Devil’s Thirst: A Mafia Stalker Romance (The Moretti Men Book 1)

They watch me, completely entranced.

I feel their stares following me, unblinking with breathless anticipation of my every move. Devouring the subtle twists and turns of my body. They drink up the emotions pouring out of me as though I’m the fountain of youth, providing life everlasting.

The music ensnares me, but no matter how thoroughly I lose myself in the melody, a part of me is always aware of my audience. I have their full attention—hundreds of strangers all captivated by the story I’m telling with my body. Feeling exactly what I feel.

During that moment when I’m on stage, a connection forms between my audience and me. An intimate exchange. They listen with their hearts, and I speak through movement.

I feel alive when I’m performing.

I feel seen.

I love it so much that I prefer to practice on stage, even when no one’s watching. Most of my fellow cast members use the practice hall for independent practice time. I use it as well, but twice a week, I take the opportunity to stay after rehearsals to practice in the theater after everyone else has gone home. Alone on the stage.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Dancing under the lights isn’t the same without an audience, but it’s enjoyable in its own way. I wouldn’t be where I am in my career if I didn’t love dancing, regardless of who’s watching. There’s a peacefulness in dancing by myself. A solitude that I know all too well, which is how I can tell the second that bubble bursts and I’m no longer alone.

I feel it now. Someone else is in the theater.

They’re watching me from the shadows.

The same thing has happened in the past two weeks at each of my private practices. The watcher hasn’t shown themself or communicated in any way. They don’t want to be seen, but I know they’re there.

My love of dancing for an audience contorts to fear when that audience consists of a single unapologetic stare. Most people might assume it’s a member of the janitorial crew who simply wants to enjoy a free show and skip out on a few minutes of work. I wish I could believe that. I’ve desperately tried to convince myself it’s a harmless stranger, but with a past entangled in a grotesque secret society, I know better than to dismiss any unusual occurrences.

Not that knowing changes anything. If they want me, I could do little to stop them.

I don’t want to believe they’d come after me after all these years, but I can’t ignore the likelihood. I know how wretched people can be. After all, my parents were the ones who dragged me into the whole nightmare. They tried to sell my virginity to their secret society when I was only seventeen.

That sort of thing changes a person.

If you can’t trust your parents, who can you trust? And then there was the random kidnapping incident that left me with amnesia for months. At this point, I’m suspicious of everyone, for good reason.

Ironically, my paranoia is also why I haven’t reported the intruder to building security or called the cops. Bringing attention to myself could be just as dangerous as whoever is skulking in the shadows. I haven’t said a word to anyone, though the frustration of remaining silent burns under my skin like an exposed wire. The fact that I should feel obligated to keep quiet out of fear for my safety when I’ve done nothing wrong is a stinging insult I’m sick of enduring.

I continue to move as though unaware of the onlooker while indignation and frustration consume my thoughts until I can’t dance a second longer. I come to a sudden stop and face the darkened rows of red velvet theater seats, my eyes scanning deep in the shadows for signs of movement.

“If you’re going to watch me, I’d prefer if you didn’t hide,” I call out with a confidence I didn’t know I had.

My heart nearly implodes in my chest when the darkness moves.

Slowly, a figure glides into the light from beneath the dense shadows of the mezzanine. I can tell it’s a man from his broad frame, though he’s wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt to conceal himself and has stopped shy of allowing the light to touch his hooded face.

My arms cross over my chest reflexively.

The sliver of optimism I’ve kept alive over the years had more impact than I realized because despite knowing this moment was a real possibility, I’m still shocked that it’s happening. I somehow managed to cling to the hope that the watcher was harmless—a curious onlooker and nothing more. I should have known better.

The energy emanating from the man is pure menace.

His unspoken threat is louder than the music could ever be when he brings a cigarette to his lips and lights it with a click. The cherry at the end blazes bright as he inhales, though not enough to unveil his face. It only sheds light on his cool indifference to the cloud of smoke billowing into the air.

Everything about him should instill fear and does to a degree, but even more so, I find myself brimming with outrage and injustice. How dare The Society send this man to invade my space and taunt me? I’ve done nothing to draw attention to myself. I’ve toed the line and minded my own business for years.

“You’re not allowed to smoke inside the theater,” I blurt defiantly.

I’ve lost my goddamn mind. I must have.

