Chains of Recompense (Destructive Ties #5)

Prologue

AISLING

Five Years Ago

Heart in my throat, I stand outside Portentia’s, my knee-length Burberry-plaid peacoat clutched tightly across my chest as I stare through the smoky glass doors into the dimly lit blue-neon space beyond.

Even from the sidewalk, the club looks chic yet foreboding, the gateway to a world of devils dressed in fine Italian suits.

A shiver runs down my spine when I think about what waits on the other side of those doors.

And yet, the red carpet leading up the stairs to the gold door handles beckons me forward, daring me to find out.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

What the hell was I thinking, sneaking out to come alone to a sex club, of all places?

As if in answer to my question, my mind calls forward the sound of Kelly and Hannah’s tittering giggles in the kitchen yesterday morning.

“I’ll tell you, that kind of pleasure is worth allowing a man to ruin you over,” Kelly said, her eyes rolling emphatically into the back of her head.

“Oh, please,” Hannah jibed, kneading the bread dough harder against the counter. “Like your virtue was ever in danger at Portentia’s. We both know you’re an even bigger slut than I am.”

Kelly laughed openly at that, her wide smile brightening her warm brown eyes.

“Yeah, but with an Italian? That was a first. And we both know the Murrays would be horrified if they ever found out.” Her voice dropped conspiratorially, her eyes glancing around the empty space as if in search of any eavesdroppers—like myself.

She and Hannah might be just a few years older than I am, but I’m well aware of the gap in our experience of the real world, and I’m ashamed to admit it’s not the first time I’ve listened in on the girls who work in the kitchen.

Generally, I would like to consider them my friends, and for the most part, they treat me like I’m one of them.

But sex talk is where they draw the line, and I know it’s because of who I am.

Who my parents are.

God forbid anyone say something that might tarnish the young, impressionable daughter of Callum Murray.

She might—gasp—get ideas. Discover mature feelings. And even if the great city of Chicago might consider me an adult, I’m fairly confident I’ll be forever branded the Murray family’s baby girl.

“Come on, Kelly. Admit it,” Hannah prodded. “Our Irish boys might know how to fuck, but those Chiaroscuros are downright gods in bed.”

Sue me for wanting to know what makes a man godlike during sex, but I nearly growled in frustration when, at that exact moment, Charlie had to blow my cover by greeting me at full volume as he came back into the kitchen.

“What are you doing sculking around doorways, Miss Aisling? Don’t tell me you’re already hungry again. We just finished cleaning up breakfast.”

I could feel the blush creeping up to my hairline as Kelly and Hannah turned in my direction, their eyes widening momentarily.

“I’m not sculking,” I grumbled, knowing I’d been caught red-handed.

A playful smirk curved Kelly’s full lips, and she rose gracefully from her chair.

“Well, if it isn’t our perfectly pristine princess,” she said, throwing her arm around my shoulders as she pulled me into the kitchen.

“We all know you’re going to make a magnificent Mafia bride someday,” she assured me.

“Meanwhile, the rest of us with loose morals will wither into miserable old crones, destined to die alone as ‘damaged goods’.” She emphasized those two last words with an eyeroll.

I know she said it to make me feel included, but it wasn’t lost on me that the topic changed rather abruptly after that, and any more juicy details were abandoned due to my buzz kill of a presence.

Typical.

At eighteen years old, I might not have much experience—okay, let’s be honest, I have no experience because I’ve yet to find a man with the death wish it would require to get close to me—but I’m not an idiot.

I know my brothers are to blame.

It’s no secret that they would take a man’s eyes for so much as looking at me the wrong way.

And I’m so tired of being sheltered.

I love my family.

I would do anything for them.

And I know that they’re overprotective because they don’t want anything bad to happen to me.

But that’s just the thing.

Nothing ever happens to me.

My life is the pinnacle of boring.

Or at least, it has been for the first eighteen years of my existence.

Tonight, I intend to change that.

Determination renewed, I take one deep, fortifying breath and march up the five steps to the club’s doors.

They swing open for me, as if of their own accord—then I see the two towering figures standing just inside the entrance.

Bouncers, by the look of them, with arms the size of tree trunks and dangerous-looking tattoos that lace up their corded forearms, disappearing beneath the rolled sleeves of their black button-downs.

They wear leather shoulder holsters, their handguns on display, but somehow, that makes their black dress pants and patent leather dress shoes look even sleeker.

