Deviant Prince [Romano Brotherhood, #2]

29 | Vivienne

For better or for worse—and I'm leaning towards better—work hardly affords me a second to think about Massimo or any of my other problems for the next several hours.

Between my regulars being all too excited to see me after my impromptu vacation, and a particularly rowdy group of young men getting belligerent at the end of my bar, I hardly have time to draw a breath.

Tori works across the room but never once looks in my direction. I keep bracing myself for the hurt to kick in, but it never does. Her message about which side she's picking is clear, but not surprising. I guess the two of us have always mostly been friends because of Shiv.

She leaves a couple hours before my shift ends on the arm of a relatively well-known local restaurant owner. Known for his weirdly good looks despite his middle age, and for getting violent with the women he hooks up with. I shake my head, watching her go.

I half expect Shiv to show up and demand to speak to me, since I've been dodging her calls and she knows my schedule. When I have time, I take a five-minute break, mindlessly scrolling through my socials. Someone's posted a video of her at Vixen, the only nightclub Rhinebeck has to boast, drunk and smiling beneath the neon lights.

Returning to work with what feels like a dark raincloud over my head, I'm met with hoarse cheers and shouts from the fuckers at the end of the bar. They've started cat-calling me openly as their inebriation inches closer to blackout territory.

"Hey! Um... bar girl! Fuckin' gimme another one," their ringleader slurs. He's been the most vocal of the group, and the most drunk. His paper-thin dress shirt is unbuttoned and stained with sweat. With each whistle and leer from him, tension has gradually crept into my shoulders, warring with the expectation for me to remain professional.

I deal with my fair share of rowdy patrons, but Pulse isn't a place people come to get trashed. We're more upscale than a pub or nightclub, which is exactly where these guys should be instead. The idiot tries to grab his glass but it topples over the edge of the bar. He and his friends dissolve into raucous laughter, drawing a few irritated looks.

I do a quick scan of the room but can't find my manager—or any of the security who are supposed to be helping us in these situations—and there's no way I can step away long enough to track someone down. Seems like I'm on my own.

"Alright, you've had enough. All of you."

Cue the chorus of groans. My guess is these guys are trust fund babies on a break from school. My money's on law or med school. They have a clean-cut look despite their sloppiness.

"C'mon babe," their ringleader appeals, leaning forward in an attempt to look sincere. He squints at the name tag pinned to my chest. "Vi... Vivienne. We're good. Everyone's good. We're just trying to have a good time. Right?" He spreads his arms, looking around, and his friends do their best to look earnest. Most of them end up zoning out on my tits.

"My bar, my rules." I grab their glasses and begin to wipe down the mess they've made. "You guys need to leave, or security is going to kick you out on your asses."

I hope.

The ringleader's eyes flash before he smiles again. "You're fuckin'... so hot. Where are you from, babe?"

I clamp my lips shut, knowing I'll only escalate things if I snap back. Jason's tolerance for my shit mostly depends on his general mood towards me, and he's been acting differently since Massimo made his presence known in my life.

A clammy hand wraps around my wrist. I freeze.

His smile is pure venom. "What are you?"

Everything in me completely stills. "Excuse me?"