Satin Empire: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance, page 1
Satin Empire
An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance
B. B. Hamel
Contents
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1. Alana
2. Alana
3. Carlo
4. Carlo
5. Alana
6. Alana
7. Carlo
8. Alana
9. Alana
10. Alana
11. Carlo
12. Alana
13. Alana
14. Carlo
15. Carlo
16. Alana
17. Alana
18. Carlo
19. Alana
20. Alana
21. Carlo
22. Alana
23. Alana
24. Carlo
25. Alana
26. Alana
27. Carlo
28. Alana
29. Carlo
30. Alana
31. Carlo
32. Alana
33. Carlo
34. Carlo
35. Carlo
36. Alana
37. Carlo
38. Carlo
39. Alana
40. Carlo
41. Alana
Epilogue: Stefania
Preview: Twisted Wedding
Also by B. B. Hamel
Copyright © 2024 by B. B. Hamel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Chapter 1
Alana
I sneak into the strip club armed with an oversized hoodie and a black and white grainy picture my cousin texted me a couple of days ago.
This is not my first titty bar. I didn’t exactly grow up around these places, but when Gran died and Mom found herself shouldering the burden of a ten-year-old girl with no help, no real maternal instinct to speak of, a house that needed constant repairs, and a lifestyle that involved a serious amount of designer clothing, she turned to dancing to help pay the extra bills.
Which meant that when most kids were playing sports after school or watching cartoons, I was sitting in the back of a strip club that smelled like sweat and body glitter doing math homework and listening to the other dancers tell stories about their clients. Most of those stories involved things I didn’t understand and definitely weren’t appropriate for little old ten-year-old Alana.
Now though, I love a good small-dick joke as much as anyone else.
The bouncer checks my ID and waves me through. It’s not common for girls to come alone to places like this, but not totally unheard of. I keep my hood down and I have a baseball hat pulled low over my eyes. The club is crowded for a Thursday night at ten, and I pause near a table to watch a very attractive blonde girl do some shockingly acrobatic moves that leave her twisted into positions that would probably end with me in the ER if I tried them.
My heart’s racing, and I’m nervous as hell as I grab a seat in the back and sit down in the booth. I grab my phone and text Noah, my hands shaking slightly.
Alana: This is so weird. I feel like people are staring at me.
Noah: Nobody’s staring. Just take deep breaths. You have that picture, right?
Alana: Yeah, but it’s really crappy. I mean, seriously, how am I supposed to recognize him with this thing?
I pull up the photo in my images app. It shows a man in three-quarter profile, handsome, with a square jaw, dark hair, and an expensive suit. He’s walking toward a Lexus parked along the curb. I can’t tell much more about him though—the shot’s grainy, not in color, and the guy’s wearing freaking sunglasses.
Noah: It’s the best I could do, okay? It’s not like there are tons of high-res images of mafia princes sitting around on the internet. They’re pretty careful.
Alana: I know, I’m just getting nervous. What if he doesn’t show up?
Noah: He will, I promise. Just be patient.
But my cousin must not know me very well, because patience is not one of my many wonderful traits.
Decent at singing? Sure, I sound amazing in the car when the volume’s turned up loud. Hilarious and charming? I’ve been told I’m the life of the party. Mostly by my mother when I was a little girl, but I’m holding onto that. Knowledgeable and kind? Now I’m just making stuff up but, whatever, I’m the best.
I have an encyclopedic knowledge of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I’ve listened to every One Direction album like fifty thousand times and feel no shame about it, and I don’t take shit from anyone, ever. I had to learn that last one the hard way. Because if I take shit in my family, I let everyone walk all over me—it’s a very give an inch, take a mile sort of mindset in the Milano Famiglia.
But most of all, I hate feeling like I don’t know what’s happening.
Another wonderful trait: control freak.
Mom calls me fussy. Noah says I’m like an old lady trapped in a young girl’s body.
I think I had to grow up real fast after my mother got married when I was twelve and thrust me into an entirely new world I never could’ve imagined.
Ten minutes pass. I watch another dancer take the stage, this girl brunette and curvy. She’s got amazing moves too—seriously, do they hire former acrobats or something?—and I keep scanning, the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man in the photos.
Except I don’t see him. There are a few guys that could be him, but none that totally match. The men in here are a mix of old and young, affluent and poor, and they tend to hang around in packs. None of them are my man.
Another girl takes the stage, then another. Every new guy that walks into the club sets my heart fluttering, but none of them are him. The waitress approaches a few times but I don’t order anything. I need to keep my wits about me.
Because I finally get impatient and decide to do something stupid.
Alana: I’m going into the back.
Noah: Hold up. Wait a second. That’s not part of the plan.
Alana: Forget the plan.
Noah: Never forget the plan!!! That’s the whole point of the plan!!!
