20
BIANCA
“Been a while since you were here, huh?”
I grin, glancing around Vito’s dusty old office. He’s right, I haven’t set foot inside it in years. But it looks exactly the same.
It still smells like tobacco and the leather of the old Chesterfield couches in the corner. There’s still the same globe bar-cart, the same crystal tumblers. Vito’s desk—a massive wooden thing roughly the size and weight of a Cadillac—fills the middle of the room. The walls are festooned with the sexy glamor shots of the dancers who used to work here. And of course, the old “Lickety Splits” neon sign still hangs on the wall to the left of Vito’s desk.
Vito never let me come here during business hours, obviously. But during the day, when quite possibly the best-named strip club in the history of strip clubs was closed, I’d come up here with him from time to time and just goof off.
I know it’s cliched, and sounds like I’m biased. But Dad ran a different kind of strip club. He was never sleazy with the dancers and had a strict one-strike policy on any customers getting handsy. People used to joke that Vito treated “his girls” like they were his own daughters. But as he used to say, “They’re somebody’s daughters. And if mine were workin’ in a joint like this, I’d want to know someone was keeping ’em safe.”
Back then, a couple of the dancers were working to put themselves through school, and during the day, Vito would let them study up here in some of the smaller offices…for their nurse’s license, or the Bar exam, or dental school.
Frequently, when I’d come in with Dad during the day and some of the girls were up here, they’d take a study break and give me makeovers, or have me show them my latest ballet moves. For a while, when I was like twelve, I got really into modern and hip hop dancing. This one woman, Candice, would show me her “sexy” moves, at least until Vito walked in one day and asked her politely to knock it the fuck off.
These days, the club on the first two floors is gone. Instead of stripper poles and VIP rooms, Dad’s office now sits above a two Michelin star French restaurant and a tech startup. But up here, the vibe hasn’t changed at all, and I love it.
“It’s been a while, yeah,” I smile, looking around. “I miss this place.”
He chuckles. “I don’t miss the headaches. Keeping the girls safe and the knuckleheads in line, dealing with the alcohol licensing board, the health inspectors, or…Jesus…the pearl-clutchers.” He shrugs, looking around. “But there’s a reason this old dump is still my office, even though I could have something overlooking Wall Street.”
He grins at me, drumming his fingers on the edge of his desk excitedly.
“So, Bumblebee, cards on the table. I didn’t ask you to stop by to go down memory lane and reminisce about when I was a shitty guardian bringing a kid to a titty bar.”
I snort a laugh. “I distinctly remember never seeing a single titty, so don’t worry. Nico, Carmy, and Dante, on the other hand…”
Vito groans, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, father of the year over here,” he sighs. Then he grins at me again, and suddenly he’s spryly jumping to his feet and stepping out from behind his desk. “C’mon. I want to show you something.”
Curious, I follow Vito out of his main office and down the dusty hall. The big side room that we stop at used to be a changing room for the dancers. It’s now pretty much empty, though one wall still has some old lockers bolted to it. The rest of the space is cluttered with boxes of old files and club fliers, and there’s a huge old wardrobe against the far wall, locked with a padlock.
“Um…” I glance around the place skeptically.
Dad chuckles. “Gimme a sec. Gotta build the suspense.” He clears his throat. “I heard you haven’t found a wedding dress yet.”
I groan, rolling my eyes. “Yes and no. I mean, Tempest, Naomi, and Milena found some gorgeous ones. But I’m not spending fifteen grand on a freaking dress.”
Vito sighs. “Of course you’re not. I am. I already told you it was on me, kiddo.”
“Yeah, no.” I shake my head. “I’m not letting anyone spend that much on something I’m going to wear once for a fake occasion.”
There’s maybe a bit more bitterness to the word “fake” than I intended. Vito doesn’t seem to catch it, but still I turn away, glowering to myself.
It’s not that I’m pining away wishing this marriage were a real one. Not at all. But as we get closer to “the big day”, there seems to be more and more of a war of sorts going on inside my heart.
On the one hand, I know this isn’t “real”. I do like and enjoy the physical stuff Kratos and I have—the way he grabs me and kisses me possessively. The way he chases me and fucks me like it’s a contact sport.
I mean, I really like that part. After the night two weeks ago when he took my virginity on the hard, grimy floor of the abandoned church with a knife to my throat—which was insanely hot—we’ve been back to replay that scene almost every night since.
I’m sore everywhere. I ache all over. My pussy has been swollen for like two weeks solid as I get used to taking Kratos’ enormous size.
It’s all worth it. Very worth it.
But as much as I want to say I fully understand that what we have between us is just sex, there’s another part of me that…
I roll my eyes.
You’re an idiot.
The other part wants more. Not more of the aggressiveness and the blisteringly hot sex—I mean, yeah, I want more of that, too—but more from him.
I know this wedding is about stopping mafia hostilities from turning the streets of New York into a war zone. I know we’re not actually a couple.
But then, what are we? The easy answer would be friends with benefits or fuck-buddies, but it’s not that, either.
It’s like we are in a real relationship, but neither of us wants to admit it. Or maybe neither of us can admit it. Maybe it’s just not in the cards for us.
I shouldn’t be bothered by that.
But I am, more than I care to think. Because what I feel for the huge giant I’ll be marrying soon is something I’ve never felt before. And sure, it could just be me confusing sex with something bigger. But I don’t think so.
I know how I feel when I’m with him. I know how I miss him when I’m not. And I know it worries the hell out of me that I’m still calling whatever we are “fake”.
“Well,” Dad sighs. “If you want the expensive dress, it’s yours. Done. I’ll send one of my guys over right now to get it.”
I grin at him.
