Chapter Thirteen
Verity arrived early to work on Friday. She’d found it helpful to establish herself before the guests arrived. It meant she started the evening on the front foot and allowed her to set the tone for interactions. It also gave Cross one less thing to criticise her about. Not that he'd have any trouble finding another. Self-consciously she checked her hair. The messy bun was gone, replaced by a sleek ponytail that was apparently more in keeping with the club image.
She loathed it.
Grinding to a halt as she reached the upper floor, Verity looked about in confusion. Normally it would be quiet at this time, but tonight there was a flutter of anxious activity as the leather armchairs were rearranged and the doors to the private dining room were thrown open.
“What’s going on?” she asked one of the waiters who was carrying a precarious pile of starched white linen.
“Special party in tonight.”
She followed him through the doorway into the separate room where a heavy oak dining table dominated the space. “Who?”
His head gave that ingrained Eighth Circle twitch to check over his shoulder before he murmured, “I heard someone say it was the Russians, but I’m hoping that’s just a rumour.” He set down the stack of table clothes and swiftly began spreading them over the highly polished surface.
Verity shuddered, she’d witnessed one of these Bratva events before, albeit from the safety of the lower floors. The sound baffling around the private upper lounge had meant their more mainstream guests had not been disturbed by the evening's entertainment, but the fact that the linens had been burned rather than laundered afterwards, left her in little doubt as to what had occurred.
He finished straightening the final cloth and met her gaze for the first time. “Is this the first one you’ve worked?”
She nodded.
“Well… good luck.”
Before she had the chance to ask him what he meant, he picked up the surplus linens and vanished down the stairs.
More staff arrived, all bearing crockery and cutlery, but none prepared to even make small talk, let alone answer her questions. Verity felt her blood chill. Anyone who had even a reasonable length of tenure at the club, developed a defence mechanism of black humour. It was the only way to get through a shift. The fact that they were all tight-lipped and silent was more unnerving than the usual tasteless banter.
Deciding that discretion might be the safest option, Verity was about to bolt and call in sick when the main doors to the club slammed open and their guests for the evening surged in.
Verity felt her jaw drop at the sight of them. They were all… huge. Some of them poured into expensively tailored suits, which looked ridiculously out of place as the shoulder seams strained to contain the muscle bulk beneath. Coarsely inked tattoos crawled out from under collars and cuffs as if trying to escape the refined fabric. Others in the party had ignored the dress code entirely, sporting instead leather jackets and t-shirts that looked altogether more comfortable - creased into familiar lines around the owner's individual physique.
Verity flinched as a warm hand brushed against the small of her back.
“Shall we welcome our guests?” Cross asked, his smile vicious as he manoeuvred her firmly towards the head of the stairs. Loathing herself, Verity leaned closer to him. In this twisted game, he actually felt like the safest place to be.
“Gentlemen. Welcome to Eighth Circle London. I assure you, all our amenities are at your disposal.”
With those words, his touch vanished and he stepped away, taking that disturbing sense of security with him, leaving Verity standing alone at the top of the staircase as the horde surged towards her.
The next second an impossibly broad shoulder slammed into her stomach and she was hoisted off her feet. Upside down and with her legs locked in place by one beefy arm Verity pounding his back with her fists to no visible effect. Switching strategy, she managed to snag a bottle of expensive vodka from a passing tray, though whether she was intending to use it as a distraction or a weapon she hadn’t decided. Thankfully, her attacker seemed to appreciate the gift which gave her the opportunity to wriggle free under the guise of finding some shot glasses.
She was barely halfway to the bar when she was jerked roughly off her feet. Giving a yelp that was equal parts shock and pain she stumbled and lost her balance as someone grabbed hold of her hair and dragged her backwards across the floor. Tears stung her eyes. This was why she hated ponytails, nothing like personally creating the weapon for your attacker .
The backs of her legs hit the arm of a chair and she was swiftly upended. Before she could squirm free, two brawny arms pinned in place and her assailant leaned closer, stinking of sweat and alcohol. A second set of heavily tattooed hands appeared from overhead, tearing her shirt open and scattering buttons across the carpeting. Verity clawed at the face looming above her, which achieved nothing other than ripping off a couple of her false nails and earned her a heavy swat to the cheek. Thankfully he didn’t have the space for a real swing, so the sharp pain, followed by a ringing in her left ear, was the worst of the damage. But it stunned her enough that she was slow to react as her wrists were dragged above her head. Abandoning any pretence of willingness, she lashed out with one foot but her blow glanced off a hip and her attacker simply grabbed her flailing leg and used it to lever himself between her thighs.
Verity hadn’t realised she’d begun to scream until a sweaty paw slapped over her mouth. With her airway blocked she started to thrash in panic, then a large knife pressed against her throat and everything went very, very still.
Time stretched out as the blade slowly scratched down her throat and over her chest. Verity jerked as the sharp tip broke the skin, then slid between her breasts to sever her bra.
Then the knife and the muffling hand vanished and Verity dragged in a lungful of air. That breath was released as a scream as her attacker leaned forward and bit into the soft swell of her breast.
