If The Seas Catch Fire(23)

And not that the last ten minutes hadn’t been profitable. He’d taken a couple grand off Maisano in one motion. But he was annoyed. Rattled in a way he couldn’t quite describe.

That night in the alley should’ve been the end of it. Domenico Maisano had no business occupying as many of Sergei’s thoughts as he had recently, and he definitely had no business strolling into this club like he owned the place.

Sergei glanced at the door Maisano had come in through, and his stomach twisted. The guy was gone now, and that was the way it needed to be. He especially wanted Maisano out of here because the guy piqued his interest in a way his kind usually didn’t. Sure, he was attractive. Domenico Maisano was apparently one of the better-looking Italians in this town. Then again, even the ugly ones could wear a suit well enough.

But there was something about him that had made Sergei look twice. Something that had struck a different chord tonight than the other Mafiosi ever did. Especially now that his face had mostly healed. Without the blood and swelling, with his dark hair flawlessly arranged except for a couple of strands fluttering in the breeze, he was…

Hell, he was hot.

Really… really… hot.

Sergei scrubbed a hand over his face. He was losing his mind, wasn’t he? Entertaining any thoughts of a Mafioso that didn’t involve bullets? Stupid.

He couldn’t help himself, though. As he leaned against the bar, waiting for one of the stages to open up so he could dance again, he indulged in a few replays of that moment when he’d backed Maisano up against the railing. A veil had definitely lifted just then. A little bit of fear, but a lot of something else. Something Maisano didn’t want to think about.

Sergei’s skin prickled beneath his crop top, but he forbid the shiver from making it up his spine. The only thing he wanted from the wops in this town was blood, no matter how attractive they were. Attractive, and repressed, and—

He shook himself. He did want a piece of Domenico, but for the same reason he wanted pieces of some of the other hot Italians—to literally stick it to the families. An orgasm for him, a death sentence for the other guy if word ever got out. Just the way it needed to be.

On the middle stage, Jesse finished his performance. As he stepped down to escort someone into the back for a private dance, Sergei tossed his water bottle in the recycling bin behind the bar. Then he strode across the floor to the now vacant stage. Time to forget that Italian * and dance.

It was a good night. A busy one. Guys were coming in out of the heat for some air conditioning and cold liquor, and sweating right through their expensive suits and silk shirts as Sergei and his boys took turns dancing on poles in the middle of waist-high stages. Booze was flowing, tips were piling up—it was early yet, but looking to be a great night for those in G-strings.

When Sergei went up for yet another dance, there was a crowd around his stage before the deejay had even started the next song. Wide-eyed “gentlemen” sucked on highballs and longnecks as Sergei made that pole his bitch. He leaned against it, legs apart, positioning himself just right to make it look to anyone in front of him that the pole was right up his ass, and judging by the way the combed-over businessman in front of him nearly dropped his drink, the illusion worked.

With a full audience around him, Sergei didn’t usually pay any attention to anybody else. These boys were here to scatter Andrew Jackson all over the stage and shove his uncle Benjamin into Sergei’s G-string. Everyone else was irrelevant.

But as Sergei leaned against the pole and undulated, using his hips and abs to mesmerize four guys tugging at their sweaty white collars, he glanced to his left. The shimmering bead curtain beside the bar had parted, as it did a million times a night, but this time, he looked.

And missed a beat.

What the f*ck was he doing here again?

Maybe he’d rethought that whole “I’m just here for information” thing. Sergei knew what he’d seen—there was more in Maisano’s eyes than just a need to know what had happened three weeks ago.

Then a memory flickered through his mind of grabbing the cash out of Maisano’s hand.

Shit. Had he come back for his money?

Well, that could get… awkward…

Sergei quickly focused on entertaining the men below him. Maisano hadn’t tried to interrupt him so far, hadn’t made a scene, so maybe he’d wait for Sergei to finish here. He’d waited last time. Of course, last time, he hadn’t been there to collect money he’d been unexpectedly relieved of.

Well, whatever had brought him back, he could wait until Sergei had finished his business unless he wanted to be escorted out by grizzly-sized bouncers. And hopefully that would be enough time for Sergei to figure out a strategy for dealing with him.

As he danced, Sergei ground his teeth, hoping his customers were focused on his body and not his expression. He didn’t like Maisano coming here, especially for the second time tonight. This was his turf. Mafiosi only came here when it was business, and—

Fuck. What if it was business? What if he knew who and what Sergei was, and he’d come here for that?

“You took my money,” he could hear the bastard snarling, “so now you’re going to earn it.”

Son of a bitch. How many times had he told himself he’d never, ever give the Mafia an advantage over him in a business dealing? He should’ve left the money in Maisano’s hand. He’d had plenty of control over that conversation, and still, f*cking with the nervous wise guy had been irresistible. Stupid, but irresistible. At worst, he’d stolen from him. At best, he’d screwed him—taking far more than offered and giving back much less than demanded.