Savage Sinner: An Enemies To Lovers Russian - Italian Dark Mafia Romance (Sinfully Savage Mafia)

I click to end the call, letting my hand drop to my side. I look over my shoulder. Nobody is coming. I could just peek my head inside the bathroom—

I shake the door handle.

Locked.

Dammit!

I stuff my phone into my pocket and rap on the door with my fist. I don’t really want to attract any attention to myself, but an uneasy feeling eats at my gut as I stand there with my ear pressed to the door.

I don’t hear a thing.

Of course, the blaring music could be the reason for that.

I jiggle the handle again. It’s not strong. Flimsy, at best.

I take another look over my shoulder and kick open the door, figuring I’ll deal with the hellfire that erupts after I get some answers.

The one-person bathroom is tiny, barely enough room for a toilet and a sink.

My gaze drops on the red fabric hanging out of the trash can positioned next to the single window to the outside.

She didn’t even bother to close it.

“Motherfucker!” I yell, kicking the trash can so hard, it falls over. The lid tumbles off and my mystery woman empties out of it.

Dark brown wig, tight red dress, small handbag.

She completely stripped herself bare to the point where she may as well be a ghost.

I grab the bag, pulling it open for no good reason considering the fact that anything of value would be on her person.

And that would be an interesting sight to see.

What kind of clothes could she possibly have fit into this tiny purse?

Of course there isn’t a single clue in the bag. I throw it against the wall and let out a loud roar.

She played me like a violin.

And there was no way she was gonna stick around and get caught for whatever indiscretion she committed earlier tonight…like murder.

I don’t think we’ve seen the last of her.

But since my ‘angle’ managed to escape my clutches, I’m not as clueless about her involvement as I am about Conor’s.

I open the window and climb out of the small opening, feeling a little like a contortionist maneuvering my way out of it. I straighten up, quickly jogging around the front side of the building and then back down the side street to see if I can find…Christ, I don’t even know who I’m looking for right now!

Not that there’s anyone in sight.

For all I know, she could have called someone to come pick her up.

Someone she’s working with.

Someone I might want to get acquainted with.

I fist my hair and stalk toward the back door of Velvet Lounge instead of shoving myself through that window again. I push open the door so hard that the girls standing right inside jump back with looks of horror on their faces.

“Watch where you’re going, asshole!” one of them yells as I push past. I stop for a second and silence her with a menacing glare.

Lucky for her, she gets the message I just impaled her with.

I shove past people grinding against each other on the dance floor, my cock now limp as a fucking overcooked spaghetti noodle.

Patrick looks up from his phone with a single eyebrow lifted when he sees me.

“I thought you were with her in the back.”

“I was.”

“Well, where is she?”

“Gone,” I say through clenched teeth, picking up my shot of vodka and sucking it down before slamming the glass down again.

“Gone where?”

I narrow my eyes. “She didn’t tell me before escaping out of the fucking window!”

“So why are we still here? If she escaped, shouldn’t we try to find her? We’ll definitely find her in that red dress!”

“No dress,” I grunt.

“What are you talking about?”

“She stripped out of it. Left it in the trash along with a wig.”

“Shiiiit,” Patrick mutters. “But if she left her clothes, we’d have an easy time picking out a naked chick running through Brooklyn, yeah?”

I rub the back of my neck. “God only knows what she’s wearing. And as far as I could tell, she disappeared into thin air.” My shoulders slump. “But one thing I know for sure. She’s Russian mafia, I saw the star.”

He furrows his brow. “I didn’t see anything. Where was it?”

“In my mouth, along with the tit it was inked onto.”

Patrick gives my shoulder a punch. “Damn, I knew you were stealth in your job, bro. When was her tit in your mouth? And how did I miss it?”

I nod toward the bathroom.

“You fuck her, too?”

“No time,” I mutter. “But the bigger issue is that she wasn’t working on her own tonight.”

“You mean for her interview?”

Jesus Christ. Why is he so goddamn slow on the uptake?

“Patty,” I say. “There was no interview. It was bullshit!”

“What are you saying?”

“I think she killed Vigo. And she might not have been acting alone.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“If you are going to say that she might have ties to Conor, then yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

“That’s not good. Conor, in bed with the Russians?”

“Patty, if you ask me another fucking question, I might put you through a goddamn wall. I’m just saying.” I swallow hard. It’s insane for me to feel this way, but my gut clenches when I think about that cocksucker Conor’s hands on…whoever the hell she is.

Let’s call her Red Dress.

Red Death.

Whatever.

I don’t even know her name, but somehow I’m all tangled up in her lethal web.

Conor.