Angelo Giovanni had several obsessions, one of which was a petite, dark-haired nymph of a woman named Ariel LaRusso. A Ballerina with a talent for acrobatics. He couldn't get enough of her; she was the most addictive drug his tongue had ever tasted...
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She was aware of me watching her. And she was doing a damn good job pretending to be clueless about it. In a black dress, looking the part of a high end waitress with her feet clad in high heels, she stood behind the half circular bar serving drinks to the guests.
Meetings at Minx were unusual unless Roman was feeling sociable. And this agreement between the Russian and us demanded socialising. And Ariel serving these sleazy Russian scums with the sweetest smile on her lips, made everything so fucking hard.
To say I tolerated them would be an understatement. After the shoot out they pulled merely weeks earlier on Roman and I, it would be normal for me to slaughter a lot of them. But since we were still clueless about the public attack, we were choosing to focus on keeping them as allies rather than enemies.
But the temptation to put this young buck's head through the glass top of the bar made my fingers itch. There was a smile plastered on his face which in return made Bubbles smile as she poured him a drink that he ordered and then exchanged small talk with endless curiosity.
"When do you get off tonight, púpsik?" The man muttered, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him reaching a slimy hand, caressing the soft exposed skin of her arm. More to my displeasure, Bubbles didn't recoil. Instead she seemed to have been entertaining the idea altogether.
She gave the guy a time. The man says she'll see her then. He leaves while she offers him a smile. I turn to face her with a raised eyebrow. I wondered how much of it was for me to hear and have a reaction and how much of it was actually real.
It was nothing abnormal when it came to Bubbles. She loved attention. Even more, she loved sex. It didn't bother me, when I would be the one giving her the satisfaction of her timely obsession. Now that she is looking for the same high, the same relief from other men, it stirred the beast inside my chest.
Despite meeting my eyes and being aware of the message that my expression delivered she made no acknowledgement of the energy and tension that surrounded us. She carried on with her job of putting away the liquor bottle that she needed to make that bastard's drink while I sat on the further end of the bar, partially hidden by the shadows nursing my fourth tumbler of whiskey.
"You need to get home." My own voice surprised me. Hoarse and low. Perhaps from the whiskey. After the injury I was kept off of alcohol for almost three weeks. "Now."
From the slight change in her relaxed posture I could tell that she heard me loud and clear. But there was no indication that she was going to act on the instruction. What a brat.
"Ariel-"
"I have two more hours of my shift." Even though her voice was filled with exasperation, it was the only sentence she spoke in response to my advances since that night. In one year and some months, those were the only words uttered by this woman directed to me. Even so, she was not willing to look at me when she snapped at me.
