Chapter 5
CALIGULA
The second I hit send on my text to Jesse Foster, I think I’ve made the wrong decision. The screen goes dark. I put down the phone. And then I go into the dirty, doorless attached bathroom and throw up all that champagne I drank at Kismet.
This shitty hotel room cost me the very last of my cash, and I’m out of the protein bars I lifted at a bodega a few days back. So I’ve made the right call. The only call. After getting chased down into the subway by not one, but two crazy fuckers, I’m ready to admit I’m out of options.
Sure, one of them saved me from the other—but there’s no guarantee he was any safer.
I finish communing with the porcelain, rinse out my mouth, and sit back on the bed. I have no other choice. No. Other. Choice. Not if I want to stay alive. And I do, very badly.
My phone buzzes next to me, and I jump about a foot.
Tomorrow 8pm
A location pin follows.
Panic rises, fast as a freight train. Tomorrow night? I’m not ready. Not emotionally, not physically—
I end up back in the bathroom, dry heaving.
Fantastic.
When the wave passes, I stare into the cracked mirror above the hotel sink as I suck in breath after breath, praying for the nausea to recede.
The man in the mirror is a ghost of the person I remember—the one who assumed his Family name was all the armor he’d ever need.
But that name has become a stone around my neck, a target on my back.
“You have no other choice,” he tells me.
I don’t bother arguing. He’s right.
My sleep is broken. The next morning, I scrub myself down with cheap hotel soap, comb my hair with my fingers, and pull on the same clothes I wore last night.
My stomach cramps hard enough to make me double over.
I’ve missed so many meals lately that my body will have to start eating itself, just like the ouroboros, the tail-eating snake that serves as our Family sigil.
“Just one month,” the guy in the mirror tells me this morning. “You can survive anything for a month. And one day, you’ll make them all pay.”
Every single one of them.
Including whichever motherfucker buys me tonight.
The door is black metal, featureless except for a subtle engraving of a slender obelisk barely visible in the low light of the alley.
It seems unlikely that something Jesse insisted was “incredibly exclusive” would be accessed by this Lower East Side back alley reeking of piss and rotting garbage, but that’s the Bratva for you.
Nonno Lou always hated the Russian mob, said they brought the city down.
Now they’re my only hope.
Nonno Lou must be spinning in his grave. Well, he can spin all he likes. I don’t plan on joining him there.
The door slides open silently at my tentative knock.
Jesse stands there in a deserted hallway, smelling of weed and dressed like he just came from a GQ shoot.
“Cal!” he squeals, and then goes on dramatically, “Oh, thank God you didn’t chicken out.
My owner has a good friend who’s very interested.
He’s really kind, and sooo generous, you’re guaranteed a great time…
” He trails off as he looks me up and down with a critical eye.
“Well, you’ll look better when we’re done,” he says.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he adds at the look on my face.
“Done with what?” I ask suspiciously.
“Preparations.” He grabs my arm and starts towing me down the hall. “Come on. We’re going to be late if you don’t hurry.”
We go through an inner door and the world changes. Dark wood panels and thick, deep red carpeting absorb sound. Dim wall lights bathe everything in a Renaissance glow. And it’s deathly quiet. “Where is everyone?” I ask halfway down the next corridor.
“You came in via the service entrance,” Jesse explains, guiding me through yet another door. “The members come in from the private garage below. They need discretion.”
And when we get deeper inside, I hear the low rumble of voices.
Men’s voices. Rich, powerful men discussing their rich, powerful lives.
I strain to listen, wondering if I’d recognize any of them.
The place might be owned by the Bratva, but Jesse told me it’s open to anyone with enough money to pay the exorbitant members’ fee—anyone except the Morellis or their allies.
That’s the one thing that gives me a little hope. At least I won’t be bought by a Morelli. I’d open up my own veins before I allowed them power over me.
I focus on my feet. Left, right, left. Or I watch Jesse’s back, wondering what’s really going on behind those big blue eyes of his. Jesse is owned. Property. And in a few hours, I will be too.
My skin goosebumps despite the perfectly regulated temperature.
The rabbit warren finally ends at a door. Jesse knocks three times, pauses three seconds, enters. The office inside is fitted out in the same dark-red-and-wood aesthetic, lined with books I bet no one has ever cracked open.
There are no windows.
The man behind the desk doesn’t stand to greet us. He merely looks me head to toe. “The merchandise, I presume,” he says.
Something proud, something Clemenza-born, snarls in my chest. I imagine wrapping my hands around this man’s neck, watching those insolent eyes bulge as I squeeze. But I don’t. My hands remain at my sides, and I keep my face still.
“My name is Daniel King,” he goes on.
His accent, like his name, is upper-crust English, not the slightest Russian tinge. But he’s Bratva. I know a gangster when I see one. I bet he was born Daniil Korolyov or something like that.
I don’t bother to respond to his introduction. He’s beneath me, and he already knows who I am anyway.
He makes an impatient gesture. “Take a seat.”
I do, while Jesse stays at the door. I wonder if he’s actively blocking it.
If I tried to leave, would I be stopped?
But I have no more time to think about that as I’m peppered with questions.
Cold, clinical questions that strip me of any remaining dignity.
Medical history. Allergies. Pain tolerance.
HIV status. STI history. Sexual experience.
“I’m a virgin,” I mutter in response to the last.
“You’re not on the stage yet,” King snaps. “I need complete honesty from you so I can—”
“I’m a virgin,” I repeat.
