Stolen Hearts: A Dark Billionaire Collection

by Elizabeth Knox

  I think of the headlines that I see about me, plastered all over every gossip magazine in Atlanta. It’s no secret that we own half the city, probably more, if you ask my brothers. For this reason, exactly, we’re the target of a lot of gossips, specifically me. Logan was the target until he met Brooklyn, the secret daughter of Alfred Hamilton, and oh, how the tabloids loved that. Although, they seem to love that she’ll be birthing the first Steele heir within the next few days even more. I swear, it’s like she’s Princess Kate, or whatever her name is.

  As if her ears are burning, “Princess Kate” struts through my door, holding a brown paper baggie and a drink holder. The glorious smell hits my nostrils, they flare in excitement, and I can’t help but smile at the woman I proudly call my soon-to-be-sister. “Tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”

  Brook shuts the door behind her and walks over to my desk, sitting in one of the luxurious chairs that I have in front of me. “This isn’t what you think it is.” I can tell she’s lying. My nose has never failed me, whether its smelling a piece of scum, or smelling my favorite dish on planet Earth.

  “Have I told you how much I love your pregnancy cravings?” I joke, going for the bag.

  “Only every day, and I think Lo’ is getting a little disappointed. He thought that he’d be gaining all this pregnancy weight too, and instead, I’m sharing it with you.” Brooklyn grabs her drink, sticks the straw in the top, and moans at the deliciousness that is hitting her taste buds.

  “He’s just jealous. I can’t say I blame him, though.” I wink at her, tearing open the Styrofoam container, my eyes landing on my fried chicken taco from Taqueria del Sol. If you’ve been in Atlanta and haven’t tried this, you have to. I devour it within a matter of seconds, sad that she didn’t get any more.

  “Did you even chew that?” Brooklyn chastises me. I laugh and shake my head.

  I take a long look at Brooklyn, and she looks exhausted like the life is being sucked out from her. “Are you doing okay?” I ask, clearly concerned.

  “Yep! I’m A-OK, I’ll just be feeling a lot better when this little man decides to come on out and grace us with his presence...I can’t wait to meet him.” She smiles dotingly at her stomach as she rubs in small circles.

  “I’m not giving you more than two days. Emmett is gonna be meeting us all really soon, Brook.”

  “I sure as heck hope so, I’m exhausted, and don’t get me wrong – I love being pregnant, but I am tired. I just want him here.” I nod, trying to understand what she’s been going through these past few months. There’s a light rap at the door, I don’t even get to say anything before I see Logan and Jordan walking through.

  “Shit, did someone just have Taqueria del Sol?” Logan growls, glancing at Brook and then me. I chuckle, nodding. The bastard is just jealous I’ve been reaping the pregnancy cravings.

  “Are there any leftovers?” Jordan asks, peeking over into the bag. Brooklyn grabs it and pulls out another Styrofoam container, handing it to Jordan.

  “Got you some hot ones.” Brooklyn smiles, and damn, I can see how Logan was so caught up with her from the very beginning. When Brooklyn smiles, she lights up the entire room. It’s like looking at a real-life angel. I’m not in love with my brother’s girl, or any of that shit, but I get it. I see why he was so in awe of her since day one.

  “Where’s mine?” Logan grumbles at Brook, I watch as she glares at him with all her might.

  “I dunno. I’d assume that if I’d want to get you anything for dinner that I would have to be happy with you, wouldn’t I? And I’m not very happy with you right now.”

  I take the second drink from the carrier and take a sip as I watch the show unfold in front of me. Jordan is watching too. Brooklyn is an angel, but she…damn, she can be the devil if she really tries too.

  “Sweetheart, let’s go talk in private.”

  “You just don’t want your brothers to see me chewing your ass out,” Brooklyn grumbles, getting up slowly from the chair. She walks out of the door, and Logan follows her, shutting the door behind him.

  “Now that Brook is gone, let’s get down to a little business, then a bit of pleasure.” Jordan winks, “What’s the status on our latest issues?”

