“I want to keep her around for a little while,” I say. “She intrigues me.”
“Ever since she started here, you’ve spent more than double your usual time at Revolvr.”
I frown. That can’t possibly be right. “If I have, it’s because I have work to do here.”
Ras’s gaze is piercing. “Hmm.”
I rise. “Look into her, but not at the expense of the other research you’re doing.”
“Then it’ll have to wait a few days.”
“Fine.”
Like I said, I can be patient, but soon, I’ll know her real name.
VALENTINA
If I was smart, I’d take the money Damiano gave me and run somewhere far. After I get home, I count the cash out again and again. Five thousand euros is enough to start somewhere anew, but for some reason I can’t think of a single attractive destination. It’s like no matter where I go, I’m risking leaving a piece of me in Ibiza.
The next morning, the front desk attendant at the hostel gives me a letter. Inside is an invitation for a viewing of an apartment on the nice side of the island. There is no mention of Damiano’s name on the letter, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s behind it. I go to the viewing. The place has a beach view, a private balcony, and looks like an interior designer’s wet dream. I pay the deposit on the spot and get my key.
No matter how I fight it, there’s only one conclusion that makes sense. There’s a part of him that cares about me. Damiano doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who gives up on things that he wants, so I prepare myself for more grand gestures. I can’t let him wear my resistance down.
Yes, I want to sleep with him. Who wouldn’t? But after my reaction on the boat, I’m not confident I’ll be able to keep my head straight when he makes me feel that good over and over again. What if I say something I shouldn’t in my vulnerable state? What if I inadvertently allow him to get too close?
I start my first week as a server. Since I work nights now, I have to adjust my sleep schedule, which means I spend the first few days feeling like a total zombie. I manage to break a few glasses and spill a Cosmopolitan onto a VIP, but he turns out to be too high to notice.
“Is everyone here on drugs?” I ask Vilde one night while we’re on break.
She laughs. “Took you only a few days to realize, huh? Yeah. That’s why our bottles of water are ten euros. High people tend to drink less alcohol, but they need to stay hydrated.”
“How do they get all the stuff in here?” I ask. “The bouncers pat everyone down, don’t they?”
“They’re checking for weapons, not drugs, and there’s always someone dealing here, if you know what to look for.” She glances around the staff room and lowers her voice. “I’m sure the boss knows about the dealers.”
I suspect she’s right. I doubt anything happens in this club without Damiano knowing. No one becomes as successful as him without any exposure to the underworld. Still, it’s an entirely different thing to be a part of its depths.
The next day, Vilde, Astrid, and I are all scheduled to work in the upper-level VIP area. When we arrive, Ras is there. He doesn’t say hello, but even from afar, I can tell he’s staring at me with unmistakable suspicion. I have to fight down the urge to squirm. Nerves flare inside of me. Does he know something?
The night starts off without a hitch. Hostesses seat the VIPs as they arrive, and then I or one of the other servers bring over the bottle service. I can’t be sure until I count, but I think the tips I manage to collect in three hours might be more than I made during one whole cleaning shift. And that’s not including my base salary. My mood lifts with each passing hour. If this is how things keep going, I might be able to pay Damiano back sooner than later.
“We just seated a group of four at Table A,” Maria, the floor manager, tells me. “They have a bottle of Chivas Regal. Can you make them a priority?”
“I have another table first.”
“Do it later,” Maria tells me, looking over her shoulder. “They’re the boss’s friends.”
Damiano’s? I glance over at the table, and one look is enough to make my blood still inside my veins.
At the largest booth in the VIP area, the one Astrid was dancing in before she left for her break a few minutes earlier, are three men I don’t recognize and one that I do.
Nelo.
I doubt Damiano would refer to Nelo as a friend even if he’s his cousin, but the fact that Maria does tells me this can’t be his first time at Revolvr. The back of my neck prickles with unease. Does Damiano know Nelo and his entourage are here? There’s still a fading green bruise on the man’s face where Damiano punched him. At least it doesn’t look like Nelo’s as drunk as he was the night at the restaurant.
I prep the bottle service, roll my shoulders back, and make my way over.
Nelo registers me when I’m almost at their booth. His thin lips glide into a sneer. “Bella,” he greets me, his eyes raking down my body.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” I say, sticking to my script.
He tracks my movements as I transfer the bottle over to their table. “You work here,” he states. “Were you hired before or after the night I met you?”
“Before.”
“Wouldn’t put it past that son of a bitch to hire you just to spite me.”
“I don’t think Señor De Rossi spends a second of his time thinking about your feelings.”
Nelo’s eyes narrow into two lines.
Crap. I shouldn’t have said that.
He leans forward, bringing his face closer to mine. “What you know about how De Rossi spends his time?”
Our conversation finally catches the attention of his companions. One by one, their hard gazes land on me. They all look mean, without exception. One of them is sporting a fading black eye. Another has this gaunt look that can only be caused by excessive drug use or a life filled with violence. I’ve seen his lookalikes back in New York. Foot soldiers, usually. Men who live each day as if it might end with a bullet in their heads.
The last one seems the most normal at first, but then I see his eyes, and nasty déjà vu makes my stomach lurch. His eyes are just like Lazaro’s. Cold and utterly empty of any human emotion.
“I know he’s very busy,” I say, placing the last mixer on the table. “That’s all I meant. Would you like me to serve you the first round?”
Nelo flicks his gaze to the bottle and then back to me. “Sure, bella.”
He’s probably used to making people tremble under his stare, but my hand’s steady as I pour him and his friends their whisky.
The guy with the black eye says something to him in Italian. There’s too much of a local dialect mixed in for me to understand. Nelo snorts an ugly laugh. It’s enough warning for me to know I won’t like the next words out of his mouth.
He smirks at me. “There are some other ways we’d like you to serve us later.”
Placing the bottle back down on the table, I straighten out and pretend I didn’t hear him. “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you guys. Have fun.”
The air grows taut and uncomfortable. It’s a game for them. They want to ruffle my feathers and show me just how superior they are to me. Round one is over. I turn on my heel and head back toward the main bar.
I decide I can leave them for at least thirty minutes while I serve my other customers. But not even ten minutes later, they wave me back over.
“We want the thing that table got,” Nelo says, pointing to a booth that has a six-liter limited edition bottle of Dom Perignon.
Of course, he does. Men like him are so predictable. They want the biggest, shiniest toy because they think it will make them look good, but in truth, people simply look at the shiny toy and glaze over them. “Great choice. Just so you know, it’s ten thousand euros,” I tell him while I eye the already-empty bottle on their table. Even with four people, they got through that quick.