Owned By The Irish Mafia Boss

Elle

He's here again.

My heart slams violently against my ribs as I pull my gaze from the tiny gap between the curtains. I'm not supposed to be backstage, but for some reason, my brain was insistent on finding out if he was here, and sure enough, he is.

That makes it one month now.

One month and he still hasn't missed any of my performances.

At this point, it's safe to assume that he’s most likely definitely stalking me.

And honestly, I don’t know if I should be impressed or worried that someone was that interested in me to come to every one of my shows.

Worried. Definitely worried.

I call my stalker Mystery Man.

As unoriginal as it sounds, that was the best name I could come up with.

He was mysterious, hence the word mystery in my little nickname. The first time I saw him, I nearly tripped over my feet mid-performance—something that never happened. I later got scolded by Roxy for being distracted but even then, I couldn't get the way he looked at me out of my mind.

His eyes had locked on mine through the strobe lights, dark and unreadable.

It felt intense, like he was trying to peel back every layer of skin until he got to my very core and that made me nervous, in a thrilled yet subtly worried kind of way.

He wasn't like the other men who came in here.

He didn't try to pull me into his lap when I danced, didn't try to cop a feel when he slipped bills into my garter. Which, unfortunately, has only ever happened once.

He was… respectful. An odd thing to even consider if you take into account the fact that he might be just as dangerous as the rest of the men who came here.

Maybe even more.

There were whispers among the girls who worked here that some of the men who littered the Golden Moon were affiliated with the Mafia.

But those were just pointless, baseless rumours with no evidence.

The music starts to slow, and I realise the performance on stage is about to end.

Shit.

As stealthily as I sneaked in I also sneaked out.

The dressing rooms at the club were restricted to three dancers each and I just so happened to share mine with two of my best friends, Zoey and Cleo.

Tonight was both their nights off; therefore, I had the entire place to myself.

I make my way to the dressing table Zoey and I shared and once I sit down, the door swings open. A surprised yelp escapes my lips, but I quickly cover my mouth once I see who's on the other side of the door.

Freaking Roxy.

“Seems like you're back.”

Fuck.

“Uhhuh”

I say, flicking my eyes around the room to avoid her gaze.

“Where did you go?”

“The bathroom” I immediately answered without thinking.

“Why couldn't you just use the one in here?”

Think, Elle, Think.

“There's something wrong with the uh… plumbing?”

Terrible excuse, I know but it's the only one my feeble brain can come up with. Luckily, she doesn't press further, which I'm grateful for.

“Whatever you say. You're on after this next set so I expect to see you backstage soon, alright?”

I nod again offering her my best attempt at a smile. She gives me one final once-over, and exits the dressing room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her.

Why does she never close the door?

Swallowing my irritation, I pushed myself back to my feet and moved towards the door, closing it properly. Returning to my dressing table, I let out a sigh, sinking back into my stool.

Thankfully she hadn't caught me this time. Turning to my reflection in the mirror, my gaze wanders from the thick black strands that fall past my shoulder to the tanned skin that hides behind the baby pink lingerie piece I'd picked for tonight's performance.

Most twenty-three-year-olds don't typically spend their Friday nights working at a strip club, but then again, I wasn't like most twenty-three-year-olds.

I was Elle.

A girl who was going to shake her ass on a stage for a bunch of perverted men so that she could afford to sleep tonight in a house that did not belong to her.

Tragic huh.

But as much as I wish I could, I couldn't escape it.

I was trapped in this life, unfortunately.

Another knock on the door pulls me out of my thoughts.

That was the warning knock which means that I had about five minutes to get out there before Roxy had a reason to dock my pay.

She'd never, but still I couldn't take any chances. Not when I'm this close.

I applied one final layer of lip gloss and tied the strings of my heels around my ankle. My shoes were two sizes too small, but they made my legs look good and my ass stand out, which was really all that mattered in this line of work.

Sitting up straighter, I close my eyes and inhale sharply as I will myself to step back and let Dahlia take the lead.

A persona was a necessary shield in this profession. It protected clients from getting too comfortable with the idea of me as a person. And more importantly, it protected me from drowning in the mess that is my reality. At least for a couple of minutes.

Dahlia was my shield.

She was bold where I was hesitant, seductive where I was shy. She didn’t flinch at the leering gazes or the rough hands that attempted to grope her when she was on stage. She was confident. Bold and fearless.

