Red Masquerade (Red Masquerade #1)

One

I t began in a dark corner of an illegal bar, with a stranger holding my hand to his lips, smoke wafting between us and gin humming in my veins. There was a fogginess in my head that I didn’t mind as the stranger peeked up at me, smiling. The dim lamplight cast a sickly green glow across his face, my own skin the color of absinthe, the shadows of the room rippling as though alive, our own existences swimming through time that had seemed to stop, the large clock upon the wall silent and unmoving.

“Another drink?” he asked.

I shrugged, though the smart answer would have been No . My blood was warm. I felt heat in my cheeks, my legs like jelly, even though I sat upon a velvet bench.

I could not tell if it was the haze, but the shadows of his face seemed to waver .

He raised his hand to get the attention of one of the bartenders, who quickly made his way over with two fresh glasses of spirits.

Though illicit, the small bar was crowded with patrons. Men leaned on the bar, facing each other, arms moving animatedly, the women in beaded dresses hanging on their arms forgotten amidst the carousing. Cigarettes burned, barks of laughter interrupted the shouting.

The man before me pushed my new glass over to me.

My fingers found the etchings in the glass, condensation collecting on my skin. “You have not yet told me your name.”

“Brancato,” he told me, and seemed proud of it. He leaned back in his seat. “Marcel Brancato.”

There was a lilt to his words, a sort of foreign accent I couldn’t place. I vaguely recognized the name. My father must have mentioned it long ago when speaking of one business deal or another. Business I cared nothing for, especially once Lucas took over.

“And I know who you are,” he said, eyes shimmering.

“Oh?”

“Helena Quintrell.” He smiled triumphantly, like he had won a game.

“I hope it’s not a bad thing you recognize me,” I laughed.

“Quite the opposite.” He brought his own glass to his lips, and those dark eyes pierced through mine, a lock of his brown hair falling across his forehead. “I have been wanting to meet you.”

He was not unattractive; when he had first approached me, I thought that perhaps he was rather good-looking. His cheeks were clean-shaven, his hair styled back and waved, his jacket unwrinkled and smart. He leaned against his chair with a casualness many of these men seemed to exude, a pull to his lips that suggested an easiness and confidence that could not be interrupted.

But already I was finding he was like every other man, his gaze dipping down to my bodice, the exposed skin of my chest, lower, thinking about how I would look on his arm, what I could do for him.

“And why is that?” I asked, sneaking a glance around the room, wondering where Flora had run off to. I knew she was somewhere with Lord Dixon, her usual beau.

It normally went this way: we would arrive to the club or bar of the evening, and shortly after, Dixon would arrive, and as though parting the Red Sea, she would run right to his arms, and I would be alone for the rest of the evening, forgotten and left to entertain whoever bought me a drink. Most often, my companions for the evening were charming, fun enough to make the night worth it. Though, every so often, I could see a darkness in their eyes, an awareness that didn’t sit right with me, and I’d have to make excuses to escape their attention.

We were all playing with fire, every one of us in the bar, ignoring the possibility of being found out, of possible arrest, were the cops to find this place. Though, many cops made their way to these things after their shift. The risk added a dazzling attractiveness to everyone in the room. Men who were average before seemed daring. We were all cohorts, co-criminals, breaking the law together.

“I’ve seen you before,” Brancato said, pulling my gaze back to him. “I had to introduce myself. You really are quite beautiful.”

“So you wanted to speak to me, only because I am beautiful? ”

He raised a smug brow. “Can not a beautiful face precede a worthwhile conversation?”

“Hmm.” I lifted my glass, touching the cool crystal to my painted lips, though I did not take another sip. I could feel the alcohol working its way through me already, and the night was too young to let it take over. “And what is it you want to speak of?”

“How you found yourself in a place like this.”

“‘A place like this’?”

“To a gin joint.”

I shrugged. “Well, what brings you here?”

