Chapter 3
CALIGULA
“The Obelisk,” I repeat, feeling no more enlightened. But something about the word itself—tall, imposing, undeniably phallic—makes me shift in my seat.
“Shh!” Jesse hisses unnecessarily. No one could possibly overhear us with the level of the music, and the way we’re huddled together on the sofa, heads close. “It’s an underground place. Billionaire bad boys. Invitation only, of course. It’s incredibly exclusive.”
“How did you…” I trail off. The alcohol is getting the better of me again. Jesse just laughs it off, though I detect a note of bitterness in the sound.
“How did I get an invitation? I met this hot Russian here at Kismet one night. He took me to the Obelisk. Passed me around his friends—God, what a great fucking night that was,” he interrupts himself with a happy sigh.
“Anyway, they told me I could make some easy cash by auctioning myself off—just for a week at first. That’s where my owner bought me.
And, well,” he finishes with a giggle, and I think he’s trying to give the impression that he’s blushing, “one week led to another, and another, and another…until I signed a ten-year contract.”
“Ten years?” I practically choke on my champagne.
“I’m not saying you should do ten years,” Jesse says hastily. “But I mean, a month would be doable. Right?”
“But I’m not—” I stop. Recalibrate. “I’m not very experienced.”
I haven’t been with any guys, not even to kiss. Because, as a Clemenza, I couldn’t be queer. It was unthinkable. The fear that the Family would find out always overrode my horniness. So I went out, I had fun, but I never…
Never let it go too far.
And then I stopped going out.
Cold panic grips me at the idea of some billionaire paying top dollar, only to discover that the guy with the name that promised ancient Roman debauchery was actually a terrified virgin who didn’t know what the hell he was doing.
Jesse’s eyes are gleaming. “But that’s even better, Cal! These guys, they fucking love innocence—even when it’s fake. The price goes way up. So, like, even if you’re not technically a virgin, you should totally say you are.”
“Virginity is just a social construct,” I say automatically, because that’s what I’ve always told myself. And it’s true; it is a social construct.
But in my case, it’s also a fact. I am a virgin by any conceivable metric. The most action I’ve seen is my own right hand and a very overworked imagination.
The irony of it all—that I’d be worth more for my inexperience.
The very thing I’ve tried so hard to hide, the thing that marked me out as different in the hyper-hetero environment of the Families, could now be my most valuable asset.
It never occurred to me that in staying away from sex, I might only make myself more desirable.
I imagine rough hands forcing my legs apart, something blunt and hot piercing its way into me…
I should feel sick about Jesse’s suggestion.
And I do, I swear on every dead Clemenza that I do, even as I listen to him chatter on about the Obelisk.
But under that queasy sensation is something worse, something I can’t acknowledge even to myself.
A pulsing in my body, a tightening in my chest, a heat at the back of my neck.
I’d be sold off like cattle to some sadistic asshole who would take what I’ve never given anyone, who would own me, control me, use me…
And for no rational reason, the Giuliano from last night swims up in my memory once more.
No. It’s disgusting. Clemenzas don’t give up control; we don’t submit.
“I can’t do it.” I stand, desperate to escape these thoughts, this place, my own treacherous body.
With an air of exasperation, Jesse stands too and grabs me by the wrist once more. “Of course you can. You’re just freaking out because the idea is new. Let me explain—”
But I yank out of his grip as the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a primal warning: I’m being hunted.
My body knows it before my mind does—that prickling sensation of being watched. Stalked. It’s an instinct I’ve honed during my time on the streets.
Jesse seems to sense my fear, looking around just like I am. “What is it?”
“I need to get out of here.”
“But Cal, think about it, will you? The auction—”
“I can’t do it,” I insist. “But thanks,” I add over my shoulder as I start walking as fast as I can back toward the entrance, fighting the urge to break into a run. Running will attract attention.
I’m weaving through the crowd, almost to the exit, when I slam directly into a wall of muscle.
Hands close around my arms. Huge hands. Familiar hands. And a voice I’d recognize anywhere, because I’ve been hearing it in my head since last night, tumbling around in the back of my brain.
“You really do need to watch where you’re going.”
I look up slowly, inevitably, into the face of the Giuliano.