  Issues as Jordan calls them is code for flakey motherfuckers who don’t pay, and me? I deal with those issues. “Diaz hasn’t paid up. I’ll be making a visit to him in a few days. Jasper’s payment was late, but it was made. You know I don’t tolerate that shit, he’s still getting his ass whooped. We run a business, not a charity. No one gets away with missing their deadline. If they want our product, they pay up. It’s as simple as that,” I grumble.

  “Good. I expect that you’ll let me know about what transpires during your visits.”

  “When have I not told you what goes down?” I hiss, annoyed that Jordan is treating me like I’m a child.

  “You always have.”

  “Exactly. Don’t treat me like some thug for hire,” I snap, and Jordan raises his eyebrows in shock. I am not someone who will be walked over, even by my own family.

  “Take some of that hostility and direct it towards the people who don’t understand respect.” I nod, biting my tongue and silently agreeing to do what he asks. “As for the pleasure part… There’s a party going on later tonight, and I want you to attend with me.” I wasn’t normally one to decline a party invite, but today, I wanted nothing else to do except take it easy, maybe even relax a little.

  “I’m not in the mood to party tonight,” I tell my brother, firmly.

  “Christian, you will be in the mood to party tonight. I got you a present, and one you’ve been looking for.” His statement piques my interest, but before I can even respond, Jordan rises. “Great. I’ll see you at the penthouse. 8 p.m. sharp.”

  Chapter Three

  Selena

  Every time I get out of my car and walk into the back of Russo’s I have to remember not to hate everything I’m doing. The moment I walk through these doors I leave everything about Selena Jacobsen behind. I’m no longer she. I transform into something else, or if I’m more specific, someone else.

  Star.

  By day, I work at Sabrina’s school, answering the phones, chatting with the soccer moms. I mediate between the PTA and teachers, I keep the peace in the ridiculous politics that run through her school, and right now? All I can think of is the judgement that I’d get for working here. I drive the forty-five minutes west until I’m just outside of Atlanta, at my second job, the job that helps me barely scrape by and keep my family together.

  Russo’s isn’t anything special. It’s a tiny club on the corner of town that you’ve either known about because of its reputation or because you’ve been a member here for ages. When I say reputation, I don’t mean anything good.

  I open the back door, the hinges screech as I pull the door open. I shake my head, knowing that I’ve told Frankie about this at least five times. Anyone who wanted to could break down that door, sneak back in, take our cash, or even hurt one of the girls. I’m saying this because it’s happened before, and it’ll happen again if there aren’t any changes made. That pisses me off. We expose ourselves to hundreds of people a night, maybe even more. Some of the women here do a lot more than just expose themselves, they invite these men and women into their bodies for a price. I’ve never crossed that line, and I never will; I promised myself a long time ago that I wouldn’t use my body as a bargaining chip.

  Russo’s is a dingy strip club. I use the term dingy lightly. It’s nowhere near being the best of the best, it’s certainly not the worst, but it’s not high off the bottom of the list either.

  I walk down the narrow hallway that will take me to the group dressing room. In total there are about thirty of us that work here as strippers. We rotate shifts, so no one is being favored. Tonight’s Friday, which means it’s the night we’ll make most of our cash. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been getting a lot of shit from the other girls here. I’ve worked every Friday for n
ine weeks. I’m not complaining, this is helping me pay my bills, but to say that I haven’t been treated badly by the others isn’t accurate. There are nasty looks, smart ass remarks, and a couple of the girls have even gone as far as sabotaging my ensembles.

  “Ah! There is my STAR!” Frankie’s voice booms, and I hear her next to me within a moment. I swear, her calling me her “star” is half the reason I’m being treated so poorly, to begin with.

  “Hey Frank,” I murmur, offering her a small smile. All I want to do in this moment is pull the attention off of me. If the girls around us think that I don’t see their nasty glares, they’re sadly mistaken. Of course, they probably want me to see the hatred, or maybe jealously that they have for me. I bet they hope that I’ll feel too uncomfortable and eventually leave. I laugh at that. I’ve worked here for two years. I’ve seen girls come and go, and I’ve worked my damn ass off to get where I am. The thing is, none of these bitches would dare say anything to my face. It’s good that they don’t, I know they’re backstabbing bitches anyways, and the moment that one of them confronts me it won’t end up too well for them.

