Page 93 of Devotion

“Ah, yes. You were big douche,da?”

“Huge.”

“The scar on your face helps.” I remark, squeezing his arm through the elegant white coat he donned for the occasion.

“We do not speak of it!” he hisses, shuffling on.

I admire his ass for a moment before catching up. Giving him credit, he has excellent taste. Somehow he even picked my dress out, size and all.

And even more shocking, we blend right in. Dotting the scenery of the criminal rabble are other finely dressed moguls, socialites. Apparently, this is the place to taste the forbidden, even for the elite.

Following my GPS locator, we veer out of the flow of the crowd, down a dim alleyway. Hallways and alleys split off, a veritable maze that someone could easily get lost in. Likely to meet a cruel and vicious death at the hands of local thieves and murderers.

We have an edge.

Ciro’s generous contact slipped a small detail about the place we are looking for. The black light flashlight illuminates the symbols at each turn, guiding us to a doorway, guarded by a couple of gorillasin black suits.

I almost make a Ciro-comment about stereotypes. Our eyes meet and I bite my lip when he sees we share the same thought.

“I really am rubbing off on you.”

“Not out here. Let’s wait until we get inside?” I smirk, putting on my persona as we approach the stone-faced bouncers. My hips sway, my lips pout.

“Keep that up and the front of my pants will match my jacket,” he mutters.

One of the men raises his hand.

Ciro high-fives it.

Bad start. The other guard’s eyes widen until Ciro flashes cash and a smile, leaning in just before one of them pummels him and whispers the code we deciphered from the ring, “Afus n ucengu.”

A local dialect, apparently.

Immediately they resume their post, tapping on the steel door and looking ahead as if nothing happened. My kind of men. They know their job.

Stairs lead down into a bustling underground casino.

It’s overwhelming, a bit stifling. But it is luxurious, decorated with finery and sparkling crystal and gold at every turn. The guests are no less gaudy.

Tables of cards, craps, any game imaginable, fill each room, assigned to its game. Each holds entertainment as well. Small stages with performers, mostly half-naked women dancing, bending.

“She is beautiful,” I comment, nudging Shakal. The dancer in question bends back, her eyes focused on Ciro.

“Very,” he remarks offhanded, but his hand slides down my side, caressing my hip as he smiles. “But she’s not looking at me.”

“Hm. She is not my type.” I shrug, leading him on through the maze of color and sound.

“You have a type?”

“This is mystery you may never know…”

Ciro blinks a few times, his head tilting to the side in consideration.

“Shakal.”

“Huh?”

“You are drooling.”

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