Page 38 of Refrain

“Everyone else, get the fuck out,” Arno bellows. “Except foryou.” He jabs a finger in Espi’s direction before he can move. “We need to talk.”

“Fuck,” Espisido grunts under his breath. “Give me a second.” Sighing, he spares a glance at Domi and then flags one of the passing men down with a wave of his hand. “Hey, Francisco!” He mutters something into the man’s ear on his way into the room. Then he looks over his shoulder, meeting my gaze. “Stick around,” he says. “I’ll come find you when I’m done.”

The door closes behind him as the other man advances toward Domi and me. Francisco, I presume. He’s tall, with wiry, dark hair and chiseled, gaunt features that have seen better days.

“The kid said to show you around,” he says rather than introduce himself properly. “So let’s go.”

With a wary glance shared between us, Domi and I follow him.

The music is just as deafening the second time in, but somehow, I manage to hear Francisco bellow above the noise.

“Espi said you two want jobs. I won’t even ask your ages”—he tosses a pointed look at Domi—“and I don’t have time to be a fucking babysitter. Pick a spot, and you learn the ropes as you go along. Consider this a working interview. So, what about you, little girl?”

Domi glances around the club, unperturbed by the noise. She’s seen worse. Heard worse. Spotting the bar, she points to it, her chin set in determination.

“That’s my domain,” Francisco shouts back. “You better keep up. And what aboutyou?”

What about me?Ishouldn’t even be here, but rather on a bus, or a plane, or a train. Piotr is in my head already. He’s in my skin, lingering like an itch I can’t scratch. A wound that won’t heal.

“Hey!” A hand collides with my shoulder, jarring me back. “You wanna work or not?”

I’m tempted to refuse. Little Espi should learn to gather hisdemons from better stock—good riddance. I even start toward the exit, but I catch sight of a nearby man who is leering at the girl beside me. Already, Domi is catching more attention than she should. She’s toopretty, as much as it disgusts me to use that word. Hungry eyes linger over her smooth skin and her shapely body.

Maybe life as Chloe Parker isn’t as easy to suppress as I’d hoped—I won’t leave her alone here. For now.

My gaze is already roving in the direction of the stage, where a woman in a glittery thong is in the process of taking it off while the men around her drool to the tune of music.

The performance would earn her a bullet to the brain atMoe’s.Piotr prized his dancers for their “art form” over vulgarity.

Stop.I shake my head to resist the impending trip down memory lane. Too late. I can still feel him behind me. Beside me.Insideme.

“You want a job or not?” Francisco asks.

I hear myself sigh above the pulsing bass, though I’m not sure if anyone notices. “I’ve only ever had one…job.”

“Oh?” Francisco ruins his hard-ass façade by sounding genuinely curious. “Let’s see it, then.”

I set my sights on the stage, swallowing down a bubble of unease. “But first, what’s your policy on serving shots to your prospective employees?”

He laughs. “There wasn’t one—until now.”

He heads for the bar while I watch the current dancer finish her set. Anna should be my focus. Running. Hiding. Not what a certain angel might think if I let him see my horns.

Or just how far I’ve fallen from grace.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ESPI

“Didyou hear what that dumbass said?” Arno hisses the moment we’re alone. “Spanish.” He snatches up the bottle of rum and drinks right from the rim. After swallowing, he spits onto the floor and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I bet the fucker’s never heard of goddamn Portuguese.”

“That’s quite the leap to make from a woman with an accent—”

“A leap? Doyouknow of any bitch in the Cartel who gives orders?” He slams the bottle onto the table so hard that most of the booze sloshes out from the top. “Oh, what’s that?” He tilts the bottle to me like a makeshift microphone. “I fucking thought so. It’s her. You know, I saw her kill a man once. It was sloppy. Messy.”

Messy…like the murdering of a club full of Russians on Petrov’s payroll. Whoever she is, the lady certainly has a flair for the dramatic. And a death wish.

Could it be Danny, a woman who all but grew up in the heart of the mafia? I don’t know. I don’t want to. Here I was, holding out hope for a happy-ending motorcycle ride into the sunset for her and Dante after he got her out of that hellhole.

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