Chapter 11
Lucia
The cold night air burns the tip of my nose as I push through the club’s back door. The alleyway smells of hot asphalt and the sourness of old beer from dumpsters nearby. My lungs seize when I round the corner.
The dancers—my coworkers for all of fifty-five minutes—are huddled in the cold, arms crossed, legs bare, and makeup smudged, waiting to be let back in after being forced out for something more sinister than a code pink.
They’re all silently scalding me.
Every one of them.
Except Santo.
He stands apart from the group. His shoulders are hunched, hands shoved in his pockets. His expression isn’t angry. It’s… apologetic. What the hell?
He couldn’t have prevented what happened. Hell, I couldn’t stop it, so there’s no reason for him to feel incompetent. We’re mere pawns existing in the same orbit as the immortals.
As I walk past the dancers glaring at me, their eyes say everything.
You ruined our shift.
You cost us money.
You embarrassed yourself.
The remainder of their taunts isn’t suitable to share.
A brick lodges in my throat when my eyes land on Giana, the announcer of the code pink.
She doesn’t glare at me, but she doesn’t smile either.
Her expression is tight and calculating.
She was hopeful I’d stay on as a bartender, assuming having the person responsible for Dante’s purchase of her sinking ship on payroll would keep her in favor with the Carusos, but after witnessing the dancers’ reaction to my exit from the club, she knows that’s no longer a good idea.
They’re not willing to share their tips with me. They’d rather starve. I can feel it in the air.
I’m not welcome in their realm.
Not anymore.
My confidence is nonexistent, but I force myself to walk past with my head held high.
Santo prepares to say something. His mouth opens, but I cut him off with the coldness Dante used when he realized his prime candidate for the nanny position he needs filled isn’t someone who opens her legs after only a handful of flatteries.
I turn on my heel and walk away until the iciness of my snub numbs everything. If freezing my heart will stop it from being irreparably scarred, I’ll do that.
It can’t withstand any more damage. One more knock and it’ll be unfixable.
My boots click on the pavement as I speed walk down the alleyway. I don’t look back to see if Dante is following. I can’t handle the disappointment.
Cars rush past with blaring horns, and people chatter while hustling in and out of stores. It all blends into white noise as I walk and walk and walk. Hours pass unnoticed, and the sun sinks, turning the sky a bruised purple.
As streetlights flicker on, my feet throb, but I keep going because stopping means facing the mess I’ve created.
Every time I stop to rest, Camille’s soccer cleats tapping against a strip club’s floor flash before my eyes. And the way Dante stepped back the second she appeared. Gosh. That hurt. But the way he looked at me afterward, like we weren’t finished, sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn’t in fear.
The contrasting emotions battering me are debilitating.
I end up near the mouth of the river without meaning to. The water is dark, and it reflects the city lights in broken streaks. Leaning against the railing, I grip the cold metal until my fingers go numb.
In the quiet, my smarts turn back on.
Why am I wandering the streets? I understand I need to keep my distance from Dante—attachments only ever end badly for me—but I left the club without signing anything.
I didn’t fill out a single line of the employment contract Giana gave me.
That means Dante can’t show up at my door unannounced. I’m safe to go home. Regretfully.
I’m skeptical that security will last long if I don’t find a job. I sent every last cent I had to Edoardo for a brief two-minute FaceTime with my son. It was nowhere near long enough, but like all dangerous drugs, it was enough to hook me.
I’d give anything for biweekly calls.
Hating that my first thought is to exploit Dante’s obsessive compulsions, I dig my phone out of my pocket. The screen unforgivingly illuminates my face as I scroll through the businesses I researched last week.
One by one, I call them.
The first manager picks up on the second ring.
“Hi, I’m calling about the position you had advertised in the classifieds of the Carlisle Chr—”
“Position’s no longer available,” he cuts in. “Ownership changed hands, and we no longer need… staff.”
I flinch when he ends our call with the unexpected slam of a landline phone.
After a quick shimmer of my shoulder, I move on to the next business on the list.
My stomach falls to my feet when I get a similar response to the first call.
“Ownership changed hands.”
“Who’s the new owner?”
After a brief pause, he says hesitantly, “Caruso Holdings.”
I end our call before he can say anything else.
The next establishment gives the same answer.
And the next.
And the next.
By the fifth call, my hands shake so badly that I almost drop my phone.