The wall of noise and sensation around her came crashing back in. Pain and fear short-circuiting her reactions she froze as a heavy frame forced its way between her thighs, crushing her back into the leather upholstery. He muttered something that sounded like a curse as he fumbled with his fly, but she could barely make out the words above the deafening roar.
The crystal chime of silverware against glass cut through the chaos and Verity heard Cross clear his throat.
“Gentlemen, if you’d like to take your seats, I understand that dinner is about to be served.”
She’d never been so glad to hear a voice in her entire life. The fact that it was his voice prompting that wave of relief filled her with a different kind of horror.
Apparently more motivated by his other base hunger, the tattooed brute lurched to his feet, Verity’s presence entirely forgotten. For a moment she lay stunned as the noisy horde surged around her, then with a groan she levered herself out of the chair and retreated out of their path.
Needing to gather her thoughts and calm her frantic heart rate she took a moment to assemble her clothing as best she could. The bra was ruined - so that was one good thing to come out of the whole hideous encounter - but all the buttons were gone from her tattered shirt. In the end she tied it in a knot under her boobs, where it hid her modesty but not the livid bite mark. With shaking fingers she attempted a quick repair job on her hair before accepting it was beyond saving.
By the time she was finished, all the men had taken their seats and she hesitated in the doorway. They seemed distracted by the offer of food and keen to take advantage of that fact Verity took a careful step backwards, hoping she might be able to make a run for it. Then she heard the unmistakable scrape of an empty chair being pulled back.
Not everyone was distracted.
As she moved towards where Cross was sitting at the head of the table, she felt his gaze sweep her from head to toe, his lip curling at her dishevelled appearance. Then he gestured to the chair beside him. Deciding that he might represent the lesser of the many, many evils present, she swallowed hard and silently accepted the offer.
Every head turned in her direction as she lowered herself onto the leather padded seat and she winced, immediately recognising her mistake. The last thing she wanted was to draw any unnecessary attention to herself, but as the only member of the staff graciously granted a chair, that attention was now unavoidable. Hoping to minimise the error, she was about to scramble to her feet and retreat to the sidelines when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder.
“No, stay where you are, you should have a good view from there.”
The residual ringing in her left ear made it hard to understand his words and she frowned. “View?”
“Of tonight’s entertainment. I would hate for you to miss the action.”
Verity fought down the growing wave of nausea as she waited for whatever planned or unplanned delights to start.
It didn’t take long.
One of the guests, apparently deciding that the fine bone china was too bourgeois for his taste, swept his place setting to the floor. Seconds later the squirming figure of a naked girl was splayed out in front him. She squealed as the large steak landed on her stomach and the man between her thighs reclaimed his silverware and settled into his dinner.
That squeal became a scream when the viciously sharp knife carved through the tender fillet and carelessly nicked the flesh beneath. A sound which the audience apparently found hilarious - at least to begin with - but as her cries continued the laughter faded.
Someone at the far end of the room catcalled the diner, and gradually others took up the refrain, fists pounding on the table making the glasses and cutlery dance. The words were meaningless to Verity, but the tone sent a shiver of ice down her spine.
Cross leaned closer to whisper, “They are complaining that the noise is putting them off their food. They are suggesting he find a way to shut her up.”
Verity shuddered, sickened by the premonition of what was about to follow. Sure enough, abandoning what was left of his steak, the man dragged the sobbing, bleeding girl from the table and dumped her on her knees at his feet.
For a moment, the room fell completely silent and then Verity heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper being lowered.
She was about to leap to her feet when she felt Cross brush his fingers against her shoulder. Not firm enough to hold her back, but enough to attract her attention. She turned her head and met his gaze.
“You can try to save her if you wish, but I doubt they’d take kindly to any interference. In all likelihood it would simply ensure you join her. Is that what you want?”
Knowing he was right didn’t help, and Verity felt a toxic wave of self-loathing sweep through her - she was such a fucking coward . Humiliated by her own lack of courage her shoulders slumped and she edged back into her seat, trying to block out the sickening acknowledgement of failure.
What followed was viciously predictable. Big hands locked around the girl’s head, the thug brutally fucked her throat, the quickening pace of his thrusts matched by glasses and fists hammering on the table. At first the girl clutched and clawed at his legs, but he didn’t even break his rhythm, if anything it seemed to encourage him further.
“Of course, there is one alternative.” Cross’s words drifted over her shoulder, penetrating the horror.
Verity closed her eyes and tried to ignore the taunting whisper. Anything he was about to suggest would undoubtedly be worse - for her at least.
Then the monster holding centre stage reached his conclusion and once released, the girl slumped onto her hands and knees, gasping for breath. Then another creature grabbed her by the hair and Verity realised the whole hideous pantomime was about to start again.
Sickened, she tried to turn away but Cross had his fingers locked deep into her hair, holding her head in place, forcing her to watch.
Nothing could be worse than this, could it?
The girl had stopped fighting now, her hands falling limp to her sides. Apparently preferring more active participation from their chosen victim she was quickly discarded and all attention turned to the next sacrificial lamb.
Unable to watch anymore, Verity dragged her hair free and twisted around to face him. “What alternative?” she muttered.
With an exaggerated shrug Cross leaned back in his chair and spread his legs. “Distraction, of course.”