Page 26 of Salvatore

Not many women can pull off being a walking, talking ball-buster without seeming like a feminist Nazi, but she sure as fuck made it look easy.

“Don’t touch me.”

The far-off female cry draws my attention to the VIP entry where the bulky bouncer sidesteps back and forth, blocking the view of whatever female is attempting to gain entry.

“I need to see him,” the shielded woman shrieks, the shrewd voice oddly familiar despite the heavy club music.

I squint at the scene, at how other men approach in a show of solidarity, all of them seeming to argue in the woman’s favor as she remains out of view behind the bouncer.

“Another wannabe trying to gain access?” a waitress asks as she rounds the bar with a tray laden with champagne flutes.

I ignore her as I wait for that first illusive glimpse of whoever is causing the scene. Normally I wouldn’t bat an eye at club drama. Remy’s staff know how to diffuse a situation.

But there’s something inching its hooks into me, demanding I pay attention. A sixth sense thatding, ding, dingslike I’m a winner at the state fair when the woman in question attempts to dart past the bouncer, her dark hair wild and ragged around her face as the man stops her entry with a bear hug from behind, hauling her off her feet.

Miss Ivy Diaz. What a fucking pleasure.

She’s still wearing the black dress from the funeral, her makeup faded but no less flawless.

“Salvatore,” she screams, her eyes pinning me at the bar. “Where is she?What the hell have you done with her?”

I relax farther into the counter, every inch of me vibrating with an odd sense of achievement despite having played no hand in whatever manic episode she’s currently raw-dogging.

It’s a fucking sight to behold—her black nails digging into the bouncer’s forearm, her shrewd gaze a mix of fury and desperation.

I’m not going to lie, it sends her fuck-ability index skyrocketing. If she’s not careful I’ll become invested in trying to tame her.

“Your order, Mr. Costa,” the bartender announces over my shoulder.

I shoot him a cursory glance, the action more automated than intentional, and find a woman sidling up beside me with five drinks set out on her tray and an expectant look on her face.

“Table fifteen, sir?” She beams.

I grab my bourbon off the tray and jerk my chin, indicating for her to continue to the table without me as I return my attention to Ivy… only to find her gone.

I stand taller, my pulse kicking up a notch. I scan the dispersing crowd in search of her.

Where the fuck did you go?

I down my drink and slide the empty glass onto the bar. I stalk to the entry of the VIP section, despising the thought of having to frolic amongst the mass populous like all the other vapid club patrons.

“Where is she?” I demand of the bouncer.

He turns to me with a scowl until recognition dawns. “The crazy one, sir?”

“No, the flawless one you carelessly placed hands on. The one you will never touch again, understood?”

He blinks, taking slow seconds to recalibrate his thinking. “Of course, sir. But she didn’t have a wrist band and was acting like?—”

“Where is she?”

“Um.” He snaps his attention to the mass of patrons dancing and drinking in the main club area. “She mentioned something about going to the cops, but I’m sure she’s all bark.”

Like hell she is.

That whirlwind will be at the nearest police station in record time if I don’t find her.

“Get in the earpiece of whoever is running the front door.” I stalk toward the exit. “Make sure she doesn’t leave.”

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