DARK WOLF SOUL

  MAFIA PACK #1

  HEATHER HILDENBRAND

  © 2023

  Dark Wolf Soul

  Mafia Pack, book 1

  Heather Hildenbrand

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Cover Design by Blackbird Covers

  www.heatherhildenbrand.com

  1

  LEXI

  The last party remix of the night pumps through the club’s speakers, seeping through the faded dressing room walls. After this, the music will switch to sexy slow dances until we close at two a.m. Gearing up for the night ahead of me, I look at myself in the dressing room mirror, taking in my appearance.

  My white-blonde hair is still in its messy bun, and my green eyes are tired from working long hours. Some of those hours are paid, and some aren’t. I spend way too much time at the teen shelter considering it’s not helping me keep a roof over my head, but I can’t help it. Those kids have no one, and I know what that’s like firsthand. Besides, the exhaustion is nothing new. I’ve been on my own my whole life, which means I’ve never had the luxury of rest.

  Although, the fact that every other girl working this place is making twenty times what I am is starting to wear on what I’d once thought was an iron-clad boundary.

  Every other girl in this club comes here to dance for cash plucked from the sticky, drunk fingers of anyone willing to pay to watch. Me? I managed to wedge my way into a job as a waitress at Shady Shags Dancing Palace—and nothing else. I have a feeling it’s because Shady likes the idea of me being a big tease and using that to convince customers to part with their money in exchange for the girls who are willing to take their clothes off. I’m just glad that girl isn’t me, although part of me knows, if I stay here long enough, someday it will be.

  The truth is, my lease at the pay-weekly motel in Lakeland will end before I’ll make enough to renew it. According to the notice they stuck beneath my door this morning, I have just under twenty-four hours left to catch up on back rent, and I know damn good and well I won’t make a thousand dollars between now and then. Not waitressing anyway.

  There are a number of things I could do. Lie. Steal. Cheat. Commit felonies. Or dance on the pole onstage for money. All of those things are on the other side of a line I told myself I would never cross. I’m not morally against stripping or even sex-work, but I have to claim control over something, and after growing up being tossed from home to home, autonomy over my body is the last remaining sense of power I have. Offering it up to strangers is a boundary I won’t cross.

  The problem is my boundaries won’t mean shit when I’m homeless. Again.

  I sigh, wondering for the millionth time how my life ended up like this. But it’s a story as tired as I am of telling it. I never knew my family, and being an orphan has made my life difficult. Years spent in shitty group homes. Foster siblings who thought they had a right to my body and my belongings. Adults who took one look at me or my history and decided I was nothing but trouble.

  Fuck the system; all it ever did was fail me.

  I’ve been on my own my whole life and have always worked hard to make ends meet, but some lines can’t be crossed. Mostly because you can’t come back once you do. I'm grateful for this job, but it's not exactly the life I have in mind for myself.

  Someday, I’m going to do something that matters. Something to make a difference in the lives of people who need it most.

  “Lexi.”

  The sound of my name makes me jump. Through the mirror’s reflection, I see Angel glaring at me. Her deep lines are more pronounced with the layers of makeup caked on top of her face—but don’t tell her that unless you want to get laid out flat.

  “Your shift starts in five, girl,” she warns me. “Don’t be late for the one thing you’re actually good for around here.”

  I don’t answer, which I know pisses her off, but I can’t help myself. According to my friend, Violet, Angel’s been here the longest of anyone. Ten years and still going. I have no idea how old she is, but she considers herself the mother hen of the roost, and she’s meaner than a horny rooster if you cross her.

  I don’t play her power games, but I also don’t start shit I don’t want to finish.

  Tonight, the only thing I want to finish is my shift. And maybe an extra-large burrito from Cantina. I fucking love burritos, and I don’t give a shit if they go straight to my hips.

  As I change into my uniform, a tight black mini-dress that shows off my curves, I mentally prepare myself for the night ahead. Serving drinks on the main floor is a bit unpredictable considering you never know what level of shitfaced the customers will be. But it’s the VIP room clients that make me nervous, especially on weekends.

  Today is Saturday, so I know exactly what to expect in the VIP room, and I'm not looking forward to it.

  After stepping into my matching black heels, I take a second to put on some lipstick and mascara. It’s the only makeup I bother with under the dim lighting, and even that is something I do for myself. Lipstick has always felt like a badge of courage, so I use what I’ve got at my disposal. The shade is called Death By Kisses, which seems like as good a way to go as any.

  Finally, I pull my hair out of its messy bun and fluff it around my shoulders. The waves are a bit tangled, but I don’t bother brushing them. The clients like that bedhead look, which means they’ll tip better. Hopefully.

  “Lexi, move your ass,” Angel snaps.