Why else would I risk engaging with someone who’s clearly dangerous? I should run backstage and lock myself in the dressing room. I should do just about anything except stand here and confront this man. But that’s exactly what I do, feet rooted to the stage.

Seconds tick by in silence before he raises the cigarette to his lips again, the cherry flaring back to life.

Defiance. He’s defying me.

Two can play that game. He wants to watch me dance? Then no smoking.

I straighten my spine and glare. And glare. I make it perfectly clear that I’m not moving a muscle until that damn thing is out. I dig my heels in so deep that I don’t recognize myself.

Who the hell cares if this man smokes in the theater? It’s not my damn theater. The only thing that should matter is my safety, but I’m sick of the fear and worry. Maybe the stage is to blame. It’s the one place where I feel any sort of power in my world. Up here, no one can touch me. Theoretically. Reality is a different story, but my brain seems to have forgotten that fact.

He stands casually motionless for what feels like an eternity, then takes one more long puff before letting the butt drop to the floor. His body shifts as his boot snuffs out the embers.

An intoxicating thrill spikes my bloodstream.

It’s almost as good as that first step onto the stage when the curtain goes up. I didn’t think anything could compare to that feeling. I’m so stunned that my mind goes blank.

Left in a fog of uncertainty, I shift into autopilot and do what I do best. I dance.

I allow the music to sweep me away like a leaf in the wind. I give myself over to the melody, and when the song is over, I’m alone again. The shadows are empty.

Instead of being relieved, I feel deflated. Surely, it’s a letdown from the adrenaline. That has to be it. No good could have come from him staying.

It’s the truth. I know it. Yet there’s an emptiness in my chest as absolute as the silence inside the cavernous theater.

The thought is depressing enough that my remaining energy drains from my body, leaving me weary and strangely hollow.

It’s time to go home.

I realize I’ve stayed longer than normal when I find one of the cleaning crew in our dressing room. I’m usually gone before they arrive. I smile at the older woman who is vacuuming, and she returns the gesture.

“Excuse me,” I prompt, pleased when she removes her earbuds and turns off the vacuum. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering about a man I saw earlier—if he was part of your cleaning crew.” It would be the Olympic record for long shots, but I have to ask.

“No, not with us.” Her dark brows knit with concentration. “We haven’t had a man working nights with us for the past six months. Did he say he was a cleaner?” She props a hand on her hip.

“Oh, no. He didn’t. I just thought I’d check. It’s no big deal,” I quickly assure her.

“If you think he’s a problem, we could call security.”

“He’s gone now, and I really don’t think it’s a problem. But if I see him again, I’ll call.”

Placated, she nods. “I better get back to it, and you should get home. It’s late. Your family will be worried.”

I offer her a forced smile because I know she’s being kind, but the truth is, no one will worry because no one is home waiting for me. And even when I did live with family, they didn’t care.

Jeez, Mel. Pity party much?

My parents were duds, and sometimes that gets to me. I wasn’t totally unloved growing up, but the problem is, nothing quite fills the void created by a parent’s rejection. According to the therapist my sister made me see, the problem was on their end, not mine. It wasn’t my job to earn their love. I get her point, but at the same time, I know I’m different from the people around me. I feel it down to my bones. It’s enough to make me wonder whether I’m different because of my parents’ treatment or if my parents couldn’t love me because I’m different.

All I’ve ever wanted is to be normal. But if tonight has proven anything, it’s that normal is simply out of my reach. That ship set sail, sank, and is supporting a small marine ecosystem by now.

After collecting my things, I give the woman one last smile, then make my way out front to hail a cab. I usually walk home from the theater, and my now mellow mood craves the cool evening air, but I’m not about to risk another encounter with the man in the shadows. I may be a mottled mess from my traumatic past, but I’m not reckless, and walking home tonight would be downright idiotic.

Better to be smart than normal.

My sulking inner voice has a point. My life experiences have shaped me into something unique, and I typically try to embrace that as a good thing. But sometimes normal is too bright and shiny to ignore.

The best thing I can do in response is shine even brighter until normal looks dull and dingy.

I look out the cab window at the brilliant lights splashing color across Manhattan and smile. Nothing about this city is normal, and that’s what makes it epic. Maybe one day the fears will no longer haunt me, and I’ll be epic, too.