  “Are you ready for tonight, babygirl?” I nod at her question as she wraps an arm around me and tugs me further down the hall until we’re outside of the only dressing room that locks in this joint. “I was thinking, I’m tired of having you out with the other girls. We both know that there have been uh, “problems” with your outfits, so this way you’ll have a key, and none of the others can touch any of your things. I’ve already had Vail bring all your stuff in here and put it away.” Frankie slides a key in the door, turns it, and it pops open. I’ve seen this dressing room before in passing, but never have I had a moment to step inside. It’s a decent size. The furniture is a tad bit more luxurious than I was expecting, the paint isn’t chipping whatsoever. The only thing that I’m noticing is that there is another door on the other end of the room. I look to Frankie, and before I can even ask she’s speaking. “Don’t worry about that, it’s a private entrance and exit. Usually when my girls move up the pole.” She laughs at her own joke before she continues, “There are others who get jealous, so it’s not in your best interests to leave out the main way. Got it?”

  I nod. I’ve never trusted Frankie as a person per say, although, I do trust her judgement and respect the way that she runs her business. She’s owned Russo’s since the old perv croaked a few years back. Before I even interviewed here, I did my fair share of research. I investigated the history of the club, read reports of the stabbings and shootings in the area that were somehow associated with the club. Most of them didn’t even check out.

  The thing was if I was going to start stripping, I needed to find a club that was close enough to home, but far enough away that the likelihood of me running into anyone I knew personally was minimal. I also needed to ensure that I would be doing well. Because if I wasn’t making enough cash, what was the point in stripping, to begin with?

  When it comes to the danger of the job, I’m not dumb. I know that there is a constant element of danger working here, and even in this profession, but I will continue to do whatever that is necessary for me to keep my family together. At the end of the day, that’s the only thing that truly matters to me. I will flash, grind, and sweet talk anyone if it means being able to provide for them. We’ve all suffered enough, I’ll be damned if I’ll be selfish and break my family apart.

  “I’ll be back to get you in an hour, then it’s showtime, baby!”

  I take my time getting ready, peeling out of my stuffy work clothes and slipping into something that most would blush about. I plug in my wand, allowing it to heat up so I can press soft, bouncy curls into my hair, that I know the gents love. As the iron warms, I go over to the closet, opening it to reveal an abundance of attire. There are more clothes than expected in here. Definitely more than I knew I had purchased myself. Some of these I wouldn’t even have chosen to wear.

  I take a glance, knowing I should probably stick to something I’ve worn before, but I don’t. I’m greedy when I see a beautiful red lace getup. I slip on the push up bra and slide on the panties that tie at both sides, securing them in a beautiful knot.

  I grab my phone, opening my Spotify app and start playing “Lips on You” by Maroon 5; the new song that I’ll be dancing tonight. I have no problem dancing like a whore or being sensual as all hell. Tonight, I’ve chosen sensual, I am Star after all.

  I find a lipstick in my makeup drawer that matches the dark crimson red of my ensemble. As I look at myself in the mirror in front of me I am pleased with how I look. It’s intimidating – to be in here alone, to not have to keep my poker face on in case the other girls are staring. In this room, I don’t have to hide what I’m feeling because there isn’t anyone to watch or to judge me. I don’t know whether this is a good or a bad thing. I just have to remind myself that one day I won’t have to do this anymore. In reality, I shouldn’t want to do this, and I don’t want to, but I won’t lie and say that when I strip I don’t feel powerful.

  I know that when I dance, every single set of eyes are on me, watching every perfectly choreographed move that I make. There’s a lot that I can’t control in my life, but when I’m here at Russo’s, taking my role as Star, I know that I can control everything that happens to me. Maybe that’s why I like doing this so much. It’s the freedom, the power, the euphoric feeling in knowing that this is my stage, and every move I make is something that I’ve decided – something that no one can take away from me.

