Page 1 of Salvatore

1

IVY

There’ssomething about loud music and free-flowing booze that heats my bloodstream and puts me into a superior state of mind. Tonight is different though.Weird,actually.

Typically, I wouldn’t be enjoying myself while my best friend’s dad, Carlo Pelosi—who also happens to be my boss—is at home deteriorating from cancer.

But here I am at Smoke & Mirrors, a place owned by someone rumored to be Italian mafia royalty. A place nobody with a fully functioning sense of self-preservation should be anywhere near, let alone me, who happens to be shaking my Latina ass across the dance floor.

“Who wants another drink?” I shout over the ridiculously loud music, my arm raised as I wiggle my plastic VIP band in the air at my friends.

Both my work besties nod with enthusiasm.

Yet again, it’s surprising.

Not so much from Allison. She’s a dedicated wing-woman, always eager to live the night life.

It’s Olivia’s response that doesn’t track.

My flabbers are well and truly gasted, not only because she’s giving me two thumbs up while dancing like no one’s watching,but she actually seems to be enjoying herself. There’s a glow to her. An exuberance I’m not used to.

The poor girl usually has a toxic level of introversion clogging her veins. Not to mention the melancholy that’s recently plagued her.

Carlo’s health crisis has hit us hard.

He’s a great man. The GOAT of bosses. The epitome of male leadership, friendship, and all the other important ships we women hope to find in an employer.

But he’s also Olivia’s dad.

Her rock.

Her only surviving parent after her mom passed away years ago from the same insidious disease currently digging its claws into her father.

“Make them doubles,” Allison screams over the cacophony.

I shouldn’t be enjoying this. Carlo’s struggling and we’re at a cesspool criminal nightclub. But here I am, grinning at my friends as I shout, “I’ll be back soon.”

I turn on my three-inch heels and set out in search of liquid sustenance.

The club isn’t crowded. It’s still too early.

There’s a comfortable amount of people on the dance floor and a small huddle around the closest bar, but given the plastic band on my wrist arranged by Carlo, I plan to indulge in my VIP status.

Men call out to me as I escape the dance floor.

“Hey, Ivy,” a blond Aussie surfer-type yells.

“Where are you going?” a Henry Cavill lookalike asks.

“Wait, let me buy you a drink,” a previous conquest calls out.

Another guy gently grabs my wrist as I pass and gives me a wink.

I don’t mind the contact. In fact, the attention is why I used to live for the weekends prior to Carlo’s diagnosis. But tonight isn’t about me.

“I’m sorry.” I hold up my hands in apology, sly grin beaming as I walk backwards away from them. “It’s girls’ night. No bros allowed.”

The gaggle visibly sadden, shoulders slumping, faces falling.

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