I can’t believe my luck. I have no idea what this Ras guy said to the bouncer, but that doesn’t stop me from giving him a bright smile. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head as if my gratefulness is misplaced.
A frisson of fear erupts inside of me, but I ignore it. I’ve made it this far. I’m not turning back.
The closer I get to De Rossi, the harder my heart pounds. I can feel it beating in my neck, my fingers, even my feet. If I mess this up, I’m screwed.
There’s a hidden booth on the balcony that can’t be seen from below. De Rossi’s sitting there now, his arms spread over the back of the seat. Broad shoulders, trim waist, and a few inches of flowing hair that’s pushed back from his brutally handsome face. His brows are furrowed as he watches the crowd. A clip glints on his tie.
I hesitate. It’s like De Rossi’s a king holding court in his castle.
I suppose that’s exactly what this is.
As I slide into the booth and take a seat on the edge, those eyes find their way back to me. There’s a lethal charge about him. He tries to hide it beneath the crisp lines of his suit and his unruffled demeanor, but his eyes betray him. They seem older than the rest of him, with crow’s feet visible on his otherwise unlined face. What have those eyes seen?
I take a deep breath and regret it immediately. This man’s cologne is designed to make you want to drape yourself over him.
“Can I help you?” His powerful tenor slides over my skin like a silk robe. I pick up on a very mild accent.
“Hi, I’m Ale.”
“Ale…?”
“Romero.”
“What are you doing here, Romero?” He takes a spare glass from a tray in front of him, splashes what looks like whiskey into it, and slides the glass to me.
I take it and clutch it to my chest. “I needed to speak to you.”
He takes a sip of his own caramel-colored drink. His eyes flick down to my glass, and then past it to the revealing cut of my dress. His gaze lingers unabashedly. “Then speak.”
My hands itch to adjust my clothing, but I force myself not to and scramble for something to say. “De Rossi is an Italian name, isn’t it?”
He nods.
“I’m Italian too. Italian-Canadian,” I clarify. “My family immigrated a long time ago. I haven’t been back in many years.”
His brows furrow at my rambling.
Okay, time to lay it all out. I clear my throat. “I’m looking for work. I was hoping I could convince you to hire me.”
Lines appear on his forehead. I think I managed to surprise him. “You’re looking for work?”
“Correct. I’m willing to do anything.” My cheeks warm when I realize what that sounded like. “I mean, I’ll take any position you have available.”
His lips twitch, but it takes him only a moment to grow stern again. “We hired all of our employees weeks ago.”
“Ah. Well, I just got here.” The prospect of being homeless makes dread solidify at the bottom of my belly. Think, damn it. Convince this man! “This place is gigantic. I’m sure you can always use some extra help. People must come and go all the time.” I’m fishing. Deep water.
“What do you want to do here exactly?”
I smooth my palms over my lap. “To be honest, I don’t have any specific skills per se.”
“You don’t say,” he interrupts before taking another sip of his whiskey.
I pretend I didn’t hear him. “But I’m the hardest worker you’ll ever meet.”
At this, his serious demeanor cracks, and he barks a laugh.
If he wasn’t laughing at me, I might take a moment to appreciate the rumbly sound, but I’m too busy trying to keep my composure.
“Why is that funny?” I ask.
He swipes his hand over his mouth and skewers me with a no-bullshit stare. “Principessa, you don’t look like you’ve worked a day in your life. What do you know about hard work?”
His words may as well be a punch in the gut.
I swallow down the burn in my throat from his insult and force the next words out of my mouth. “That’s a presumptuous thing to say. You don’t know anything about me.”
“No, but I’ve got eyes and a brain. What I see is that you like to show off your key assets.” His gaze licks over my chest. “You seem to think that’s all it takes for you to have men do whatever you say. Maybe it’s worked back home, but unfortunately for you, in Ibiza, beautiful women are a dime a dozen. If I hired all of them, I wouldn’t have a night club. I’d have a harem.”
Embarrassment coats my skin with heat. “That’s unfair.”
“Life’s unfair. If I was wrong about anything I just said, you would have learned that lesson by now.” He looks away from me, signaling his dismissal.
A foreign feeling starts to build inside my chest.
No. No way. He doesn’t get to dismiss me like that. I’m not going to let him. I’ve let others walk all over me my entire life, but that ends now.
I don’t even know what I’m doing as I slam my glass down on the table with a loud clank to draw his attention back to me. I’ve never stood up to a man like this, never dared to, but it must be my desperation snapping my backbone into place.
“I know life is unfair,” I say angrily. “It’s unfair that men like you get to look down on women like me because of misguided first impressions. Must be nice to have the privilege to shit all over people trying to find honest work.”
He scoffs. “You don’t need honest work when you’ve got a trust fund. Those flats on your feet cost over a thousand euros. Did Daddy get tired of footing your bills? Maybe you should consider reconciling with him before trying to live out some half-baked attempt at independence on fucking Ibiza.”
“Bold statement for someone who’s Daddy probably bought this club for him.”
De Rossi’s expression tightens. “My daddy’s dead. This club is the product of my own blood, sweat, and tears. Which is why it irks me when spoiled little girls like yourself walk in expecting everyone to give them exactly what they want for just putting their tits on display.”
I shoot up to my feet. “You’re a pig.”
He stands up and steps into my space. “No, I’m a wolf. And you’re a sheep that wandered into the wrong pasture.”
My hands curl into fists as I crane my neck to look at his face. Does he think he can intimidate me by unfurling to his full height and towering over me? What De Rossi doesn’t know is that I’ve lived my whole life surrounded by men far more terrifying than him. Physically, I might not be his match, but if he thinks he can make me cower with his words alone, he’s about to be very disappointed.
“I’m no sheep,” I say, enunciating every word. “And I don’t want you to give me anything for just showing up. I want a fair chance, that’s all. Let me work here for a week as a trial. If it works out, hire me. If I don’t meet your standards, I’ll leave when the week is up.”
He trails his bottom lip with his teeth. “Why would I agree to that?”