  If I knew any better, I’d say Frankie bought this for me as repayment for everything that’s happened to my pieces. It’s a welcome surprise, and I’ll take it. The next twenty minutes fly by as I meticulously curl every strand of my hair, letting it bounce in a way that I know the customers will die for. I hear Frankie’s voice echoing through the club; she’s riling the crowd up, preparing them for the main event.

  Me.

  No matter how many times I’ve done this, it will always feel like the first time. There’s this deep feeling inside of me, my stomach coils with nervousness as I hear the shouting, the whistles, the catcalling. In theory, this should make me feel confident, but it doesn’t. I am terrified, always have been and always will be. But the moment I step foot on that stage it dissipates into thin air. Selena may be nervous, but Star will perform.

  She will own that stage and leave every man in that room spilling with need and desire.

  At the end of the day, she has to, because if she doesn’t, everything could fall apart.

  Chapter Four

  Christian

  Jordan told me to meet him at the penthouse. He said 8 p.m. sharp. The bastard sent me a text with an address to a rundown strip club on the edge of town. I’d never be caught dead in a place like this if he didn’t blindside me with the last-minute change in our plans. All I can think is that one of our shitty clients is in this club and that I’ll be handling some Steele family business tonight.

  I wait in my car until I see Jordan’s jet-black Maserati peel into the parking lot. He slides right up next to me, casually exiting the vehicle after he parks it. “Get out of the damn car, you pussy.”

  As brothers, Jordan and Logan have always known the best ways to get me to act out. I think that in every family siblings are good for pressing buttons. It’s an instinctual trait that has to be acted out, otherwise – are you even family? Challenging me or calling me a pussy is my trigger. He’s lucky we are blood. If we weren’t, I’d already have him on the ground with a broken jaw and nose.

  Everyone outside of our family views me as this billionaire party boy, and I am, to an extent. Whenever you’re in the public eye you will do whatever is necessary to keep up appearances. For yourself, for your family. In a way, I do that by being seen by the paparazzi. They’ve always loved me, the youngest Steele, the one who doesn’t look like he’s related to Logan or Jordan. I can recall a time as a child, that they even questioned my paternity because of the vast difference in appearances
between my father, brothers, and I. I’m the blonde sheep of the family, so to speak. Everyone else may view me as this spoiled rich party boy, but my brothers know exactly what I am.

  A calculated monster.

  A weapon at their disposal.

  Brooklyn doesn’t even know what I really do for Steele Enterprises, and if you asked anyone, you’d find out that I own a few clubs, and maybe they’d add in that I have a say in certain business decisions. I do own a few clubs, but I’ve hired capable managers to handle them for me. You only see me at the clubs to keep up my party boy status.

  It’s funny, many of the men we do business with think I’m weak because of my public image. They have no clue until it’s too late, that I’m the one who is sent to collect payment. After all these years, word has travelled around that I’m the bloodhound of our family. I had hoped it would instill fear – that we wouldn’t have so many problems with payments. We’ve had enough with trying to keep the feds off of our backs. Luckily, we’ve been able to succeed at that with Logan’s leadership. I was out of the game for a while after my accident, and I use that term loosely. I was in no accident; the brake lines were cut to my car and I crashed – barely leaving that accident alive. I knew who was behind it, the only problem was proving that Rafael Ramirez had anything to do with it. That fucker is going to pay.

  “Did you hear me?” Jordan snaps, I’m pulled out of my daze by the ferociousness in his voice.

  “No, I didn’t. What were you saying?”

  “Shit, Christian. You need to pay attention. I didn’t just bring you here for the fucking surprise I’ve got planned, we’ve got business to do.” He glares at me, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants as he leans against his car. “Matteo is requiring our services. He hasn’t been in town for quite a while due to his…partnership falling apart.” Matteo Varca, an errand boy for the Italians. We’d heard recently that his marriage to Arielle had fallen apart. I’m not surprised by this. She is a woman who would take you by the balls and make you squeal. Matteo is a man who, well, is scum.