  “I’m going,” I mutter, grabbing my purse and stuffing it into the cubby I share with Violet, the only dancer here I actually consider a friend.

  As if I summoned her with my thoughts, Violet shows up just in time to snag my arm as I hurry out of the dressing room.

  “Whoa, Speedy,” she says with a smile.

  Violet’s always smiling—something I admire but find completely fucking batshit, considering the hard life she’s lived in her twenty-four years. I’m only twenty-one, and I’ve already lost all fucking reason to summon any cheer.

  “Hey,” I say, noting the jar of glitter she’s holding in one hand. Tonight is her trial run with a new routine where her naked body is covered in nothing but purple sparkles. Violet’s creative that way. “Love the glitter choice.”

  “Thanks. I’m so excited,” she gushes.

  I shake my head.

  “Break a leg, kid.” I lightly punch her arm.

  “Evan will break all their legs if anyone messes up the masterpiece.”

  Evan’s our security guard, and while he’s not a man of many words, he doesn’t hesitate to put his fist through a face if the situation calls for it.

  I snort. “I would pay to see that.”

  “Right? You want to do drinks after work?” she asks me. “My treat.”

  Normally, I’d say yes. Violet is a fun distraction with her sunny outlook and unending support. But I’m way too exhausted after spending the day trying to scrounge up extra cash for rent.

  “I’m already yawning,” I say. “Raincheck?”

  “You’re not sleeping enough again,” she guesses.

  “This time it’s for a good cause,” I assure her.

  “That shelter asks too much of you,” she says, which is a lecture I’m used to but also immune from.

  “They don’t have enough workers to keep up with the demand,” I tell her. “You know how it is being alone on the street. Those kids deserve support.”

  She sighs. “That support can’t always be from you.”

  I don’t answer. My mind drifts to my own housing issue looming and how I might very well be living at that shelter by the end of the week.

  “Is everything okay?”

  I blink and find her frowning as she studies my expression. Apparently, I suck at hiding my stress. It still feels strange to have someone else worry about me. It took me months to even trust that she was being real. Now that I do, I always get a lump in my throat and have to fight the urge to run away from it.

  “It’s fine,” I tell her, refusing to put my problems on her. “I just need some extra cash, that’s all.”

  The look in her eye says it all. But she won’t say it out loud. She knows better than to suggest that I take the stage. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “You can get me good and drunk tomorrow after work,” I tell her.

  “It’s a date. Now, I better run. This glitter isn’t going to spread itself,” she adds, wiggling her eyebrows at me.

  “See you later,” I call, chuckling as we go our separate ways.

  The front of the club is already packed when I emerge. On stage, a nipple-tasseled Cleopatra
grinds against the metal pole, eliciting cheers and an offer for her to be someone’s queen for the night.

  In other words, it’s a normal night at Shady Shag’s.

  For the next few hours, I do my best to shut out the noise and focus on the work of serving drinks. Evan, the bouncer, watches the main floor like a hawk so anyone trying to get extra-handsy gets immediately tossed on their ass. I pretend it’s out of some kind of concern for me, but the truth is Shady won’t let anyone have a free ride. Now, if they’ve paid to be handsy—that’s a different story.

  But that only happens in the VIP room, anyway.

  I manage to avoid serving anyone in the VIP area for almost the entire night.

  It’s not that I’m against naked lap dances or even consensual happy endings, although I still can’t understand how Shady gets away with something so, well, shady. Either way, it’s just not my jam to be the one giving those things in exchange for rent money, and I don’t want to lose this job because some entitled frat guy got me mixed up with one of the dancers then ended up sucker-punched for his efforts.

  I did that once during my first week here, and Shady said, if it ever happened again, I’d be out on my ass instead of the customer being out on his. Apparently, the only one allowed to punch someone is Evan. It’s gender bias, I tell you.

  At just after midnight, Reva, the bartender, waves me over. “Hey,” she calls.

  “What’s this for?” I ask, nodding at the Old Fashioned she’s shoving toward me.

  “Tall, dark, and Big Dick Energy ordered it,” she says.

  I scan the tables, trying to figure out who she means. “Where?”

  “VIP room,” she says, and I tense.

  “Not my area,” I say, attempting to shove the drink back at her.

  “You sure about that?” She arches a brow. “According to Violet, he asked for this drink and for you to deliver it.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re the only Lexi here.”

  Now, my guard is all the way up. Why bother asking for a waitress when they can have a dancer whose job it is to do a hell of a lot more than deliver a drink?

  I consider refusing, but the drink taunts me. The tip I’ll get on the other side of delivering it taunts me too.

  Twenty-four hours.

  A thousand dollars.

  I have to stay focused.

  “Whatever,” I mutter, mostly to myself, and take the drink.

  Weaving my way through tables, I make it to the VIP room with only two ass grabs for my trouble. Still, I’m grumpy and wary by the time I enter the VIP area.

