Chapter 9 Caligula
CALIGULA
The man who bought me for ten million dollars—Damiano Orsini, ruthless Enforcer for the Giulianos and possibly the man who has hunted my Family to the brink of extinction—settles back on the opposite seat.
He practically takes up the leather seating, thick thighs spreading wide in that dominant “I own this space” posture that makes me feel like a hamster huddled up opposite him.
The survival instinct that developed in me during my time on the streets makes me watchful and quiet. Because the ghost of his hand around my throat still burns, a phantom reminder that I now belong to this…this human mountain.
I should’ve taken my chances with the Russian.
I do know the name Orsini, now that I think about it. There’s always been talk about the Giuliano Enforcer being queer, but his fearsome reputation kept him safe. But that’s all I know about the name. Nothing about this father of his, who very well might have been killed by mine.
Damiano said his father died long ago, as long as I’ve been alive.
He’s spent twenty-one years stewing in his vengeance, but my father is beyond any vendetta.
He died soon after I turned eighteen, and it wasn’t from a bullet or a hit.
It was pancreatic cancer. He was here one month and gone the next.
So now I’m his surrogate. Lucky me.
I take a long breath, force my nerves to quiet down, and observe.
The way this Giuliano’s dark eyes burn with an almost religious fervor confirms it’s deeply personal for him.
But there’s something else there, too. His gaze keeps dropping to my mouth, my throat, the exposed skin above the cloak’s neckline, before he catches himself and his face tightens with what looks almost like… disgust.
No. Self-disgust.
He wants me. But he doesn’t want to want me.
I can use that. Use that desire warring with the darker motives driving him. His hands clench and unclench on his thighs, and I catch him staring at my mouth again.
The plug shifts inside me as the car takes a turn, pressing against nerves I didn’t know I had, and the cage grows tighter. Every bump in the road sends dual sensations rippling through my body.
I won’t adjust my position. There’s no comfortable way to sit with an object violating me, and I refuse to give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.
He pulls out a small, flat flask from his inner pocket and holds it out to me. “Have a drink.”
“No, thank you.” The last thing I need is alcohol clouding what little judgment I have left.
He wiggles the flask in my face. “Go on.”
“I told you—” I begin.
He lunges forward and grabs my face again, thick fingers digging into my cheeks. His hand is so large it engulfs my entire jaw.
“You don’t tell me anything,” he growls. “You do what you’re told. And I’m telling you to take a drink.”
But I notice the way his thumb brushes across my bottom lip as he pulls back—strangely gentle, even lingering.
Like he wanted an excuse to touch me.
I take the flask. I even take a sip when he gives me a warning glare, trying not to choke as it blazes down my throat.
And maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
It sends warmth flooding through me, dulling the edges of reality.
I chance a look out the window, taking in street signs and landmarks. We’re coming into Midtown East.
I need to make a plan. I can’t let him break my body or my mind, so that means I have to find a way into his. I want that ten million waiting for me at the end of this nightmare, and I also want to walk away with my sanity intact.
And my life, of course. According to the contract, he can’t kill me. But if this man is as powerful as I think he is, a contract with the Bratva might not stop him. So I’d better start ingratiating myself.
“Ten million dollars.” His words echo the number looping through my head as though he’s been listening in. “Is that what you think you’re worth, little prince?”
“Apparently it’s what you thought I was worth.”
So much for making nice.
He leans in and I catch his scent again. In different circumstances, it might even be appealing. His breathing has changed, become slightly heavier, and when his eyes dart to my mouth this time, his pupils dilate.
“I would have paid more,” he confides. “Much more.”
“Then I guess you got yourself a bargain.”
He seems to enjoy my defiance, a quick smirk appearing and then vanishing. “You really a virgin?”
“Virginity is a social construct.”
He laughs. “Oh, sure. And I’m looking forward to deconstructing it for you. I’m just wondering how much was for show and how much is real. You’ve never fucked?”
He’s so crass it makes my teeth ache. And despite the fact that virginity is a social construct, that it’s meaningless, that I’ve never been fucked as he so crudely puts it…
Despite all that, it’s still embarrassing to admit the truth. Twenty-one years old and never been kissed, let alone anything else.
“Do you think the Obelisk would lie to you?” I counter.
He laughs again, but it has an edge this time, and I catch the way his hands tighten on his thighs. “I think Clemenzas lie as easy as they breathe.”
This time I’m the one who leans forward, ignoring the shifting of the plug inside me. His attention snaps to the parting of my cloak. “I am a virgin. Which means I can be anything you want me to be.”
It’s going to happen sooner or later. I’d rather be the one in control when it does. So I slide from the seat to my knees on the floor, letting the cloak gape wide, and rest my hands on his thighs.
“With your permission?” I murmur.
He sits perfectly still but his gaze locks onto my mouth. I think I’ve won.
Then his hand shoots out, wraps around my throat, and lifts. He throws me back into my seat like I weigh nothing. “I don’t want your whore tricks, Clemenza. Try that again and you’ll regret it.”
