REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS - Chapter 100: Chapter 100

“You sure he’ll be here?” Mylene asked, letting her hand graze the bicep of a bartender who looked like he moonlighted as a Greek statue.
“Joe tracked his car here two hours ago,” I murmured, scanning the room.
And then we saw him.
Santiago McCray.
Wearing power like cologne and sin like an accessory.
Gold rings, gold watch, gold tongue.
Tailored charcoal suit that whispered “danger, but well-dressed.”
An Irish accent dipped in rebellion and the kind of regrets that get men excommunicated from polite society.
He was seated in a private booth draped in shadows, flanked by two bodyguards who looked like they were born in a weight room and baptized in gunpowder. A cigar burned between his fingers like it owed him something. The man didn’t just own the booth—he owned the oxygen around it.
We didn’t tiptoe around him.
We announced ourselves.
We walked in like champagne in a war zone. Laughing too loudly, heels clicking like gunfire, perfume thick enough to be considered a tactical distraction. We ordered the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu—not because we were thirsty, but because men like Santiago hate to be upstaged by women with both wallets and war plans.
Jhing Jhing wore a dress that looked painted on and a smile that warned you not to get too close unless you wanted your heart broken—and possibly your kneecaps. She grabbed her drink like it was an accessory and headed for Santiago’s booth like a heat-seeking missile in stilettos.
“I’ll go first,” she whispered. “He likes them bold. Let’s make bold look lethal.”
Then she was gone, weaving through the tables with the kind of grace that made kings stupid and mobsters dead.
I waited until the music shifted. The jazz got lower, darker. Sexier. The lights dimmed just enough for trouble to find a spotlight.
That’s when I stood.
I didn’t walk. I glided. Floaty and deadly.
I danced like I wasn’t carrying six years of secrets in my clutch and pepper spray tucked between tissue paper and loose diamonds. I danced like the room was mine, the song was mine, the danger was mine.
Men stared. Women judged. Both made space.
Mylene trailed behind, clumsily-on-purpose stumbling near Santiago’s guards. She giggled like a drunk heiress while casually noting where their guns were holstered and which one had a twitchy trigger finger. Queen of chaos. Spy of stilettos.
Santiago noticed.
His eyes followed me with a slow drag, like a man watching the countdown to his own destruction and liking the view.
He stood.
Let the smoke curl from his cigar like a challenge.
And walked toward me.
“Now what?” Joe whispered into my comm, crackling like tension through silk.
I smiled, slow and sharp.
“Now,” I whispered back, “we make him fall in love.”
I turned just as Santiago stepped into my orbit.
He was taller up close. The kind of tall that leaned in when he wanted to intimidate, and leaned back when he wanted you to chase. His cologne was expensive, woodsy, and probably illegal in several countries. His gaze held that mix of charm and calculation—like he couldn’t decide whether to flirt with me or hire someone to follow me.
“Evenin’, lass,” he said, voice thick with Irish molasses and red flags. “You look like you’ve got fire in your eyes and murder in your lipstick.”
I laughed softly. The kind of laugh that made men wonder if they’d just made the best or worst mistake of their life.
“Only if I’ve had bad wine or worse company,” I replied. “So far, you’re neither.”
His eyes flicked down to my dress—deep red, slit high, unapologetic—and then returned to my face. I saw it then. The slight widening of his eyes. The subtle calculation. He already regretted underestimating me.
“Dance?” he asked, offering a hand like it was a contract written in charm.
I placed my fingers in his.
His palm was rough. A man used to earning loyalty through fear. A man who had probably never danced with someone who could end him with a smile.
We danced.
Not like drunk strangers at a club.
Not like rich people at a wedding.
Old-school.
Eyes locked. Hands tight.
A battle in rhythm and breath.
He led.
I let him believe that.
The room blurred around us. Wine glasses clinked. Laughter echoed. Somewhere, a server dropped a tray and was instantly fired. The floor was alive with silk, stilettos, and spilled secrets.
Around us, his men watched.
My girls moved into position.
And Santiago?
He smiled like a man who thought he was winning.
But darling—
The moment I walked into that bar in a dress worth more than your safehouse and a smile that screamed trap, the game was already over.
Around us, the world blurred into cigarette haze and money-soaked laughter. Jhing Jhing was working the floor like a social panther, chatting up Santiago’s second-in-command—an overconfident man with too much gel and not enough brains. Mylene had cornered two guards near the bar and was now deep into a wine-fueled conversation about yacht sizes and how to launder money through charity auctions.
Santiago leaned down, murmuring into my ear, “You don’t look like a local.”
“Is that your best pick-up line?” I smiled sweetly, resting my hand a little lower on his shoulder.
He chuckled. “I own this place. I know who walks in and out. You—are new. And very good at pretending not to be interested.”
“And you…” I purred, trailing my fingers over his chest, “…are bad at pretending you’re not trying to figure me out.”
He stepped closer. My heels clicked against the marble as I leaned in like a whisper. I could smell his cologne—earthy and expensive. His jaw was sharp, his suspicion sharper.
“I like a puzzle,” he said.
“Then you’ll love me,” I whispered, pulling back just before he could ask another question.
He stared at me for a second—silent, amused, hooked. Then he pulled out a sleek, matte black business card from his coat. One side blank. The other had a number and one name:
Santiago McWhatever
No last name. No address. Just power.
I slid it into my clutch without blinking.
“You have a name?” he asked, voice laced with low challenge.
I tilted my head, lips curled. “Tonight? I’m Delilah.”