He towers over me—broader, older, harder, making me feel small and helpless despite my athletic build. And those dark eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes me dizzy.
“Found you,” he says, low and intimate, like we’re lovers meeting after a long separation. “And this time I won’t let you run off.”
My body betrays me completely with a rush of blood to the groin. “Let me go,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, trying to act like the man I was raised to be—a Clemenza, a prince of this city, not the frightened rabbit from last night, squeaking and struggling.
His grip shifts, thumbs stroking over my shoulders in a mockery of comfort. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.” He smiles. “Not here, anyway.”
“You’re making a scene,” I choke out, acutely aware that the other club-goers are pushing past without even glancing our way.
“Am I?” He glances around with theatrical surprise, then leans down until his mouth is level with my ear. “Then maybe we should take this somewhere more private.”
Every survival instinct I have screams danger, but my body responds to his proximity with strange eagerness. I can smell him—his cologne, expensive and dark, and his own scent beneath, some kind of pheromone that makes me want to lean in instead of pulling away.
My brain finally starts catching up. Two meetings in two days. It’s not a coincidence. I try to pull away again. “I need to go.”
His expression shifts, frustration flickering across his features. “You’re in way over your head with people like Jesse fucking Foster.”
“There a problem here?”
I could die with relief. A bouncer has walked up, seeing a potential problem. The Giuliano’s grip loosens a fraction. “No problem,” he says.
The bouncer’s eyes narrow. “Kismet’s policies are clear, sir. All guests are to feel safe and comfortable in this establishment. This—” he flicks a finger between us “—doesn’t look comfortable.”
Something passes between the two of them. The hands fall away from my arms. “I’d hate to think I was making anyone uncomfortable,” the Giuliano says.
Is that irony in his voice?
I should run. Disappear into the crowd and put as much distance as possible between myself and this dangerous man who’s been stalking me through the city.
But I find myself rooted to the spot, staring up at him as he stares back. The blaze in his eyes hasn’t diminished. If anything, it’s intensified, as though being denied has only made him want me more.
The bouncer leans in to the Giuliano and says, “Why don’t you come with me and have a drink on the house. Sir.” It’s not a suggestion. But it’s also clear that the bouncer knows exactly who he’s dealing with. I get the feeling things would escalate, otherwise.
Reluctantly, my stalker steps back. But his eyes never leave me, even as I melt into the crowd, pushing toward the exit with trembling hands. I can feel that gaze burning into my back.
His ghost follows me out of the club, down into the subway as I jump the turnstile, the sound of his voice echoing in my head as I find a shadowy corner off the main platform to collapse in.
The systematic elimination of my Family, the careful way someone’s been picking us off one by one—it would take time, planning, resources. It would take the patience of a man happy to stalk his prey for weeks, learning patterns, vulnerabilities, fears.
A man powerful enough that even Morelli-aligned security treats him with wary respect.
The Giuliano looked at me like I belonged to him. Acted as though that bouncer was asking him to give up something he’d earned, something rightfully his.
I touch my arms where his hands held me, imagine those bruises deepening. If he’s the one killing us all, then I’m as good as dead. But another part of me, a shameful part, remembers the dirty promise in his voice when he said we should find somewhere private.
I must be a special kind of stupid to feel drawn to the man most likely to murder me.
I let my head fall back against the tiled wall. Something inside me breaks, and hopelessness overwhelms me.
Everything is gone.
My Family, my home, my safety, my future. And now I’m being hunted by someone who should terrify me, but instead makes me feel…
I allow myself exactly thirty seconds of weakness before I straighten my spine against the filthy subway wall. Even here, even now, I’m still a Clemenza. They’ve taken everything else, but they can’t take my name from me.
I won’t let them.
I get to my feet, intending to head back onto the platform proper, but the sound of hurried footsteps makes me glance up sharply. A shadow heralds a new arrival on the platform, wide-shouldered and elongated.
He found me. My heart jumps right up into my throat as the shadow-owner comes into view.
But it’s not the Giuliano.
It’s someone else entirely. Hoodie pulled up, face obscured, moving with the head-swiveling alertness of a man looking for a specific target.
And behind his thigh, held low and angled to stay out of sight, a knife catches the light.