Chapter Five: How to leave your morals at the door

I look up, expecting to see Alessandro Ferrara's chiseled face glaring at me, but in that moment, what I see instead is my whole life flashing before my eyes.

This is NOT my handsome devil. What stares down at me is a menacing gaze from a thick-bearded Brock Lesnar look-alike wrapped in a thick tuxedo and a hard scowl that could curdle milk. I step back, mortified.

“You're not as subtle as you think you are, miss,” he speaks gruffly, “You either take it to the pole or pick up the crumbs left of your morals and exit!”

I frown, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“I know what you're doing, and you're not the first woman to try,” the man says seriously, “Stay away from Mr Ferrara or you could get yourself into a lot of trouble, kiddo.”

With that, he disappears into the group behind me. Only then do I realize he is one of Alessandro's guards. In the same group, I watch as Alessandro walks away with his wife and entourage, completely oblivious to the encounter with me and his guard .

My heart drops. I know I have to follow him, but how?

Without thinking, I blend in with the crowd, trailing Alessandro from a distance. We end up in a more secluded dimly lit room. The group settles in and I see Alessandro join another cluster of people, who greet him with profound respect. They're exchanging something and passing it around to each other, but no matter how I squint, I can't pick out what it is. His wife stands apart, just a few steps away — as though she wants to deliberately keep her distance away from the meeting.

It makes me curious. A bit distracted. So much so that it takes me this long to come to the realization of where we are until a husky voiced lady hassles me out of nowhere and pulls me out of my concentration.

“Hey, aren't you one of the new strippers?” she hassles me, “Why aren't you on stage? Move!”

I hesitate, unsure how to respond. That's when I see the pole, and it automatically makes sense the kind of insult that guard meant to relay to me earlier. I take a deep breath, hesitantly, but make a way towards the pole. This is my second chance. If I could manage to get his attention as a stripper on that pole, then at least, I would be getting somewhere with this shit.

So, I slip onto the stage, trying to look confident. The music is pulsating and already suggestive enough, so when I start to dance, it's not hard to get a hang of it. I wrap myself around the pole, rounding it, twisting and turning and rolling my waists with the hopes that I am actually doing something worth getting anybody's attention. Talk less of a man like Alessandro Ferrara who seems impossible to please.

Alessandro Ferrara is standing a few feet away, sipping a drink as he communicates with his clan. His wife is still waiting for him and she looks bored. Needless to say, neither of them give a shit about the useless stripper on the pole whining her waist like an earthworm in salt.

I dance my heart out anyway, trying to catch Alessandro's eye — a Herculean task. As I'm dancing, another stripper with curly blonde hair and a sparkly costume saunters towards me. She's sipping a drink, eyeing me with a mixture of curiosity and amusement as she leans in conspiringly.

“Honey, I see you,” she says, her voice low and conspiratorial, “but trust me, we've all tried. Alessandro Ferrara is an impossible man to seduce.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

The stripper leans in, a sly grin spreading across her bright face. "Felicita Travajes has that man wrapped around her finger like a fucking ring.”

“Oh, the wife?”

“Fiance,” she corrects me, “Felicita is the only daughter of Lady Rosa whose father is the Duke of Huésca, but only us who have the privilege to strip for rich men like Alessandro know they're a thing. You're new but I'm sure you've been told how it is in our line of work. We see the secrets, but the rest of the world remains in the dark. And when it comes to men like Alessandro Ferrara, discretion is key. What happens in these private rooms, stays in these private rooms.”

I swallow as a swirl of mixed feelings consumes me. My competition is Royal blood. And not only until now have I come to the full understanding of how many dangerous lines I am crossing by simply being here.

“Felicita and Alessandro, hm?” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

The stripper glances around the room, making sure no one is listening before she leans in for more gossip. “From what I've heard, she's supposed to meet his family soon. It's a big deal, apparently. His family is old-school and they expect him to marry well.”

I nod, taking in this new information. It seems like I have my work cut out for me if I want to catch Alessandro's eye. But I'm not one to back down from a challenge.

Just when I am about to get back on the pole, one of the guards comes to Alessandro. I watch them as they talk in low whispers. The guard's body language is slightly tense and urgent, but Alessandro seems calm. I decipher that something is wrong.

I'm instantly able to read the room when he looks at Felicita's bag and raises a bag while his guard speaks.

They're looking for Felicita.

And only one person rings in my head: Sarissa!

