I knew what he meant.
It was creepy, but he didn't understand how I worked.
My eyes gleamed as I peered up at him. "You have nothing to be sorry for."
A fact he more than lived up to.
As we walked down the red carpet, I felt like a queen. The tension in the air throbbed as heavy-set guys in black suits, transparent headsets tucked into their ears, monitored the crowd as if there were a terrorist lurking in the wings.
But I got the feeling this was an everyday occurrence when the boss was in the vicinity.
It wasn’t my first time in Russu, but it was the first time I went past the second floor and was deposited on the third with a toe-curling kiss as a silent farewell.
A VIP lounge awaited me, one that was like no other because it wasn't just any VIP section, it was the owner's box.
Oddly enough, it reminded me of a padded cell, only everything was bright red.
So, pretty much like a padded cell that had recently seen bloodshed.
There was a dark red leather sofa, low to the ground, shaped like a U, with one of the loungers shorter than the other, and a dancefloor which was right in front of it.
Tiled in a red so dark it was almost black, there were recessed lights that seemed to do the opposite of their job by emphasizing exactly how dark it was in this section.
A table offset to the side housed a bottle of Cristal in a large wine bucket that was overloaded with ice, and there was even some food if I wanted to nibble on it.
I was starving, but I was used to that. Mom never had food in the house, not because she spent every cent on drugs—well, that was true too—but because she said it would stop us from getting fat.
A woman who needed to sell her body had to be perfect at all times.
I'd learned that lesson from the master, only I'd done one better—I hadn't gotten hooked on the coke that was passed around at fancy parties. But I'd grown up following some lessons: drinking vinegar to quench my hunger, and for a while, I'd even smoked to control my appetite.
My poor nutrition as a kid was why I was weedier than I'd like, but mostly it was a miracle I'd made it to this age with a set of tits worth anything.
I ignored the canapés and instead poured myself a glass of champagne.
Another woman might have been overwhelmed at being alone in a place like this, but for me, it was symbolic.
I loved it.
I loved being alone; I loved that I had the right to be here; I loved that I was two floors higher than the main dance floor, and I outright adored that I was looking down on the rest of the world.
Slipping my phone out of my purse, I switched it on to IG and took a live video, hollering, "Russu is where the party is at."
Flute in one hand, I shook my ass, loving the vibe and the beat of the music the DJ poured her heart and soul into as I let the camera slip and slide, showing all the best angles of the lounge.
Then I let the camera record the part that the club was famous for.
The fountains.
Spouts and turrets of water soared in a circle, and as impossible as it was, some technological wizardry had them surging high, so high that I could see the crest of the waves reaching my level, two stories up, before they fell and rose once more, perfectly synced with the beat.
But what made them creepy was the red water. A strange red. Like blood.
As if someone had bled out in the water tank and that was what danced through the air, peppering it with a fine spray that misted on my skin even here.
When I was done showing off, my cell buzzed.
I grinned, and ignoring the message, went straight to a call.
"AOIFE!"
"Wow, how much have you had to drink?" my BFF drawled.
"One glass. Oh, my God, Eef, did you see this lounge?"
"I’m used to you hitting all those swank places." She sniffed, clearly unimpressed.
That had nothing to do with her being used to the ‘swank’ lifestyle, more like she hated clubs with a passion.
I chuckled, guzzled down some champagne, and remarked, "Surprised you’re not asleep with your mobster beau."
Aoife laughed. "You’ve had way more than one glass."
"I might have had some whiskey. What gave the game away?"
"Beau? Have you been reading regency romance again? Honestly, Jen, for someone who says she isn’t a romantic—"
"Pfft." I took a deeper sip. "You’re killing my buzz."
A buzz that had started the second Luciu Valentini’s pinkie finger had connected with my arm.
"God forbid. And Jacob had a bad dream. I couldn’t sleep after so I’m watching something on Prime."
"Did you start that show I told you about?"
She hummed. "I don’t like witches."
I scoffed. "You’re no fun."
"I’m plenty of fun."
"Witches rule."
"If you say so," she retorted, tone amused.
I leaned against the railing, staring down at the cluster of humanity. Thousands of sweaty bodies grinding together… I was so happy to be away from the perspiration and stench of body odor.
Smug, I told her, "I do say so—"
"Jen? I have to go."
"Oh, okay!" The abrupt withdrawal had me asking, "Everything okay?"
"I don’t know. Finn just walked in, and he needs me. Best go, sweetheart. Talk later?"
"Sure. Or in the morning," I teased. "God knows how tonight will end."
She snorted. "I’ll bet. Have fun. Night, Jen."
As she cut the call, I jolted in surprise, and, I’d admit, a teeny-weeny smidgen of concern filled me.
Just a small amount.
The Irish Mob weren’t my friends or my family. I’d spent most of my life avoiding them. It was only Aoife who’d brought me into that world, and while I didn’t resent it, I didn’t want to get involved.
But how my heart was racing made a liar out of me.
And Savannah hooking up with Aidan Jr. was going to make things harder than ever.
Concerned about what had made Aoife’s farewell so abrupt, I bit my lip, then sauntered over to the table again to pour myself another glass.
My mood was dampened but swallowing down the fine Cristal whole helped immensely.
I closed my eyes as Max Vangeli echoed around the club, and I slipped the glass onto the table so that I could raise both hands and let them swirl against one another as I moved to the beat.
That was when he slipped behind me.
I didn't jolt in surprise because I'd seen the security in this place and knew it was high grade, which meant it was Luciu.
I also recognized his scent.
That aftershave—it reeked of money.
Everything about him did.
But even better than all that, and something I'd never admit to a living, breathing soul?
His heat.
It sank into me, seeming to grind into my bones, warming all the cold places deep inside—of which there were many—going so far, I feared, as to penetrate my soul.
His fingers trailed along my belly as he cupped me there, and then his chin pressed to my shoulder for the barest second before he rested it on the crown of my head.
He dwarfed me, and I loved that as well. Even with these heels, he was like a giant, and I felt safe and cosseted, sheltered and protected.
Foolish, foolish things to feel.