Jesse gasps behind me. Sharp. Delighted. Like he just found out his favorite show got renewed.
King’s interest sharpens visibly. “Entirely untouched?” he asks, leaning forward. “You’ve never even sucked—”
“No.”
“And no one has ever—”
“No.”
He studies me, then writes something down under his other notes. “That significantly increases your value.”
Value. Like I’m a fucking collector’s item.
One month, I remind myself. One month for money and time off the streets. I can’t think properly while I’m exhausted and hungry and afraid for my life. I need time to get my head together, make a plan, find a path.
A contract is placed in front of me and I read key phrases that make nausea rise in me once more.
Merchandise may not refuse any act unless specifically excluded in this contract…
Owner maintains complete control of merchandise’s body, including but not limited to sexual access, temporary physical modification, and display to or use by select individuals...
Merchandise must comply with all grooming, dietary, and behavioral requirements...
The “protections” are minimal. No permanent disfigurement, and I’m to be returned to the Obelisk at the end of the contract alive and physically healthy.
Nothing about my mental health, of course.
“Wait,” I say sharply. “This contract is for a year, not a month.”
“Naturally. Given the amount of money you’ll need to disappear from someone who appears to be a professional hitman, I took the liberty of adjusting the parameters to better meet your needs.”
How does he know about—
I turn around in my seat to glare at Jesse, who has developed a deep fascination with his cuticles.
“Please, Mr. Clemenza,” King says impatiently. “You are wasting time. The preparations for tonight will be extensive. But if you want to back out, if you think you can get a better price for yourself elsewhere, if you prefer to sell yourself on the streets—you are, of course, welcome to try.”
I feel numb all over. A year? “I can’t do a year.”
“Cal, sweetie,” Jesse says. “Be reasonable.” He comes closer, sits on the edge of the desk. “You need the money,” he stage whispers.
“I told you that in confidence—”
King sighs, like we don’t have time for my outrage. And I’m annoyed at myself, too. I spilled gossip to a gossip queen. What did I think was going to happen? At my age, I shouldn’t need a new lesson in keeping my own counsel.
“I told him you needed protection.” Jesse’s voice drops to the same persuasive tone he used at Kismet. “And look what Mr. King is offering—a deal that solves your problem instead of just putting a Band-Aid on it.”
King watches this exchange with the detached interest of someone observing lab rats in a maze.
I shake my head slowly. “I will not give up a year of my life.”
“Cal. Sweetheart,” Jesse sighs. “Look at me. Really look.” He gestures to his designer clothes, his perfect skin, the expensive phone in his hand. “Do I look miserable? Do I look abused?”
My eyes drop to his wrists, but he just gives me a suggestive wink.
“My owner adores me,” he continues. “I have my own chauffeur. I live in a penthouse on Billionaires’ Row.
I go to Paris or Rome or London for the weekend if I feel like it.
I have freedom, Cal. And I adore my owner.
Plus his friend, who’s interested in you?
Total catch. Powerful, rich, protective as hell. You’ll live like a prince.”
“For a whole year.”
“For a whole year that will feel like a vacation, and you’ll be safe. That’s what you want, right? No one will be able to touch you for that year. Whoever buys you, they’ll want to protect their investment. And at the end, you’ll have a nest egg waiting for you.”
What he’s saying is too close to the truth for me to ignore. Safety. For a year.
He sees me wavering and his voice softens, becomes pleading. “Cal, please. I don’t want you to get hurt—or worse. This is your chance. Take it.”
“What if I change my mind halfway through?” I ask. “What if I want to leave before the time is up?”
He laughs. “You won’t want to.”
“But what if I do?”
King cuts in crisply. “That would be between you and your owner. The Obelisk can, of course, provide a mediator if necessary.”
Mediator. Right. Like my grandfather was a “legitimate businessman.”
But Jesse is right. I need the protection being offered here. The money. The safety. Yet I also need to show Daniel King that I’m not quite the fool he seems to think. “How is the money paid to me—and how much is your commission?”
“The Obelisk retains ten percent commission on the buyer’s final price, up front.
The rest of the money will be kept in trust for you until the year is over, then paid into an account of your choosing.
Any interest accrued will be remitted to you with it.
Now, enough talking. It’s time for you to leave, Mr. Clemenza—or to sign here.
” He taps the contract and pushes a pen over.
I pick up the pen slowly. “This can’t possibly be legally binding.”
“You’re a Clemenza. You of all people should understand how the terms of a contract like this might be enforced.”
I look up at him sharply. “I don’t want you to tell people my name. At the auction. I need to be completely anonymous. I don’t even want to show my face.”
“Seeing your face and knowing your name will raise the price. Who in this city would not enjoy a little private time with a desperate, virgin heir, fallen so far from grace?”
I put down the pen.
King gives an annoyed tut. “Fine. Anonymity. Now sign.”
I pick up the pen again and stare at the contract, wondering if I can really do this. Jesse rests a hand on my shoulder. I can’t tell if it’s meant to comfort or to keep me in my seat. His grip is tight enough to hurt. “It’s only a year,” he says. “That’s nothing. And think of the money…”
One year to come up with a plan, and at the end of it, I’ll have enough to disappear. Enough to start over. Enough to be safe.
I picture Louie’s sightless eyes once more.
It’s an out-of-body experience, watching the pen in my hand scratch my name across the line.
Daniel King smiles at last, revealing perfect white veneers. “Welcome to the Obelisk.”