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       Detroit, Michigan, USA

      Dionne Summers sashayed down Rosa Parks Boulevard in cheap white heels and a butt-skimming mini that revealed acres of firm, chocolate-brown thigh.

      ‘Hey, Dionne. Lookin’ good!’

      ‘Drop dead, Mikey,’ snapped Dionne to the twelve-year-old kid who was checking her out. She wasn’t wearing any underwear and she wondered how much he could see.

      ‘Headin’ someplace special?’ Mikey persisted, cycling alongside her on a beaten-up BMX. Cocky, overweight, and dripping in fake gold jewellery, he hung around in the same gang as Dionne’s younger brother, Shawn, and like every poor kid on the block he was desperate to get out of Detroit.

      ‘I said leave me the fuck alone,’ Dionne growled, bending down towards him and unintentionally flashing eye-popping amounts of cleavage.

      Mikey shrugged. ‘Hey, doll, if you want a good time, you know where I live,’ he quipped, before flipping her the bird and pedalling off.

      Dionne laughed in disbelief. The kid was twelve, for chrissakes!

      But today she had more important things to consider than the growing pains of pre-teen wannabes. She had a meeting about a modelling job – no, a casting, that was the right word. After all, if she was going to walk the walk she ought to learn how to talk the talk, Dionne grinned to herself.

      Dash Ramón had set it up for her. The burly Colombian was a powerhouse in Dionne’s neighbourhood, a guy who made a formidable ally and a deadly enemy, and now he had a soft spot for Dionne, thanks to all the effort she’d put in over the last few weeks. She’d spent evenings at his favourite

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