Alana: If I don’t text you in an hour, assume I’m dead. RIP.
Noah: Don’t be stupid!!!!!!!
And yet, despite my cousin’s very good advice, I sneak off toward the bathrooms and look around for a boring, unmarked door, the kind that would lead into the back section of the club where the dancers hang out. It doesn’t take long, and after a few deep breaths to calm my racing heart, I yank open the door.
Only to find the biggest man in the entire world standing in the hall, frowning down at his phone.
He doesn’t register me at first. I’m caught between backing out and pretending like this was all just some silly mistake and striding past him like I belong. Confidence is an amazing thing; it’s almost like a superpower. Pretend like you belong, and hey, you belong. Except Big Guy looks over, narrows his eyes, and squares up.
“You the new girl?” he rumbles.
Holy shit. Did I mention he’s big? The guy’s built like a refrigerator with the kind of hands that could crack my skull in half. His head’s shaved to stubble and he’s wearing a cheap suit that looks like it’s stretched across enough mass to drown an entire cruise liner. Big Guy crosses his arms, and I swear the seams on his coat scream help meeee as they flex.
“Uhm,” I say and another one of my wonderful traits rears its ugly head: impulsiveness. “Yeah, that’s me. Carlo told me to meet him here.”
Big Guy snorts. “Carlo didn’t fucking tell you that. Come on, you can get dressed back here. You brought shit to wear, right?”
“No,” I say very slowly. “I was hoping I could talk to Carlo first. He’s here, right?”
“Not yet. Boss comes later.” Big Guy glares at me. “You plan on dancing in that fucking sweatshirt? You gotta have something better underneath.”
“I can dance in a freaking plastic bag and the guys out there will be throwing fifties at me,” I snap at him, annoyed at the way he’s looking at me.
Which makes him laugh a deep rumble. “Alright, girl, I like that. You go ahead and get the guys hard in your fucking sweatshirt. Not like I give a shit. It’s Thursday night.”
He leads me to the changing room. It’s surprisingly nice. There’s a row of vanities, each of them cluttered with makeup, curling irons, straighteners, and blow dryers. Lockers line the other wall along with cubbies, benches, and racks of extra clothes. A few girls are lounging around and chatting about the night, and I’m instantly ten years old again, a little girl around a bunch of real women.
“You’re on next,” Big Guy grunts at me.
“Hey, Helmuth, you got a cigarette?” one of the girls calls out.
Big Guy, apparently called Helmuth which is hilariously apt, flips her off. “You’re a damn mooch, Lydia. I don’t got shit for you.”
The girls cackle at him and one throws a shoe. He grunts and bats it away, shaking his head and muttering about his hard life as he walks out.
“So you’re the new girl, huh?” A redhead walks over and sits down heavily on the bench next to me. She’s older, in her thirties, but still fit as hell. I’m pretty sure I could swipe a credit card through the lines between her abs. “You’re late.”
“Sorry,” I say, looking around. “Uh, I was told I could talk to Carlo before going on?”
“You wanna talk to Carlo, huh?” The redhead laughs but she doesn’t seem mean about it. “Honestly, he’s not here yet, but I bet he’ll be out there when you go on. Helmuth is such a fucking prick, but you’ll figure out how to work him, you know what I mean? You’d better get ready since you’re up soon.”
“Oh, I mean, I can’t actually dance, I mean, not until—” I’m stammering, suddenly aware that I’m in way over my head, because these girls are serious about what they do, and that guy Helmuth doesn’t seem like the type to find my little prank funny. Which means if I get caught trying to play them, I’m going to end up with my ears cut off and my tongue nailed to my feet or something like that.
The redhead stretches her absolutely fantastic legs. “Don’t get cold feet. You’ll piss off Helmuth, and you really don’t want to piss off Helmuth. That dickhead broke a girl’s wrist last week and all she did was call him a prick. I bet he’ll give you a concussion if you screw up his precious little schedule. God, he is so obsessed with that stupid schedule.”
I stare at her, mouth hanging open. Helmuth could pop my eyes out of my head with his thumb and forefinger, and I really don’t want to make him mad, because now I’m picturing even more nightmarish punishments.
Except I’m not a stripper—I can barely dance—and I’m dressed like I’m about to watch Netflix minus the chill part. I might’ve talked some shit to Big Scary Helmuth, but I was just running my mouth. I can’t actually go out there.
Can I?
The redhead—she introduces herself as Gina—sits me down and starts on my makeup. She’s quick about it and does a really good job while the other girls chatter the whole time. They’re complaining about boyfriends and bills and bad tips, and the girl Lydia, the blonde from earlier, keeps whining about needing a cigarette.
“New girl!” Helmuth shouts into the changing room. “You’re up. What song you want?”