“If you must know, my driver.” He smiled like it was clever.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and tilted the glass, deciding to hell with it, adding more fuel to the fire in my belly, feeling liquor pour over my tongue, burning my throat. Pulling the glass away, I nearly winced as I exhaled. “I believe we came for likely the same reasons,” I said.

“What, for girls ?” He laughed again. “Don’t tell me your interests stray that way?”

“No, Mr. Brancato. Freedom,” I said.

I saw his eyes flicker. Maybe at the use of his name, I didn’t know.

“Miss Quintrell, I am free.”

And there was that darkness, a directness in his stare that set warning bells ringing in my ears. He crossed his arms, leaning his elbows on the table with no regard for propriety, lifting his own glass of drink and letting his wrist dangle. The amber liquid swirled .

I hummed again, letting my eyes wander once more across the sea of people. Where was Flora?

He was not wrong. As a man, he was free, and evidently knew it, really knew it, too. He was the kind of man who had money, a name backing him up, his father’s pockets an extension of his own. An inheritance. A business behind him, no doubt. And though I also had access to my family’s money, the profits of my father’s business, and now Lucas’ current ventures, I had no idea of the inner workings of that world. I had an allowance .

Marcel had money.

“In this country, we are all free, are we not?” He raised his brow, but there was an easy smile on his face, as though he meant to trick me, as though there was a right answer to this question.

I pursed my lips. “ could say so.”

But as I sipped the alcohol, which I was not allowed to drink, it felt like a lie.

Brancato gestured to the room with his glass. “This will all pass,” he said. He thought I meant the prohibition. Those dark eyes narrowed at me, and he leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Though it doesn’t seem to be stopping us now, does it?”

I finished my own glass, tipping my head back. “No.”

He immediately gestured for one of the bartenders to refill our cups, and despite the crowd, the server came and went.

Brancato smiled at me. “We should do this again. Though, perhaps, elsewhere.”

The table next to us exploded in laughter, the woman reaching over to the man across from her, flinging over her drink in the action. Frizzy, over-processed blonde hair in a near-halo around her head, wire-thin brows drawn on in a dark line. A cacophony of giggles. Some of the splash hit the tops of my feet.

Brancato smirked in amusement. “Somewhere less… loud.”

“Like where?” I asked, dabbing at the spill on my skin.

“Let me take you to a dinner club. There is one I go to often, in Midtown. I have a membership.”

I imagined another evening with this man, with his glancing eyes, his haughtiness. I could entertain him. At the very least, I’d get dinner, some time away from the house, perhaps even a whirlwind romance that lasted only hours.

That’s what we were all after, wasn’t it? Chasing the pleasure we could draw from each other in the shortest amount of time possible, before we went on in the daylight like nothing happened.

But with him—no, something about him was unsettling, like he was after more .

“No?” he asked. I hadn’t realized I’d shaken my head at the thought.

He seemed taken aback. Dark brows furrowed, but the corner of his lips lifted in humor. Some girls played hard-to-get, and some men liked it. I was not one of those girls, but he seemed to think so.

“Well, no, that’s not what I meant.” I felt my cheeks heating, though whether from the alcohol or from my nonsense, I didn’t know. “I think—”

“Great,” he said, assuming I was agreeable. “Tomorrow evening? When should I pick you up?”

“Oh.” I blinked. “You misunderstand. ”

He laughed, white teeth shining in the dim lamplight. “Come now,” he said, and I saw then where his confidence came from; knowing he was attractive, knowing I would say yes. All the other girls did. Yet the twinge of strangeness remained in his eyes. “Just one night, and we’ll see where it goes.”

“No, we had tonight to get to know each other,” I said, firming my voice as much as possible. “But maybe we’ll run into each other again?”

I made to stand, but saw a flash of irritation on his face, the quirk of his lips faltering just slightly.

“Oh, I see ,” he said, leaning back further into his seat. “You’re one of those girls?”

I narrowed my eyes. “And what does that mean?”