  The light is dimmer here with red bulbs tinting the black leather sofas, each sitting area separated by thin partitions. It’s supposed to be sexy, but the smell of skin, sweat, and alcohol kind of ruins it for me. I guess if you’re drunk enough, you don’t notice.

  The first seating area is occupied by a guy who looks barely old enough to get through the front door. Nevaeh grinds against him, her bare ass backed up to his chest. His hands are in places I know he’s paying extra for, and I hurry past them before I have to make eye contact with anyone.

  The second seating area is empty. The third couch has clothing strewn over it and an empty drink on the side table but no one in sight. I glance at the secret door that leads to a back room meant for more private encounters.

  I keep walking into the fourth area. Empty. One more to go.

  Violet exits the last section, and I tense. Her face lights up when she sees me. She’s covered in nothing but bright purple glitter that I’m sure will take a heavy-handed scrub to wash off, and she’s smiling in a way that has me suddenly wishing I’d refused this delivery.

  “Someone’s asking for you,” she says as if it’s my lucky day.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “No idea. He sat alone in the front of the house for an hour then moved back here fifteen minutes ago. He ordered that,” she says, gesturing to the drink in my hand, “and you.”

  “What do you mean ordered me?”

  She winks. “Take him the drink, and find out.”

  She starts to leave, but I stop her. “Vi, what do you mean ordered?”

  She sighs. “He wants a private dance. But only from you.”

  “No way. I’m out of here.” I shove the drink at her, but she doesn’t take it.

  “He offered a thousand dollars. Cash,” she adds.

  “That’s between him and Shady—”

  “He already paid the club for the spot. The thousand is your tip.”

  I stare at her. “Seriously?”

  That’s my rent money. What the fuck.

  She studies me with a softening expression. “Look, I know you said you didn’t want to dance, but… a thousand bucks buys a lot of burritos.”

  “Burritos aren’t what I need,” I mumble.

  She softens. “I know.”

  Ugh.

  “Look, just take him the drink, and see for yourself,” she says gently. “If you don’t like the vibe, walk away. It’s your decision.”

  She’s gone before I can think of a reason to argue with that logic.

  I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. Fuck it. It’s just an Old-Fashioned.

  I turn and walk into the fourth and last VIP section.

  The last sofa is empty.

  I frown, unsure what to do, but then a looming shadow emerges from the darkened corner. Broad shoulders give way to the rest of him as he steps into the red-lit spotlight overhead. He’s tall and well-dressed in a button-down shirt and suit slacks perfectly tailored to his form. I don’t know a ton about fabric quality, but something tells me he doesn’t shop at a box department store. The shirt sleeves have been rolled up to the elbow, revealing ink I can’t quite make out in the dim lighting.

  One thing I can see is that he’s handsome as hell in a rugged, dangerous sort of way. The suit should have made him respectable-looking, but it only sends the message that this man has deep enough pockets to command whatever respect he doesn’t earn.

  His piercing blue eyes scan my body from head to toe in a lazy yet invasive inspection. Suddenly, the short dress I’m wearing doesn’t seem like nearly enough to hide my vulnerable parts.

  By the time his eyes reach mine again, I can’t help but feel stripped bare already.

  “You must be Lexi.”

  His deep voice scrapes along my skin, and I shudder at the intimate way he’s touched me without lifting a finger.

  What the hell, Lex? Get your shit together.

  “You must be the Old-Fashioned.” I hold the drink out, not bothering to step closer as I offer it.

  He reaches over to take the drink from my hand. As he does, his fingers brush mine, and like some kind of traitor to the cause, my body literally tingles from our shared touch.

  This is ridiculous.

  Turning on my heel, I start to leave.

  “You’re not staying for the dance?”

  I turn back, unable to stop the glare I give him. “I’m not a dancer.”

  “Well, I was thinking I’d be the judge of that.”

  His words are teasing, but his expression is more of a dare.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  I hesitate, eyeing the money and wondering if a roof over my head is worth it.

  “How do you know my name?”

  He takes a step forward. “The bartender mentioned it earlier.”

  The lie rolls off his tongue so easily I almost believe him.

  “Who are you?”

  He winks. “You can call me Old Fashioned.”

  Expensive suit. No name. Alarm bells go off in my mind.

  “I’m only a waitress,” I say, taking a step back.

  “Not for the next ten minutes.”

  I roll my eyes. Clearly, he thinks he’s charming.

  But sexy and charming are two different things.

  Not that I think he’s sexy.

  Or not that I care.

  “You’re willing to pay a lot for a dance from someone who’s never done it before.”

  “Is one thousand a lot?”

  Prick.

  “It’s a very specific number,” I tell him.

  “Is it the right number for you to say yes?”