Page 30 of Devil's Iris
The car is empty when I slide into the back seat, Dean shutting the door gently. So I’m meeting Romero at the venue then? The realization sends fresh nerves coursing through me, and my palms start sweating despite the cool air conditioning.
A club.
I stare at the building, brows knitting together as I step out of the car. It’s one of the most high-end clubs in Brooklyn—the kind that requires membership or connections to just get through the door.
A club for the wealthy elite, but a club nonetheless. Kind of surprising. Then again, he probably earned that ’Playboy of Brooklyn’ nickname for a reason.Yeah, I googled him.He had quite the wild reputation in his younger days but seems to have mellowed out in recent years.
There’s no line outside like at regular clubs, and as I approach the imposing entrance, the bouncers smile and pull the doors open for me. “Welcome to Neon Night, Miss Barlowe.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, surprised they know my name. Romero must have told them to expect me.
The narrow hallway vibrates with bass that I can feel in my bones, and when it opens into the main club, the music becomes a living thing.
I blink at the sudden lights and noise, overwhelmed for a second by the sheer scale of it all. Silver chandeliers drip from the ceiling, their crystals catching the flashing blue, red, andgreen lights and scattering the fractured colors across the club like confetti. The space is packed—people lounging near plush seating areas, crowding the long bar, and losing themselves on the dance floor.
How am I supposed to find Romero in this chaos?
I glance around, dodging bodies as I make my way towards the bar, my shoulders shimmying a little to the infectious beat. It’s catchy. Once I find a seat, I’ll text Romero to let him know where I am. I’m sure Dean already told him I’ve arrived.
The moment I slide onto one of the bar stools, a bartender appears in front of me. “What can I get you?”
“Water, for now,” I tell him, and he nods.
I reach for my phone, digging it out of my purse—just as a hand lands on my shoulder.
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn to look. A stranger is smiling down at me. Messy blond hair, blue eyes sparkling with mischief, and a polka dot shirt with the top buttons undone. He’s cute, in that laid-back, trust-fund-baby kind of way.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, flashing a cocky grin.
Before I can reply, there’s a blur of movement and suddenly Blondie is being yanked away from me with brutal force. I gasp as Romero appears like an avenging angel, his hand wrapped around the stranger’s throat, expression thunderous.
“How dare you put your filthy paw on my wife?”
12
LENI
Blondie’s face slowly turns an alarming shade of purple. He claws at the grip around his neck, but Romero’s hand might as well be made of granite.He’s really choking him.
I launch myself off the stool, pulse hammering. I’ve never seen anyone look so furious in my life, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to calm him down. Hell, I’m not even sure Iwantto get between them right now. In my peripheral vision, I catch a few people taking interest in the scene, some even slipping out their phones.
Shit. If this gets out, it won’t be good for him.
“Romero,” I call out quickly, trying to sound calm, “it’s okay. He didn’t touch me inappropriately. He just—” My words die in my throat when his head whips towards me and I’m staring into the face of a predator. Gone is the amused, relaxed man from our previous encounters. Those green eyes are now arctic cold, ruthless enough to freeze the breath in my lungs.
Thisis the side people whisper about in dark corners. The side they fear. And I'm getting the distinct impression that this isn’t even his final form.
We stare at each other across the chaos, and I realize I’m notafraid. I should be terrified. Any sane person would be backing away right now. Instead, I’m… fascinated.
A wretched choking noise spills over the music, yanking me back to the moment.Shit—Blondie is about to pass out. And if he dies, we’re all screwed.
Without thinking, I place my hand over Romero’s. “Let the poor man go and let’s get out of here. It’s your fault for wanting to meet in a fucking club in the first place. If you don’t want anyone touching me, then we should have gone to a library or a fucking museum.”
Those deadly eyes narrow on me, and for a heartbeat, I think he won’t listen. But then his lips curl into the faintest hint of a smile before he hurls Blondie to the floor like he’s disposable. The man lands hard, gasping and clutching his throat.
Now that Romero’s attention is fully on me, my heart decides to audition for a percussion solo. What am I supposed to do with all this intensity focused on me? “Thank you,” I manage. “But you should know—half the club filmed that little display. You’re going to be all over the tabloids tomorrow.”
