Page 1 of Deceptive Vows
Chapter One
THEA
Well,well, well…
When Dead Shift’s door opened, I didn't expect a man dressed like a Monaco banker stepping off a private jet. Italian leather, linen slacks, and burnished designer loafers that cost more than a month's rent. He didn't belong in a place that smelled of stale beer and fresh desperation.
And yet, he looked so at ease.
Moretti territory didn’t see his kind, not unless they were up to something or here for someone. I filed him under probable threat.
This place reeked of rotgut, testosterone, and lost hope. The low thump of bass from thejukebox was barely audible over the sounds of chatter. The Morettis didn’t own this bar, but their stink clung to the walls. Girls—half of them barely legal—worked the booths for Johns too cheap for a hotel. And predators circled the room, waiting for someone too strung out to scream.
I wasn’t here for pleasure. I was chasing a lead. Typically, this bar was mostly filled with Moretti’s disposable muscle, but word was Marco’s guy was sniffing around—his actual second. If that rumor was true, tonight might finally get me a breadcrumb leading to the Don of the Moretti crime family.
After a quick sweep of his gaze, the newcomer slipped onto a barstool near the entrance, like neither the grime nor the watchers lurking in the shadows were worth noticing.
Taylor, the bartender, paused to serve the newcomer. Vodka. Beluga. Top-shelf.
DefinitelynotMoretti. His guys drank brown paint stripper. Beluga meant Russian. And Russians didn’t just pop into bars like this for a nightcap. Not unless there were strings attached.
Taylor finished with him, ambled to my end, and pushed a shot in front of me. “Water,” he murmured.
I nodded, slipping my fingers through the ends of my newly dyed mahogany hair. “Thanks.”
Most would think it was liquor, but after watching my mother’s addiction kill her light, I didn’t touch the stuff. But let them think I was drinking, just another part of the scenery. It made them careless. That made them stupid. Stupid was useful.
I traced the rim of my glass and glanced at the mirror behind the bar. The smudged glass gave me a better view of Mr. Gumdrop. He was gorgeous. Objectively.
Posture—loose, like he had nowhere to be. Stillness—absolute, like a predator waiting for a reason to pounce. Eyes—sharp. Calculating. He clocked the exits, the regulars, the threats. And me.
Especially me.
A smile tugged one corner of his lips up as our eyes met in the mirror.
Interesting.
Most men in here didn’t notice anything that wasn’t wearing a push-up bra and a cry for help. But him? He watched like he’d been trained to. Like he was waiting for something to go wrong.
Or perhaps he was the thing about to go wrong.
Could he be one of Marco’s contacts? If so, his presence might mean the Don was close. Finally. I’d chased enough ghosts through this city, enough rumors that ended in dead ends. But tonight felt different. It had to lead to Marco. Because if it didn’t, I was out of breadcrumbs… and patience.
I clocked Berto Rizzoli in the corner, a Moretti bottom-feeder with a mean streak and zero self-control. The brunette next to him was Rina. Chipped front tooth and a smile that never quite reached her eyes. She didn’t belong here. But survival was ugly sometimes. She reminded me of my mother. Broken, abused, and used. Another woman who would never find her way out.
My gaze slid back to the stranger. He lifted his glass in a silent toast, lips curving in a knowing smirk. I matched him and knocked back the water. His appreciation was subtle, practiced. But I wasn’t here to flirt. I was here to find Marco.
If he was connected, that mattered. If he wasn’t, he was a wild card.
Thatmattered more.
Movement pulled my attention. Rina’s drink was still full, sweating down the side of the glass. Berto leaned in, whispering something she didn’t laugh at. His hand slid up her thigh while his other hovered near her drink.
I rolled my eyes at the cheesy, classic move.
A little powder. A little pressure. And another woman disappears.
Not tonight.
