Page 3 of Corrupting Lily

One warns me that this man is dangerous. A panther is a beautiful creature to behold, yet it can be deadly. He reminds me of that animal.

The second reason is that these must be the important guests scheduled for nine, but they have arrived early. Panic turns to terror, and immediately, a light sweat breaks out on my forehead. I need to get the hell out of here.

Relief floods me when I spot Rosy chatting with Camille and finally, I move. They, too, are discussing the mysterious man. It is evident in the way their gazes keep drifting to him.

As I near them, a name drifts over to me, wrapping around me like a deadly snake.

“Dominico.”

Chapter 2

Dominico

I liked arriving earlier than expected. People tended to be on their best behavior when they knew I was coming. Being early allowed me to see what was sometimes being hidden. Family or not, they hid things. Perhaps my cousin Basilio would be different, I muse, watching him from the private booth at the back of the exclusive high-end strip club he owns. Even though I arrived an hour early, he seemed unflustered. I like that. My cousin seems to have balls and is apparently competent at managing a business efficiently. There was no shortage of patrons, with the club filled to capacity. Basilio wanted to expand and needed a business partner. I needed more locations to launder money. More establishments like this helped both of us.

Another advantage is that this club was frequented by prominent politicians, police chiefs, and even some high-ranking FBI officials. While most were already in my pocket, the adage of keeping my enemies close had served me well until now. With rumors circulating about a new head of the Cosa Nostra about to emerge, even myso-called friends were treated with suspicion until I could determine exactly who was behind these threats.

Clearly, a replacement would mean I was dead. As the current head of the Cosa Nostra, the largest mafia in America, that title would leave me only when my head left my body. I had already made history as the youngest and longest-serving Don. Elected at the age of seventeen and now, having served twenty-two years, some thought it was time for a change—sentiments I clearly didn’t share. I had established more connections and networks than the previous three Dons had in all their combined tenures. Moreover, the unification of thefamigliawas a direct result of my actions. The business was a well-oiled machine, thanks to me. Nobody has tried to fuck us over in years. My nickname, Angel of Death, emerged from creating just that kind of loyalty. Loyalty through blood.

These days, I left the dirty work to the two men sitting beside me. The only two people I trusted completely. To my right, my capo Dante. Currently getting a lap dance from a pretty young brunette with pigtails. To my left, my underboss, Nero. While he appeared relaxed, I knew he was keenly taking in every detail of our surroundings, scrutinizing the operation and checking for any potential threats. With all of us packed to the nine with every kind of handgun, ten men guarding the entrance, and ten more scattered around the interior fully geared, if shit went down, we were prepared.

No doubt the FBI was parked outside, casing the joint. Already working on the connection between this place and me. One that would be written off as me enjoying some entertainment. Secured through a deal with the lead investigator on my case. The right price bought most men, as the notification pinging on my phone confirms that the FBI parked across the road has left. Fucking disgusting. No one these days has any integrity.

A tall, leggy stripper approaches our table, resting both hands on the polished surface as she leans forward.

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a private dance? We have rooms in the back, and I am open toanything.” She is pretty, but I don’t like getting my dick wet by women who saw more action than my gun. Maybe when I was younger. Lately, they all bore me. Two dimensional vessels that were only good for a quick fuck. I wonder when this happened. When a pretty girl became just that. The idea that I wanted more had crept up slowly, like a fucking cancer I didn't need. More meant problems. Complications. Weakness.

I dip my head in dismissal, and she reluctantly pushes back from the table, the disappointment on her face clear. With a final glance, she spins around, making her way to a more than willing gentleman sitting at a table nearby.

“It seems like a good business,” Nero comments, puffing on his cigar as he gestures toward the bar. “They at least serve decent alcohol, and the women are attractive. It's a good combination.”

I nod in agreement. It was sound business, and we could certainly move money in a place like this.

Basilio approaches our table, the tall, leggy blonde he introduced me to earlier, Camille, draped over his arm—another gold digger. Basilio didn’t strike me as foolish, so perhaps he was aware of her scheme. I could tell the moment he introduced her to me, the way her eyes hungrily scanned my body. The blatant way she arched her back to push up her fake tits, hoping to draw attention to them, was pathetic. At least strippers were honest with what they wanted and what they did. Women like this were the fucking worst.

“So, Dom, what do you think of the place?” Basilio asks, sitting across from me while Camille settles into the booth next to Nero. The muttering under his breath reveals that he dislikes her as much as I do.

“It’s better than I expected,” I respond honestly. Basilio doesn’t rave at the comment like most people do when they receive a compliment from me, which I find refreshing.

“How many girls do you have working here?” I already know the answer. I reviewed his business records myself, my master's degree in business valuable when running a syndicate like ours. I liked to know who I was dealing with. Being good with numbers meant I could quickly see if someone was skimming a bit off the top. I reflect on the pack of documents Nero handed me a week ago—the North Side Gentlemen’s Club books. I expected disarray, which is often the case when dealing with businesses in our line of work. But I was pleasantly surprised. They were meticulous. Every penny was accounted for, and the business operated at a substantial profit.

“We have twenty-four girls. Eight waitresses and sixteen strippers,” Basilio answers confidently, his hand smoothing over his hair, perhaps his tell for deception.

“You’re missing one.” My accusation shatters his calm façade, which wavers slightly before he reconstructs it.

When I reviewed the books, I noticed no alarm bells, except for one minor issue. He was paying someone off the books. While this was a regular occurrence in most of our enterprises, it was unusual as it was the only anomaly I could find. This made me curious. Why not just have whoever it was officially on the books? Why have them at all?

“It’s a favor for Francesca. A friend of hers who needs help.” Basilio tries to downplay it, but his evasive glance suggests there is more to it than meets the eye.

“Ugh, are you talking about Daisy? Such a waste of space. I don’t know why Basilio keeps her around. I suppose she is good with the books, but really, she is such a suck-up, always looking at Basilio with those puppy-dog eyes. It’s pathetic—” Camille doesn’t get a chanceto continue as Basilio’s open palm hits the table with a loud clap, his angry gaze directed at the bimbo beside him.

The surrounding tables stop their conversations, and even the stripper on Dante’s lap has halted her gyrating.

“Shut the fuck up, Camille. Go upstairs and wait for me there.” Basilio’s tone is harsh, and the murderous glare he gives Camille serves as a warning. And as fuel for my curiosity.

Without a word, she stands up, her anger evident as she storms away.

With a gentle tap to the stripper’s ass, Dante sends her on her way.

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