All the things I wasn't.

The music outside starts to slow and I take that as my cue to haul ass backstage.

Showtime.

The music switches the moment I step out. All around me, the lights dim, and a low, sultry beat thumps through the speakers like a pulse. It crawls under my skin, matching the rhythm I’d trained my body to obey.

Gripping the pole at the centre with one hand, I feel my body come alive as I begin to sway my hips to the beat. My body moves with practised ease and confidence, and I don't recognise as I surrender myself to my descent into power. The stage was Dahlia's kingdom and she is about to fucking rule.

The crowd hoots and hollers and I twist and push, commanding the room with nothing but my presence. Rising to my feet, my gaze roams through the crowd, desperately trying to find the familiar pair of eyes I hadn’t been able to forget since my last performance and when I do my heart stills.

Mystery Man is perfectly positioned beneath the stage lights. The slight elevation gives me the clearest view yet—and God, he's beautiful. Handsome in a way that made me worry he isn't real.

He also had pretty eyes.

I couldn't make out their colour but the way they were glued to the stage, watching me like he wanted to peel back every layer of skin until he got to my very core, set me off in ways unimaginable. For the first time since I started performing, I feel Dahlia start to slip away on stage, and suddenly it's just the two of us.

Our gaze locks and I notice a muscle in his jaw tick by.

A whistle from one of the audience members breaks me from the spell and I'm left grappling with the bits of Dahlia that remain.

Focus Elle.

I have no idea what I'm doing, or even why I'm doing it.

All I know is that in that brief second it takes for our eyes to disconnect, Mystery Man shifts and moves toward the exit.

He was leaving.

I barely have time to figure out why when the music starts to slow again, signalling that my time on stage is about to end.

Rising on my feet, I make my way back to the pole, gripping it as I spin the final part of my routine.

Applause erupts as the lights start to dim, and I make it backstage, where I'm immediately engulfed by a flock of red hair, once I've made it past the curtains.

“That was amazing,” Roxy says, eyes beaming.

A compliment was a rare thing from Roxy and a smile like the one she was giving me now was even rarer. Unfortunately, I'm barely in the right headspace to enjoy it as my thoughts remain tangled up on a certain mystery man.

He looked serious when he left, but then again, he always looked serious.

He usually stayed until the end of my performances.

But tonight…

“Are you listening to me?”

I blink.

“No.”

Roxy lets out a low, frustrated breath, muttering something incoherent under her breath.

“Christ, Dahlia, one would think with the number of times you've zoned out today, that you're suffering from some type of brain aneurysm.”

My brows knit together.

“An aneurysm?”

She snaps her fingers, “You know, like a brain fog.”

I stare at her blankly.

“Never mind. Look, one of our regulars really enjoyed your performance and wants you to do a private dance for him.”

Of course he did.

"You know I don't do private dances.”

Even though private dances were supposed to make the biggest tips, the thought of being trapped in a room with a man from this club or any man for that matter for over an hour makes my stomach churn.

“I knew you'd say that so I told him.”

I let out a breath, “Thank you,”

"He offered to pay triple the usual amount.”

My eyes almost bulged out of their socket

He did what?

“Why?”

She shrugs, “Beats me. All I know is that he was pretty insistent that it was you who danced for him.”

“I can't do a private dance for him.”

Roxy lifted a brow, "Those are big words for someone in steep debt”

Ah, yes, trust Roxy to remind me of my less-than-ideal financial condition.

But maybe she had a point. If I agreed to do the dance, my cut would be phenomenal. It would cover rent for another month or two and finally give me enough to stock up on sleeping pills before my uncle returned.

“Look, no one's going to force you to do anything. But someone's going to have to fill in for you and since…

“No,” I cut her off before she can finish, then clear my throat when I realise just how desperate I sound. “It's fine, I'll do it. What room is he in?”

“Room three of the VIP wing”

The VIP wing? Just how loaded was this guy?

Stretching out my hand, Roxy hesitates before finally letting the key card drop into my palm.

“I'll have Larry on standby. If he tries anything, and I mean anything you don't like, you push the button on the left wall and he'll come running, okay?” She says, her tone suddenly serious. Roxy and Zoey are the only people who know about my situation which is why hearing her change in tone feels strangely comforting.

Squeezing the card in my hand once, I lift my chin and nod.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks”

I'll need it.