upstairs do for money, having this beautiful stranger ask me to dance for him could be intriguing—or he could be a perv.

I really hope he’s not a perv.

I also don’t normally like people telling me what to do. I get enough of that in my real life. From demanding dance teachers to my controlling older brother, and even Christopher, it bothers me when I don’t get to choose what to do. Most everyone who knows me figures that out before long before letting me do what I want.

But this guy… it’s a good thing I’ll never see him again because it would be a bad idea to set a precedent, letting him think that I’m the type of woman to simply obey, and yet…

Instead of quipping that people spend hundreds of dollars to watch me perform, I ask, “Just dance?”

If this guy says he expects me to strip or give him a lap dance?—

“Just dance. I saw you before. It’s like you’re floating on air. I want to watch again, if that’s okay.”

“In that case, sure. I love to dance.”

He gestures for me to follow him. We don’t touch, but as I move at his heels, the tiny hairs on my arms seem to stand on end. Like there’s a spark passing between us, an undeniable chemistry that I might be imagining.

Does that stop me? Not even a little. In fact, I move until I’m right behind him, humming a little as a hint of something woodsy and earthy with a hint of… motor oil? Maybe motor oil… the rich smells clinging to his hair and his leather jacket have me ready to follow him anywhere.

Okay. Let’s be real. If this man wanted me to dance in the alley behind the Playground, I would’ve gone with him without a doubt. But that’s not where he brings me. Instead, he guides me to the edge of the dance floor, right where a side booth rises up about a step higher than floor level.

He slides into a seat, dropping his phone on the table, setting his unopened energy drink on the top. With the pen twirling between two fingers, he uses his free hand to grab one, two, three paper napkins from the holder before placing the small stack in front of him.

Then, with a look of pure concentration, he pops his chin in his hand and waits.

He wants me to dance? I dance. Ignoring the upbeat music, I listen to the music in my heart—a rapid rhythm that started the first moment I looked in this beautiful stranger’s eyes—and I move in time to a song only I can hear.

I forget about Christopher. I forget about how I was supposed to keep from drawing attention to myself. I dance because I love it, and I dance because I’ve always blossomed under the attention of anyone who appreciates what I can do.

At one point, I peek over at him. It’s a little frustrating to see that he’s bowed over the napkin, pen scratching away at it, but I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. I came to the club to have a good time, and even if he’s not impressed by my skill, at least I’m enjoying myself.

Minutes go by. I allow myself to be swallowed up by the crowd because if the stranger has had his fill of watching me, then I’ll perform for myself.

It’s his turn to follow me. I’ve barely gone out of his sight before he’s tossing the pen down, sliding back out of the booth, maneuvering his way so that he can stand right in front of me before I’m gone.

He lifts up the napkin. He’s not handing it to me, showing me the white square instead, and I focus on what he’s drawn in the middle.

It’s a butterfly.

I stop dancing, marveling over the unique design. How did he do it? Using the black ink from his pen, multiple different shading techniques, and some impressive skill, he’s captured a butterfly in flight—and he’s showing it to me.

“You drew that?”

He jerks his head. A nod.

“You’re an artist,” I breathe out. My fingers ghost against the edge of the napkin, barely touching it. “It’s beautiful.”

Oh, mama. He ’s beautiful, and he smells so damn good.

“It’s what I do,” he says, taking the napkin back. He disappears it into his pocket before I can ask for it. “I’m a tattooist.”

Know what? That makes a lot of sense. If he’s responsible for all the ink I can see—and what I can only imagine is hidden beneath his shirt—then he’s a walking advertisement for his craft, and he’s excellent at it.

And then he says, “I own Sinners & Saints off of Third,” and I’m slapped back to reality.

The truce is too new. My knee-jerk reaction to anything Sinners Syndicate is to flinch because they were my brother’s enemies for so long. It doesn’t matter that the Sinners’s leader—Lincoln Crewes, the Devil of Springfield—was a friend of Dame’s when he was younger. For years, a war was brewing between both of our gangs, and Damien drummed it into my head so damn often, I still think ‘Run’ when someone flashes the devil horns and tail in front of me.