Dante didn’t lie. He bought every club in the country. Every single one. Except he didn’t stop at strip clubs. He took prostitution off the table for me as well.
“When was the business purchased?” I don’t know why I’m subjecting myself to unnecessary hurt, but for some reason, I’m curious to discover if Dante’s decision to buy all the brothels in the region was because he believes he paid to sleep with me last week or because he took my threat tonight as literal.
I sink onto a bench when my caller replies, “An hour ago. Perhaps two. It was a cash offer too good to deny.”
My throat grows scratchy and my eyes burn, but I refuse to cry in public.
He’s boxed me in and cut off every escape route.
An unusual blend of anger and something dangerously close to longing twists inside me.
I hate that.
I should be furious enough to keep this solely about anger.
He’s trying to control me as I’ve been controlled my whole life. That isn’t something I should be okay with.
“I’m not a fucking puppet!” I shout into the night air, startling a couple enjoying an evening stroll.
I groan in frustration when the man on the other end says, “I never said you were, sweetheart.”
“Sorry,” I say, tone lower. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
He hums a disagreeing murmur before he tells me it’s getting late, so I should head home. “It’s not safe near the river at this time of night.”
“Who said I was by the river?”
I never knew you could hear a man’s cheeks rise until now. “Do you hear that bird in the background? That’s a Sicilian Rock Patridge. Though not exclusive, its habitat depends heavily on wetlands. When nesting, it selects marshy, riparian environments, such as a river mouth.”
An unexpected giggle tumbles up my throat when he makes snoring noises. It’s followed by an oomph and a stern warning of the consequences someone named Nico will face if he hits him again.
After a handful of grunts from an impromptu scuffle, he adds, “So, yeah, sweetheart, you should head home.”
Over people telling me what to do, I poke out my tongue, then end our call.
Although the heat of Dante’s worry that my threats aren’t idle could melt ice caps, I can’t shake the chills rolling down my spine. Eventually, the cold wins. Furthermore, the weight of my disappointment is too heavy to keep wandering. I won’t mention the aftermath of back-to-back orgasms.
After a final appreciative glance at the scenery, I commence my long walk back to my apartment. By the time I reach my building, my hands are so frozen that it takes three attempts to slot the key into the lock keeping the homeless out of the lobby.
It’s cold enough to snow, so after checking that the coast is clear, I brace the door so it doesn’t fully close. The homeless are harmless. I know this from experience. I snuck into many buildings during the first year of my metamorphosis.
When I unlock the door of my studio, I expect the familiar echo of emptiness when I swing it open. Instead, it opens to dust and a gaping hole where my living room wall once was.
I freeze in the doorway, blinking hard. The air is choked with plaster shavings and sawdust, and a power drill whines somewhere inside. My eyes dance from left to right when men in high-visibility vests move around the space, constructing a new wing for my studio.
In my exhaustion, I must have climbed too many floors—or maybe not enough?
I look at the number on the door.
12B.
Cautiously, I step inside, my boots crunching on debris. My mattress is shoved into a corner and covered with a plastic sheet. The kitchenette is taped off, and a tarp that flaps in the breeze half covers the sole window.
“Um… excuse me.”
The workers ignore me, but a head pops through the opening in the once-solid wall. My greeter’s panty-wetting face and wolfish smirk launches my heart into my throat.
Dante.
He’s infuriatingly calm, like he’s not standing in what used to be my apartment.
“You’re home.” He folds his arms over his chest and then balances his shoulder on framework that didn’t exist hours ago. “Finally.”
I stare at him incredulously when his eyes narrow at the completion of his reply.
Why is he angry? I’m the one who had her life torn apart today.
Our stare-off, which is brimming with more than annoyance, is interrupted by a man with a hard hat and a fearful expression.
I’d also be scared if I had to shout at a man who emits authority.
He isn’t being rude. He’s simply endeavoring to be heard over the industrial vacuum cleaner that’s removing plaster dust from the floorboards.
“If the construction is to your standards, we’ll finalize cleanup, then call it a night.” When Dante’s eyes fall over the workmanship, the supervisor quickly stumbles out, “Paint and touch-ups will be done first thing tomorrow. We need to let the plaster dry before we can paint it.”
“Very well.” Dante signs a single slip of paper on a clipboard before nudging his head to the apartment now attached to mine.