They might be stylishly dressed, but danger surrounds them like an ominous black cloud, their dark hair and even darker expressions making my stomach quiver.

“Welcome to Portentia’s.”

The silky, feminine voice draws my attention from the men, who close the doors behind me without a word.

“Th-Thanks,” I stutter, my cheeks warming as I turn to meet the seductive, catlike eyes of a leather-clad woman who studies me from behind a black-glass reception stand.

The wall at her back is framed by blue cove lights that must be responsible for the foyer’s soft neon glow.

And the dim illumination creates a mysterious atmosphere, casting shadows in a way that accentuates each of the woman’s impressive curves.

“Don’t mind Bruno and Enzo,” she says with a coy grin, tipping her chin toward the bouncers and tossing the long, straight black strands of her high ponytail over her shoulder with clawlike red nails. “They’re here for our protection, I assure you.”

I get the feeling that the “our” she’s referring to is meant to encompass any women who step inside Portentia’s, but seeing as I’m the daughter of this particular club owner’s “friendly rival”, I’m not so sure that this protection would extend to me if they discovered who I am.

Which is why, tonight, I have nothing on me that can tie me back to the name Murray.

“How can I help you, love?” the woman purrs, making me start as I realize I’ve been so wrapped up in my thoughts, I never answered her.

Choking back a nervous laugh, I straighten my spine.

I’m going to get myself kicked out if I can’t pull myself together and start acting the part.

Clubs like these don’t allow women under eighteen, and while I’m legally old enough, I can’t prove that by pulling out my ID.

“I came to try out a new scene,” I explain, hoping it sounds like I’ve been to other clubs—even if I haven’t.

The woman gives me a slow once-over, then her sultry red lips curve into a smile, and she gestures down the hall to her left. “Enjoy.”

Trying to maintain my composure, I force myself not to run as I pass her.

And when I step into the room beyond, my heart skips a beat, my steps faltering.

I’ve been in plenty of my family’s pubs before—never unaccompanied, of course—but this is unlike any establishment I’ve ever seen.

I’ve watched plenty of drunk, rowdy Irishmen getting frisky, pulling women onto their laps or swinging them around a crowded dance floor.

But here, the energy is almost subdued, and yet… electrifying.

High-backed booths dot the open-concept space, and small alcoves line the walls, half-drawn curtains offering a modicum of privacy.

A backlit bar stretches the full length of the dark room, with only colorful neon uplighting splashed across the walls to illuminate the space.

The music is soft, sensual, the lyrics bordering on lewd, yet they sound dangerously poetic.

Everything about the club whispers sex like a soft voice of a lover whose lips brush your ear.

I can smell the arousal, almost taste the salty tang of excitement in the air.

But what steals my breath away are the naked women suspended from the ceiling by swaths of aerial silk.

They dance beneath spotlights, moving and contorting, twisting and twirling in sensual undulations that offer tantalizing glimpses of their bare flesh when the golden lighting hits them just right.

Several men sit at the bar, watching them with rapt attention.

But to my surprise, though it takes all my strength to tear my eyes away from the erotic acrobatics, the rest of the room seems caught up in their own activities.

And as I slowly make my way toward the main source of alcohol I desperately need right now, I can see why.

Each alcove is occupied by a couple—or sometimes three or more people, bodies of all shapes and sizes entwined in passionate embrace.

My skin heats at the open displays of affection, and my eyes drop as my pulse hammers through my veins.

I’ve never seen anything so openly erotic.

And it feels intrusive to watch, even if they seem perfectly comfortable with the display.

Too afraid to look up, even when I reach the bar, I slide onto one of the high stools, burning a hole in the polished black granite of the bar top’s surface.

“Something to drink, Bella?” the bartender asks, planting his tattooed hand on the counter before me to indicate I’m the one he’s addressing.

My eyes snap up, and I force a smile, praying I don’t look as flustered as I feel.

I need something to take the edge off my nerves right now. “Please,” I say breathlessly. “A shot of whiskey.” I’ve never liked the stuff, but my brothers call it liquid courage, and I could use a bit of that if I still want to accomplish what I came here for tonight.

The bartender’s dark eyebrows rise slowly, his gaze traveling over my face, and I can feel him calculating my age as he counts the freckles on my nose and cheeks. “You twenty-one?” he asks.

“Mm-hmm,” I agree, the back of my neck warming to the point that I’m sure he won’t believe me.