If The Seas Catch Fire(22)

The stripper’s lips twitched, but so subtly Dom couldn’t read if it was more irritation or if he’d struck a nerve. And then the stripper snorted with laughter. “You really want me to believe you’d go tell your boys that a queer little dancer like me saved your ass when you couldn’t do it yourself?”

Dom clenched his jaw.

“That’s what I thought.” The stripper’s eyes narrowed. “You wops and your obsession with image.” Shaking his head, he clicked his tongue. “Guess you don’t have any cards left, do you?”

Dom turned his head and cleared his throat, so he wouldn’t cough right in the stripper’s face. “Look, I’m just trying to figure—”

“I know your type, Maisano.” That sharky grin made his knees shake. “All business. All efficiency and numbers. You don’t waste your time driving all the way across this shithole town just to ask a stripper a few questions when you already know the answers. Especially not three weeks after the fact.” Closer still, his bare abs almost brushing Dom’s shirt. “So tell me. Why did you come here?”

“Because I need to… I need to know”—what your skin tastes likes, and—“what happened that night.”

“Yeah?” He bared even more teeth and leaned closer, reaching past Dom to rest his hands on the railing on either side of his waist. “That the only reason?”

“Yeah.” Dom swallowed. “It’s the only reason.”

The stripper studied him, and gradually, the triumphant cockiness faded. His features hardened.

“Look, here’s the deal, Maisano.” He stepped in close again, this time getting right up in Dom’s face, their noses almost touching as he snarled, “I’ve told you everything I’m going to tell you, and now you’re going to get the f*ck out of my club.”

“For God’s sake, I—”

“You stay the f*ck off my turf, I’ll stay the f*ck off yours.” There was a menacing, murderous undertone to his Russian-accented voice.

Dom gritted his teeth—this f*cker had no idea who he was really tangling with.

The stripper continued, “You and your kind run this town, but you’ve got no business in this club. Get the f*ck out of here, and let my customers enjoy their night without having to worry about Mob guys starting shit. You got it?”

And then he was gone, the club door banging shut behind him.

Dom slouched against the railing, the humidity sticking to the goose bumps on the back of his neck.

Well. That was that, wasn’t it?

He swore into the night. There was no point in staying here, then. Maybe he’d come back in a few days. When he knew what to expect and wouldn’t be so flustered and caught off guard. He was not intimidated by a stripper half his size.

The stripper half his size who’d slammed a door that locked from the inside.

Dom wiggled the knob, then swore and stomped down the porch steps into the alley. As he made his way toward the road, an odd sense of déjà vu rushed over him. He looked around. The shoddy buildings, the boarded up windows, the rusty Dumpsters—they weren’t familiar, and yet they were.

He froze. This was where it had happened, wasn’t it? Right out here? But he only remembered that night in painful flashes. Bits and pieces of scenery that didn’t seem to go together now that he saw the big picture.

He shook his head and kept walking. No sense reliving that night again, especially not here. Instead, he returned to his car and got the hell out of there.

As he drove away, though, there was no getting that kid out of his mind. None.

And not just because he was annoyed by the refusal to tip his hand. The fact was, the stripper had him dead to rights. Dom had convinced himself he’d only come here for answers, but what had he really expected? For this kid to have some kind of insider knowledge about the intricacies of the Mafia?

No. That wasn’t why he was there.

It had nothing to do with the night Dom had been roughed up, and everything to do with how he’d felt when the stripper had stepped up into his space.

Everything about him was like catnip to Dom. The smoking hot body was just the start of it. That cold fearlessness? The unabashed sexuality radiating from every move he made? Even the way he spoke drove Dom crazy. His accent was sharp but subtle, and it made Dom hang on his every word. Made him pay attention to the way his mouth moved, hypnotizing him with the way his lips shaped consonants.

Dom thumped the steering wheel. He couldn’t go back. He didn’t dare. The stripper wanted nothing to do with a man from Dom’s world, and Dom would’ve been wise to accept that and move on because he had no business with someone from that world. He’d sowed his gay oats as a kid and nearly been killed for it. Even going back for a lap dance was dangerous. Someone might see him there.

Or worse, those desires might come back.

Fuck. Who was he kidding? They’d never gone away.

And now, with that stripper’s face and body and voice seared into his mind, there was no ignoring them anymore. There was no silencing them.

There was no ignoring the truth—everything he desired was in that strip club, wrapped in sweat and leather.

I want him. I need him.

Dom turned the car around.





Chapter 7


Sergei downed the rest of his water bottle in three swallows. He was still fired up after his exchange with that f*cking Italian, but the guy was gone now, and it was time to make up for lost pay. Not that he was hurting for money after getting paid for last night’s job.