I’m gasping, more from shock than the brief pressure on my throat. I was sure he wanted me. His whole body went taut when I knelt before him. But he’s fighting it, denying himself.
No. Not himself. He’s denying me power.
This complicates things. A man ruled by his appetites can be manipulated. A man who can resist temptation when it’s literally on its knees before him?
That’s a different kind of monster entirely.
He’s watching me with amusement. “Did you think it would be that easy?” he asks. “That you could bat those pretty lashes and I’d forget what your father did to mine?”
Carefully, I say, “I thought you might be like the other men who were bidding on me tonight.”
“I’m not like any other man. And you’re not going to whore your way out of what’s coming.”
Oh, but he is like other men. He’s just better at fighting it. The bulge in his pants hasn’t entirely subsided. He wants me. He just won’t let himself have me, not if I’m the one calling the shots.
So I’ll have to make him think it’s his idea.
“We’re almost home,” he goes on. “So I’ll tell you the rules you’ll be living by for the next year.”
“I’m on tenterhooks,” I say before I can stop myself.
He reaches for the window control, lowering it a fraction. The November air rushes in, cutting through the interior warmth and raising goosebumps across my exposed skin.
“Then listen up, golden boy, because I’m only going to tell you once. You break these rules, you’ll hurt in ways you never imagined possible. Understand?”
“I’m all ears.”
“Rule number one,” he says, finger tapping lightly on the window control, “you do what I fucking tell you.”
The window drops another inch.
“Rule two: refer to rule fucking one.”
Another inch on the window. I start to shiver.
“You do what you’re told, we’ll get along fine.”
“And if I don’t?” I manage through gritted teeth.
The window drops all the way down, icy night air rushing in and all around me. He leans forward to place his palm flat against my bare chest, feeling the tremors I can no longer control.
“Then I’ll make you suffer until you’re begging me for death—and I won’t give it to you.”
He raises the window again, cutting off the arctic wind. The return of warmth feels like a reward, and I hate that relief runs through me.
“Any more questions?” he asks with a grin.
I might as well find out now. “Are you going to kill me?”
The car turns down a small street and pulls up to the curb. “Home sweet home,” he says, ignoring my question.
Damiano Orsini seems very eager to begin whatever he has planned, kicking the door open before the driver can even exit the vehicle.
I consider running. But where would I go?
Barefoot and naked except for a thin gold cloak, caged and plugged, in the middle of Manhattan on a November night, with no money, no ID, no allies?
I’d be right back where I started—worse off, actually, since the Bratva wouldn’t be any happier with me than Damiano would be.
On the other hand, he might kill me if I stay.
But I don’t think he will. Not immediately, anyway.
He wants me to suffer first. And I certainly haven’t forgotten the reason I sold myself in the first place.
If I stay with Damiano Orsini—assuming that he won’t just kill me as soon as we’re inside his house—I’ll have one year of relative safety.
If I can survive whatever this monster has planned, ten million dollars waits for me. Enough to disappear forever.
Besides, I’m nearly certain now that Damiano isn’t the one systematically eliminating the Clemenza line. He’s a pro. Whoever killed the others, they were vicious, but they weren’t a professional. I’ve seen enough pro hits to know the difference. Which means the killer is still out there.
If I go back on the streets, I know I’ll die. As for Orsini…
I think I can survive him. I can study him, learn him, find a way to control him.
He reaches in to grab up the golden leash from the floor and I hurry out of the limo before he can yank my chain again—literally.
A dark brick townhouse looms over me, commanding its corner lot with confidence.
The brick shell is studded with tall windows, every one of them shuttered from the inside.
Multi-story bay windows protrude from the center of the facade, the lowest level of which has a delicate wrought iron Juliet balcony.
The front door, large and black, is set down a few steps from the street and sheltered by a long white stone portico with columns.
So the Beast lives in a castle.
I glance up and down the street, trying to get a lock on where we are.
Mature trees line the cul-de-sac, but their branches are bare of leaves, allowing me a view of the East River.
I can see the Pepsi Cola sign across the water, and that’s the 59th Street Bridge to the left.
Yes, it’s Midtown East. Turtle Bay, maybe.
Damiano knocks twice on the top of the car and it pulls away, leaving me alone with my new owner. The promise of a bitter approaching winter bites through the thin fabric of the gold cloak, and the sidewalk might as well be ice beneath my bare feet.
Damiano smiles as he watches me shivering.
“Better get you warmed up,” he says.
I follow him down the three steps of the portico and watch him open the heavy wooden door with a keypad lock, but I don’t catch the code he enters. He pushes the door open and gestures me inside first, as though I’m an invited guest rather than a purchased prisoner.
As I cross that threshold, the warmth inside washing over my frozen skin in a cruel mockery of comfort, it feels like I’ve just willingly walked into hell. The heavy door locks behind me with an ominous click—the sound of my freedom disappearing.
One year. I just need to survive one year.
But as Damiano’s hand comes to rest possessively on the nape of my neck, guiding me deeper into his lair, I wonder if what emerges from this house after a year will still be me.