“She’ll dance to ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me,’” Gina answers for me and winks when I gape at her. “It’s a classic.”
“Whatever. I don’t give a fuck.” The door slams again.
“Don’t be nervous, you’ll get the guys all horny and shit. You’re so pretty too, all you have to do is go out there, shake your hips a little, show your tits, and they’ll throw the tips out, don’t you worry. God, I’d kill to be your age again.”
The idea that I might get anyone “all horny and shit” makes my mouth go completely dry.
“Gina, I’m not kidding, I’m really not here to dance. I just snuck into the back because I wanted to find Carlo—”
“Uh-huh, sure, and Helmuth just let you past, right?” Gina grins, shaking her head. “Imagine how much trouble he’ll get in for that. And how much trouble you’ll get in when he realizes you fucked him over and got his pay docked for the night or whatever Carlo does to him. Oh my god, forget a broken wrist. You’d be lucky to ever walk again.”
I want to scream. Now I’m picturing Helmuth sitting on my skull, completely naked, as he crushes me to smithereens.
This is out of control. I can just get up and walk out of here, and if Helmuth tries to grab me, I’ll tell him who I am. That’ll make him think twice about breaking bones or cutting off limbs or whatever that big monster likes to do when he’s pissed off. I’ll drop my name and boom, this is all over.
Except if I do that, my stepfather will know that I was here.
And if my stepfather finds out, I really will be dead.
This is a nightmare. An absolute, legitimate nightmare. I don’t want to dance in front of a bunch of horny men, much less take off my clothes for them, but I don’t see another way out. Through one door is Helmuth’s wrath and my stepfather’s withering hatred, and through another is body glitter, bright lights, and Def Leppard.
“There’s gotta be a way I can get out of this,” I say to Gina, grabbing her arm, practically pleading as she walks me to the door that leads up to the stage. I’m desperate and freaking out, and I’m still wearing my sweatshirt, it’s not like they gave me something cute to wear out on stage. Nobody gives a crap, they all think this is fine, but it’s totally not fine.
“You’ll be okay, I promise. Come on, seriously, you’re acting like you’ve never done this before. I think you’ve got a nice body under that sweatshirt, so just go out there, shake your ass, show your tits, and gather up the money they throw. That’s all you gotta do. It’s not even a long song.”
“But wait. Please. I’m really not the new girl. I just want to talk to Carlo.”
The door opens and a young guy’s sitting on a stool. At the end of a short walkway is a thick, red curtain, glowing with lights, and beyond that is the stage.
“Hey, Jimmy, is Carlo out there yet?”
The young kid grunts. “I think I saw him a second ago. Why?”
“Well, here’s your chance to meet the big boss then,” Gina says in my ear as the opening notes of “Pour Some Sugar On Me” blare through the speakers. “Go impress him or whatever it is you’re trying to do. Who knows, if you’re lucky, he’ll take you home and fuck you tonight.”
“No, oh my god, no that’s not—”
Too late. Gina slaps my ass and shoves me forward, and I’m stumbling toward the curtain.
Chapter 2
Alana
Jimmy the kid gives me a weird look, frowning at my clothes, and out beyond the curtain, the crowd’s getting restless as the lyrics start. They’re shouting, begging for the dancer. I guess the DJ introduced me as Candy Delicious, which is super apt given the song selection. I wonder if the girl I’m pretending to be chose that name—it’s pretty awful. If I were a real stripper, I’d be something with more class, like Lacy Coin or Fanny Cheeks. Okay, I didn’t really think about this, and I’m trying to come up with a better stage name when I push through the curtain and step out into the blinding lights.
The crowd shuts up. Probably because some random girl in jean shorts and an oversized sweatshirt is squinting at them like she’s about to keel over, which is how I feel. Seriously, my heart’s racing so hard, my head feels dizzy, and my stomach’s a twisted, ugly mess.
That’s when some guy shouts, “Come on, Candy, shake your fucking ass!” And that gives license to the rest of the men to start heckling me.
Panic flares. Followed by anger. Righteous fucking anger.
How dare they act like I’m not hot as sin? I’m not a conceited person, despite evidence to the contrary, but I know I’m at least decent looking. These guys are shouting like I’m the ugliest troll creature they’ve ever seen and goading me on, which is actually kind of working in some perverse way.
It pisses me off. And you know what?
All my life I’ve been told to be good. First by Gran, then by Mom, and then by my stepfather. It’s always been, Alana, do as you’re told, and especially, Alana, if you keep running your mouth, I’m going to cut out your tongue, my stepdad’s favorite threat. And for once, I want to do something wild, something a little stupid, and why the hell not do it right here and now? Carlo’s in this room, and Gina’s right, maybe this is the best way I can get his attention. I didn’t envision meeting him this way, except now I’m here and I can’t go back, and I can’t go forward, so I might as well get through it.