The moment he stands up and walks off with his guard and I get a glimpse of that gun inside Alessandro's suit, I quickly pull out my phone and dial Sarissa's number, my heart racing with urgency. She doesn't pick up and I try again, my anxiety spiking. If Felicita is missing, my guess is that Sarissa probably has her hands on her by now and now that Alessandro's men are searching for her, that means Sarissa is definitely in grave danger.

I have to find her. Immediately, I slip out of the room, scanning the crowded hallways. But Sarissa's nowhere to be found and I am losing my mind. I dash down many stairs, race through private rooms, dialing her line and hearing it ring while looking for her.

As I round the corner upstairs and aim for the other stairway, I crash into concrete and stumble, only to realize...

Lord, I'd be damned.

The Greek god stands in front of me, and it takes the strength of my 'foremothers to stand in witness to such a sight. Up close, the tall imposing figure looks even better — with silky dark hair falling over his face, brushing smoothly over his forehead and those eyes. He towers over me with a physique that looks even larger compared to the angle I'd seen him earlier.

Alessandro Ferrara.

His eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, I am stunned by their piercing intensity. They were a color I'd never seen before — silver-crystal. With thick eyebrows that complimented. Tan skin, sharp jawline, it's a face that could stop traffic. His scrutinizing gaze remains on me with a deathly silence, his eyes narrowing observing as he takes in my disheveled appearance. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the air thick with tension. Apologetically, I keep staring at the man in front of me who I have been trying to seduce all night.

But as I open my mouth to apologize, he looks away in total, blank disinterest. “Excuse me.”

With that, he walks past me.

Leaving me standing in the hallway, overwhelmed with disappointment.

I just remain there and hear his calm, steady doorsteps trodding off behind me as a wave of embarrassment washes over me. He is impossible. Alessandro Ferrara is completely fucking impossible. And in this moment, it becomes clear to me how all night all I've been doing is making a fool of myself. And, now my sister is missing and God knows what's happened to her. I turn around to take the other route away from him, but I catch a sound that freezes me on the spot.

It's him. Alessandro. His voice, low and detached, like he's speaking to someone on the phone. My ears perk up, and I freeze, listening.

“Take care of it. Plate number LZT-421.”

His words send a shiver coursing through my veins as the words sink in slowly. Take care of it? Take care of what? I know this isn't my business, but I'm only left to wonder what 'it' is? If 'it' supposedly, maybe, just even wildly guessing could be Sarissa? Had they found her? Had they... hurt her?

I have to find that car. I have to see if Sarissa is in there.

A cold dread seeps into my bones as I hurry downstairs with the speed of a Jaguar and scour the parking lot, my eyes scanning the rows of vehicles with an aim to find anything that looks sleek enough to house a body. I run through the cars, checking their numbers one by one until I spot something.

“Fuck.” I curse as I watch it from my distance.

I have perfect vision. Always had an eagle eye since I was a kid, so I could not have been mistaken. From here, I could see the jet back shine of that giant truck glistening like charcoal under the glow of the streetlights. It doesn't look like a car a man like Alessandro Ferrara would drive. Sure, unlike most trucks, it manages to have a closed boot trunk, but this vehicle easily looks disposable — waste-worthy enough to carry tons and tons... of bodies.

And from where I stand, I can clearly make out all those numbers. LZT-421. I am sure I was looking at the right one.

My heart thuds in my chest like a drum as I creep towards the truck, my eyes fixed on the trunk. I feel so watched, so eerily followed but I carry on for the sake of my sister and reach for the lid with trembling hands, hoping I would easily be able to open it. Another part of me can't stop feeling agitated and scared to see what could have been inside this thing. What if it is Sarissa? What if...

I take a deep breath and lift the lid, my heart sinking like a stone in a well.

A body bag.

It's a fucking body bag.

The heavy bag lays inside, its black plastic gleaming in the dim light. I feel a wave of nausea wash over me as I reach for the zipper with hands that shake uncontrollably.

“Sarissa?” I try to call, hoping that if she's the one, she'd speak up before I have the chance to open that bag and see her dead, cold eyes.

I am not sure I can grieve for my sister a second time.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps.

The sound of them approaching and echoing through the deserted parking lot makes me freeze, turning my whole world upside down. Panic sets in, and I let fear drive my intrusive thoughts into being the only solution.

I dive into the trunk.

With a speed that shocks even me, I launch myself in with this stench of death, covering myself with the body bag and staying still as the footsteps get closer, the gruff voices of men that accompany the steps getting louder and resounding round the lot as they inch closer. Before I know it, the lid of the trunk I am in slams shut, and I am plunged into darkness.

“Alessandro says we're to burn them,” I hear one of the men say, “We're taking the truck to the Xolo Mansion.”