Page 8 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
"I’ll let you know," I reply, taking the glass she offers without breaking stride.
The liquor slides down my throat smooth and hot, cutting through the soft haze that clings to this place like incense.
Release isn’t what I’m chasing tonight.
In fact, my mind is set on someone who can indulge my need to control ever since I left the bar.
Sometimes I want a fight.
Sometimes I want softness.
Sometimes, I want to watch a girl unravel and know that it was my voice, my hands, that made her forget who she was for a little while.
Tonight, I want a mouth that doesn’t ask questions.
I want a girl who doesn’t look away.
I trail past the velvet divan, past a couple curled together.
The woman in his lap wears nothing but a gold chain and a smile.
She looks up when I pass, eyes glinting, but I don’t stop.
I’ve seen her before.
She's far too rehearsed.
I want someone whose edges haven’t been sanded down yet.
Around the corner toward the mirrored hall, I spot tonight’s fix.
She’s standing near the far column, hair dark and loose around her shoulders.
She’s laughing at something another girl says, but not softly.
It’s a real laugh, head thrown back slightly, mouth parted, like she doesn’t care who’s watching.
Which, of course, means I watch her.
There’s a man already approaching.
He’s tall, well-dressed, expensive in the way nouveau men are when they’ve just come into money and haven’t yet learned how to carry it.
His watch catches the light.
His posture is confident, but not careful.
He taps her arm, speaks low.
She tilts her head politely.
She’s about to nod, probably out of habit.
"Wait."
She turns, and her eyes meet mine.
At the same time, the man frowns, glancing over his shoulder. "Excuse me?"