You don’t get to use ‘Sinners’ in any business unless you have an in with the Sinners Syndicate. It’s like how, on the East End, Dragonfly-vetted businesses have a decal on their window. That doesn’t mean that he’s part of the syndicate, just that Devil is allowing him to represent his crew.

I mentally cross my fingers, then ask, “You cater to the Sinners Syndicate?”

For a moment, his face hardens. It doesn’t make him any less gorgeous, though it’s a hint of danger that shouldn’t be half as alluring as it is.

I get it. I know what I look like. Petite and blonde and deceptively innocent, in another life, I might’ve been a sorority girl instead of a mafia princess. I shouldn’t be casually mentioning one of the two powerful gangs in Springfield.

Shit, I shouldn’t know about them.

I do, though, and when I don’t back down under the weight of his stare, he nods.

He shoves up his worn leather jacket, revealing a full tattoo sleeve covering his arm. There’s so much to take in. I catch a handful of names written in black script, an immaculate drawing of Mother Mary, interwoven details that connect different elements together… but there, in the middle of it all, is a four-inch-tall red-skinned devil.

There’s my answer. He doesn’t just ink Sinners.

He is a Sinner.

Shit.

His dark eyes run over me, then drop to his ink-covered arm. He pulls his sleeve down, busying himself with straightening out the seam. I get the feeling that showing me his tattoo was a test, and that I somehow failed.

He clears his throat, ducking his chin a little. A long strand of hair falls forward into his face, and he leaves it there as he searches mine.

“What about you?” he asks. “Any ink?”

My dress is sleeveless. The skirt reaches mid-thigh, and since it’s May, I’m not wearing any tights or hose. Unless I’m hiding a tattoo underneath it, it’s clear that I don’t have anything decorating my skin.

“Not yet,” I tell him, a hint of a dare in my voice.

“Virgin skin,” he rasps. “My favorite. Here.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a metal rectangle. He presses a button, a lid pops open, and I see he has a couple of business cards in there. He plucks one out, snaps the cardholder closed, then offers the card to me. “You decide to mark up that pretty skin you’ve got, butterfly, you come to me. I’ll take care of you.”

Accepting the card, I give him a curious look. “Butterfly?”

“Yeah. Butterfly.”

I think of the napkin with the beautiful butterfly in flight, and how he drew it as I danced. Was he inspired by me ?

And if so, why does the slight brushing of our fingers together as he gives me the card have butterflies taking flight in my belly?

I glance down at his card. It has the name of his tattoo parlor embossed in black ink in the center—Sinners & Saints, just like he said—as well as an address. Beneath that, it has a single name: Cross da Silva.

I tap it with my fingernail. “Cross. Is that your name?”

“Sure is.”

“Cool. I’m Genevieve.”

“You got a last name, Genevieve?”

I could lie. If I really believed that this was a chance meeting that I’d forget about by the time I’m climbing the tree later tonight to let myself back into my room… I’d give him one of a hundred different fictitious names I’ve used over the years. In Springfield, it’s not a good idea to use my surname unless I know I’m on friendly turf.

But that’s the thing. I don’t want it to be a chance meeting that means nothing. Something about this Cross… I want to see him again.

And that means I might as well be honest from the jump.

“Libellula. My name is Genevieve Libellula.”

He sucks in a breath, whistling it out through his teeth. “So not a butterfly, then. A Dragonfly.”

Not quite.

A small smile plays on my lips. I show him my naked arm, missing my brother’s mark. When you’re accepted in the Family, you get Damien’s dragonfly inked on your skin. I was born into his family, and he’s made it clear that while I’ll always be a Libellula, I’ll never be a Dragonfly.

“Hey,” I tell him, “I’m a virgin, remember?”

Though if my last name and my older brother don’t scare Cross off, maybe I won’t be for much longer.