Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Erica
“What?”
The word comes out breathless, thin, like my lungs forgot how to work the second he said it.
Nico doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. He just holds my gaze like he expects me to catch up.
“Tonight,” he repeats, matter-of-fact, “you belong to me.”
My stomach rolls again. The room tilts at the edges. My mind snags the word belong and refuses to let it go.
“I don’t—” I start, but I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. That I’m not a thing? That I’m not property? That he can’t talk to me like that?
The worst part is that he can. Because of where we are. Because of what I did, what I agreed to.
He turns away as if my reaction is expected and walks across the suite to the small liquor display. His movements are controlled, unhurried.
Not a man in a rush. Not a man who doubts himself. He reaches for a bottle of something deep and brown, pours it into a glass, and throws it back in one smooth motion like it’s water.
Then he pours another.
He turns back to me with the second glass in his hand, the alcohol catching the light.
My gaze flicks past him to the champagne chilling in a bucket beside the bottles, condensation beading on the neck. It’s there like a joke. Like they expect me to celebrate.
I haven’t touched it. I haven’t had the courage. My nerves feel too close to the surface, my stomach too unstable.
I guess they don’t care that I’m not twenty-one yet.
They don’t care about a lot of things.
Nico doesn’t offer me the drink. He takes another slow sip himself, eyes still on me, and I realize his calm is like his anger. Controlled, not loud, but encompassing.
“I don’t understand,” I manage, and my voice wobbles despite how hard I try to keep it steady. “Why would you say it like that, sir?”
The word “sir” just rolls out automatically. It’s how I address him at work, so it should feel normal. But every time I say it here, in this room, I want to bite it back. Because it feels different, feels wrong.
Feels right.
He lowers the glass slightly, watching me over the rim. “Because you need it said plainly.”
“I’m not—” My throat tightens. I swallow hard. “I’m not yours.”
His eyes narrow, just a fraction. “In general? No.”
The words should reassure me. They don’t, not fully, because he doesn’t look reassuring. He looks like a man who made a decision and will see it through.
“But tonight,” he adds, voice low, “you are.”
I flinch.
He sees it. His jaw flexes once.
“Don’t twist it,” he says. “I’m telling you what this is.”
“I know what this is,” I snap, and it comes out sharper than intended. Defensive. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Furious with myself, and with him, and with the whole night.
His gaze holds mine, unblinking. “You didn’t.”
The certainty in his tone makes my skin prickle.
I take a step back without meaning to. The carpet catches the heel, and I steady myself, arms tightening around my body like that will keep me from shaking.
“Then tell me,” I say, and my voice drops. “Tell me what you think you’re going to do.”
He takes another slow sip. He sets the glass down on the edge of the bar without looking.
Then he walks back toward me.
Not fast. Not aggressive. Just direct.
Every step makes the air feel tighter. Every step reminds me how much larger he is than I am. How solid. How used to being obeyed.
I’m not stupid, despite what he thinks. I didn’t walk into his office one day off the streets. I know who he is. I know who the Family is. And what he does for the Family.
Everyone in New Jersey knows the name Nico Conti. They whisper his name in the dark, in fear.
Capo. The word is a whisper, like I can’t say it too loud, even in my mind.
But I’ve never felt threatened by him before. Not at work, at least.
I’m not entirely sure I do now either. What I’m feeling is not fear. Not for my life anyway.
God, maybe I really am that stupid.
My pulse starts hammering again, high in my throat.
He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell something of the liquor on his breath, surprisingly sweet, close enough that his presence fills my space, but he doesn’t touch me.
That restraint makes it worse.
“I don’t think anything,” he says. “I know what I’m going to do.”
My mouth parts.
“Because I paid a hell of a lot of money to do it.”
“You said, the men in that room—” I’m too breathless to continue. Is it fear or something else?
“The men in that room,” he says. “They come in here thinking that money can buy them anything they want.”
My stomach flutters. I swallow hard again.
“If you do this, you’re no different than them.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
His eyes go dark for a beat. Not offended. Not surprised. Something else.
“Who said I was?” he says darkly.
Heat rushes through me, fast and humiliating.
My grip tightens on the thin white fabric at my sides. “You—”
“I’ve wanted you since I hired you,” he continues, like he’s stating the weather. “I didn’t act on it because you’re young and you’re innocent and you work for me.”
My chest tightens. “So why now?”
His eyes drop to the baby doll barely covering my breasts.
My nipples rise under his dark gaze. Heat fills my face at my involuntary response.
I hate that my body responds to him just standing here. I hate that the same part of me that wants to run also wants to lean forward, just to feel him.
“By the end of the night, you won’t be… innocent anymore,” he continues, still in that frustrating matter-of-fact tone. “Why would I deny myself something I want when you’re so willing to give it up to someone else? Anyone else, apparently.”
My skin flushes more. In shame this time. Anyone else.
God, he must think I’m some sort of whore.
Which is exactly what I am. I literally sold my virginity to the highest bidder.
What the hell did I get myself into? Am I even going to have a job in the morning?
I guess the money will help with that, but it won’t buy my dignity back.
Or maybe it will…
“What if I give the money back?” I say hastily.
He just lifts a brow.
“I’ll walk out of here with the money tomorrow, and I’ll give it back to you, minus the twenty thousand, and then I’ll just owe you that.” I feel my heart lift a little at the suggestion. Yes, that’s a great idea. It’ll be per—
“No.”
The simple word sends dread through me.
And a thrill I can’t acknowledge.
“What do you mean?” My voice is small.
“You’ll owe me a hell of a lot more than twenty thousand after they”—he nods toward the door— “take their cut.”
“I can work that off too—”
“No,” he says again, same tone. “I don’t want it back. I want what I paid for. And now that I know you’re not quite the innocent you act, I’m going to take it.”