me a solid reason to do otherwise. Meanwhile, I’m standing here like I’m 24-going-on-80 and worried bad things will happen if I stay out past my bedtime.
Fuck that.
I decide Caylee is right. I needed a night out, and I’m here. Why waste an amazing dress or a hot club filled with even hotter guys?
Oh my, check out that one. . .
NATHAN
All I’m thinking about is getting my hands on that redhead as I stride through the door from the private section back into the club. Then it’s Marco’s voice in my ear saying Tucker needs to see me right away. I halt, scanning the crowd. I don’t need a scope to find the redhead. She’s taller than most of the other women, and the overhead lights make her amazing hair gleam like a beacon. I don’t know her name or anything about her. There’s nothing I want more than that woman right now.
I’m tipping over the edge into an obsession with this chick because it’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid. That and the taunting from the French dude’s pawn.
“Nathan, get your ass up here.” Marco’s voice echoes through the earpiece.
Turning on my heel, I head for the elevator. “On my way.”
Inside the Eye—the security room for Dominion and H&S operations in the city—Tucker stands in front of a bank of monitors displaying the club from all angles and levels. Normally, technicians hunching over their screens occupy the workstations. Tonight, the chairs are empty, making me think whatever’s up must be big to have forced Tucker to send the surveillance crew home.
“Bitch almost got the best of you. Good thing you found a way to turn her around without using your dick.”
Tucker’s nasty tone is often mistaken for humor. The bastard doesn’t have an ounce of humor in his body. He smiles and tugs on one end of his mustache. Even though Tucker Voss looks like a paunchy used car salesman and hasn’t lost his Alabama accent, he’s a made man—tested, trusted and honored by the old men who used to call the De Luca syndicate mafia . He’s equally respected by younger generations who reject the term mafia , as if uttering the syllables might sully their virgin lips.
Running Harley & Sweet for the syndicate was the prize Tucker won the day he was made and took his seat at the table. To emphasize the fact that all power in this place runs through him, Marco De Luca, grandson of the old Don, appears at Tucker’s elbow. His presence tells me he was the one with de Hainault and saw everything play out on the monitor.
“Miss . . . Booty expressed some reservations, however—”
“I like the way you handled her,” Marco interjects, “but next time, make sure she’s not wearing a wire.”
I tilt my head. “Wire? Who thinks that girl is wearing a wire?”
“Don’t stress, Nathan. We’re good. Miss Booty is on her way to her date.” Tucker half turns and regard the bank of monitors. “Our boy Marco here got a tip the FBI is taking a close look at us. We can’t be too careful going forward.”
“Tip? Based on what?”
“Based on the FBI can do whatever the fuck they want.” Tucker rests a puffy hand on my shoulder. “From here on out, all the girls that come through need to be checked. Thoroughly and personally. Think you’re up for the job?”
Marco grins darkly. “If you’re not, I can—”
I don’t let the bastard finish. “Whatever you need.” I glance from Tucker to Marco and back again. “Where’d the tip come from?”
It’s Marco who answers. “You don’t need to know.”
“If there’s a threat to the organization, I do need to know. It’s my job to take out threats.”
“We’ve got this.” Tucker’s fingers tighten on my shoulder. “You’re a weapon, Nathan. That’s what I’ve always admired about you—you know exactly what you are—you don’t try to be anything more than what you are. You don’t try to reach above your station. Understand? And that’s a good thing because weapons are
Fuck that.
I decide Caylee is right. I needed a night out, and I’m here. Why waste an amazing dress or a hot club filled with even hotter guys?
Oh my, check out that one. . .
NATHAN
All I’m thinking about is getting my hands on that redhead as I stride through the door from the private section back into the club. Then it’s Marco’s voice in my ear saying Tucker needs to see me right away. I halt, scanning the crowd. I don’t need a scope to find the redhead. She’s taller than most of the other women, and the overhead lights make her amazing hair gleam like a beacon. I don’t know her name or anything about her. There’s nothing I want more than that woman right now.
I’m tipping over the edge into an obsession with this chick because it’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid. That and the taunting from the French dude’s pawn.
“Nathan, get your ass up here.” Marco’s voice echoes through the earpiece.
Turning on my heel, I head for the elevator. “On my way.”
Inside the Eye—the security room for Dominion and H&S operations in the city—Tucker stands in front of a bank of monitors displaying the club from all angles and levels. Normally, technicians hunching over their screens occupy the workstations. Tonight, the chairs are empty, making me think whatever’s up must be big to have forced Tucker to send the surveillance crew home.
“Bitch almost got the best of you. Good thing you found a way to turn her around without using your dick.”
Tucker’s nasty tone is often mistaken for humor. The bastard doesn’t have an ounce of humor in his body. He smiles and tugs on one end of his mustache. Even though Tucker Voss looks like a paunchy used car salesman and hasn’t lost his Alabama accent, he’s a made man—tested, trusted and honored by the old men who used to call the De Luca syndicate mafia . He’s equally respected by younger generations who reject the term mafia , as if uttering the syllables might sully their virgin lips.
Running Harley & Sweet for the syndicate was the prize Tucker won the day he was made and took his seat at the table. To emphasize the fact that all power in this place runs through him, Marco De Luca, grandson of the old Don, appears at Tucker’s elbow. His presence tells me he was the one with de Hainault and saw everything play out on the monitor.
“Miss . . . Booty expressed some reservations, however—”
“I like the way you handled her,” Marco interjects, “but next time, make sure she’s not wearing a wire.”
I tilt my head. “Wire? Who thinks that girl is wearing a wire?”
“Don’t stress, Nathan. We’re good. Miss Booty is on her way to her date.” Tucker half turns and regard the bank of monitors. “Our boy Marco here got a tip the FBI is taking a close look at us. We can’t be too careful going forward.”
“Tip? Based on what?”
“Based on the FBI can do whatever the fuck they want.” Tucker rests a puffy hand on my shoulder. “From here on out, all the girls that come through need to be checked. Thoroughly and personally. Think you’re up for the job?”
Marco grins darkly. “If you’re not, I can—”
I don’t let the bastard finish. “Whatever you need.” I glance from Tucker to Marco and back again. “Where’d the tip come from?”
It’s Marco who answers. “You don’t need to know.”
“If there’s a threat to the organization, I do need to know. It’s my job to take out threats.”
“We’ve got this.” Tucker’s fingers tighten on my shoulder. “You’re a weapon, Nathan. That’s what I’ve always admired about you—you know exactly what you are—you don’t try to be anything more than what you are. You don’t try to reach above your station. Understand? And that’s a good thing because weapons are
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