His gaze wandered around me again, exuding presumption, eyeing my neckline, the skin above my chest. His smirk deepened. “Come on,” he said again, “we can be honest with each other. You came here, wanting certain things, and I came here, wanting the same. And here we are, together.”

The chair beneath me screeched as I stood, but the bar was so loud, it hardly disturbed the scene. The blonde and her men next to us were still caught up in their conversation, one of them with their face buried in her neck.

“Don’t presume, Mr. Brancato,” I said.

“ Marcel,” he corrected, and I saw the darkness in his eyes spread. “I’m not my father.”

“Okay, Marcel .” I gave him a closed-lip smile. “Thanks for the drinks.”

It felt all made-up, then, how we happened to run into each other, Marcel and I, not thirty minutes prior. A bump of shoulders. A charming smile and an offer for company, a glass of gin that never emptied.

He didn’t appear deterred, a cool smirk still plastered on his face, as he watched me turn to leave.

“Helena!”

I felt a sudden grip on my arm, long nails lightly digging into my flesh, as Flora emerged from the smoke, Dixon in tow. My eyes met his brown ones immediately, and though I said nothing, with one glance at my evening partner, he seemed to understand the irritation I felt. He scowled at the man before slinging an arm over Flora’s shoulders.

Flora, bubbly and drunk, didn’t notice the exchange.

“We lost track of time.” Flora beamed at me, her cheeks flushed. “We have to go now if we don’t want to be too late.”

“Go?”

She giggled. “You know,” she said, slipping away from Dixon and wrapping her arms around me. Her lavender perfume surrounded us like a cloud, chasing away the scent of the smoke permeating the air. “That one party—the house on Long Island!”

She’d mentioned it earlier, on the way to the bar. of the mad wealthy men on the island threw parties—and we had to go.

Anything to get away from the dark stare I felt boring into my spine. I nearly shivered as Flora pulled away from me.

“Who is he?” she asked, shouting in a whisper, one hand covering her mouth as though to conceal it.

I rolled my eyes as we disappeared into the crowd of revelers. “Marcel Brancato.”

A woman, dancing, jolted into me, but quickly spun away, knocking into other people as she went, laughing open-mouthed, her hand in a man’s. I inhaled a deep lungful of smoke, my throat dry, coughing, and my head spinning for a moment. We passed a man holding a cigar, his face heavenward, exhaling through his nostrils and lips like a beast, the smoke curling toward the ceiling like another dancer.

The crack of shattering glass disrupted the din from the other side of the room, then boisterous laughter bordering on shouts. of the bartenders tossed a bottle into the air, and it spun before he caught it expertly, the patrons watching and cheering riotously. Spirits rained down as though from fire sprinklers.

There was another man, one I had flirted with previously, that held my eyes as we neared the door to the establishment, sipping on his own drink, a spark of jealousy in his eyes. I couldn’t remember his name. For only a moment, I wondered if he had seen me with Marcel, but then dismissed the thought, because why would it matter?

I hadn’t chosen either of them.

Looking away, I still felt his stare searing into me, too; too many stares, too many eyes following me. Starving eyes, demanding.

“It appears we saved you just in time,” Flora said, her lips brushing my ear, the teasing lilt of music in her voice.

I nodded absently, shaking away the feeling of the gazes upon me. “Yes.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, her hand on my arm comforting and familiar. Grounding me. “Tonight is about fun. I will not let anyone ruin your fun, doll.”

“The night isn’t ruined.” I gave her a smile, though I felt a part of me was shaken .

I was used to angering members of the opposite sex, but I was also used to all of us playing a part, forgetting the real world outside of the walls of the joint, and just indulging ourselves. No other expectations. Not here.

When we woke up, the real world began again.

Flora gave me a dashing smile. “Perfect.”

Her hand tightened on mine before she spun around. “And now to make it even better, we’ll dance until our legs fall off at the grandest house in the state!”

With that, she whisked me onto the street, away from the insatiable hunger and excess of the speakeasy, away from the wandering, insistent stares, and into the open night.