Chapter Two
In which we learn that there's at least one club on the planet that will really make a guy pay for being an asshole to the waitstaff.
“Ivy…”
“Hey, sexy! Bring that sweet ass over here!”
Fucking American tourists.
Okay, I might be American but I never act like these frat boys soon to turn into equally misogynistic tech bros. They swarm across Italy like locusts, drinking and vomiting in the gutter and complaining that there’s not a McDonald’s within staggering distance.
Taking a fortifying breath, I turn to the table. “Cosa posso offrirvi, signori?”
The noisiest one wearing a red baseball cap backward says, “Huh?”
“What can I get you, gentlemen?” I emphasize the ‘gentleman’ part, hoping they might take the hint and act like one.
They don’t.
“Are you on the menu?” Backward Baseball Cap Wearing Guy leers.
“Do you know, that’s the first time I’ve heard that tonight?” I ask brightly.
“It is?”
Leaning closer, I whisper, “No. You’re the fifteenth guy to bring that weak shit and the girls and I have a pool. Whoever gets the biggest load of pathetic pickup lines wins the pot tonight. I really need that money so by all means, try out a few on me. Bring your A-game. I’ll be back when you decide on your drinks.”
The cheesy smile is still plastered on his face as if he’s not sure if that was an invitation or an insult.
Club Vice is the most notorious club in Milan, offering three different sorts of “entertainment.” There’s the downstairs, which we servers jokingly call the Bowels of Hell because it’s always elbow to elbow, sweaty bodies rubbing up against each other and shouting at the bartenders for more booze. Getting through the crowd to deliver drinks is like a trawler trying to break through the ocean ice in the Antarctic. Slow. Messy. Often impossible.
The second level is for the beautiful people, with elegant suede walls, plush seating, and gorgeous artwork. There’s a chef the Toscanos stole from a Michelin-starred restaurant in France who caters to their every culinary wish. Memberships on the second floor start at 100,000 Euros a year.
Then, there’s the third level. The goal of every server here is to make it onto the third floor because the money there is insane. Tips are lavish, gifts of jewelry and cars… I’ve heard all the rumors. The third floor is wildly lucrative for the servers because the owners have certain requirements. First among them, the server being able to deliver food and drinks, smile pleasantly, and make the guests feel as special as they demand to be. And do it while the guests are naked and likely fucking furiously with one or half a dozen other people.
I’ve never been in a sex club. I’m pretty sure I never wanted to, but I can overlook a hell of a lot of debauchery if the money means I can finally make sure my bills are paid.
Pulling down the short skirt of my glittery silver dress - and then instantly hiking up the neckline that dips too low - I sideswipe a drunk stumbling in my direction and make it back to the bar without being groped. The lights flashing from the DJ booth are blinding, bouncing off every mirrored surface as the dancers high above us writhe and twist in their aerial silks.
There’s a haze rising over the dance floor, an eye-watering funk of sweat, a million perfumes and colognes fighting for dominance, booze, and sex. Though doing it out in the open is forbidden on this floor, I’ve always wondered if they pipe the scent in from the third level. Maybe it’s a pheromonal mix designed to make everyone take leave of their senses.
It seems to be doing the job because couples are grinding on each other in every dark corner. If I can put up with this level for mediocre tips, I will sail through whatever unnatural activity they can get up to on the third floor if it means my wages quadruple.
“Ivy, how are you doing tonight?”
I spin around with a weak smile that brightens to a genuine one when I see Lucca Toscano standing there with a kind smile and his hand around the throat of one of the frat boys. He’s my favorite of the three Toscano brothers, he’s always respectful and considerate to the servers and I love his Russian wife Tatiana.
“Oh… uh, I’m good, Signor Toscano. You look… busy.”
He chuckles heartily, his hand still in a death grip on the purple-faced frat boy. “This little coglione, this fucker had his hand up Isabella’s skirt. Has he been bothering you?”
Stifling a spiteful little chuckle, I say, “Not anymore.”
Lucca nods pleasantly, squeezing his victim’s throat just a bit harder before throwing him to one of the bouncers. “Get that group of assholes out of here, but make sure they leave a generous tip for their server first. In fact…” He plucks a wallet from the pocket of Backward Baseball Cap Wearing Guy and sifts through the bills before pulling two hundred Euros out and handing them to me.
“Hey! That’s all my money-” He looks at Lucca’s forbidding expression and nods weakly.
“That was nice of you, thank you,” I brush my hair out of my eyes. I’d started with two really cute buns on top of my head and it’s now tangled into something halfway between an updo and a badger’s den.
“You’ll be treated with respect or we’ll kick their fucking ass,” he says sternly. “Never be afraid to let management or one of the bouncers know.”
“I- I was wondering…” I step closer as he turns to leave. “Do you have any openings on the third level? I think I’ve been here long enough to show my work ethic, and…”
He folds his arms, studying me. “The third level is very different from this one.”
“I know,” I nod firmly like that’s totally going to sell it. “But I feel like I can handle the responsibility of such a… uh… complicated position.” The blood drains from my face as I realize that sounds sexual. “I meant, I understand the whole experience is that of a sensitive nature and you require discreet employees that-”
Lucca holds up his hand, laughing. “I know what you meant, Ivy. I don’t think it’s possible to talk about the third-level club without sounding like a bad porno.”
“Thank you,” I smile weakly.
“I’ll check in with Giulia and see how we’re doing with staffing,” he promises, “I know there’s some high-roller events coming up. I’ll put in a good word for you.”
My tiny shared flat is only four blocks away from the club, hidden in a private street here in Milan. That’s the main reason I rented it. But at three am, the bar district is at its worst. Too many mean drunks. Too many partygoers pissed off from getting kicked out after last call. Then, the usual clot of drug dealers, pimps, and general lowlifes, cruising freely up and down the street.
After getting mugged for the first time when I was in London, I changed my approach on how I maneuvered the streets. I get out of my tiny server’s dress before I leave the club and put on some baggy-ass jeans with my wallet sewed into the inside of the pants, a baseball cap pulled low, and a shitty-looking backpack that no self-respecting thief would steal. I walk fast, don’t respond to anyone, and keep my hand on my pepper spray.
“Ciao, bella signora…”
“Perché non vieni qui?”
No, I am not your pretty lady, asshole. And no, I will not come over there. I don’t even bother to ask myself if anyone ever actually responded to this bullshit because the answer is, of course not. Yet these jackals shout it every night like this is the time some girl will peel off from her group of friends to scream, “Take me! I’m yours!”
The light’s out in the hallway again. I’d ask our landlady Mrs. Accardi if she could replace it, but her usual response to such requests is to blow smoke in my face and slam her door. She’s been renting out carved-up portions of her house for years and has no interest in whether one of her tenants trips and falls to their death on her splintery stairs, much less if they can see to walk up them.
If I’m lucky, my roommates - Jeanie, a student on a break year from Australia and Gabby, who sings on the second floor at Club Vice - will have left me a liter or two of hot water so I can take a decent shower. God, I hope they left me some water.
The thought that once I had half a dozen bathrooms to pick from when I wanted a shower seems laughable now. Did I really grow up in that mansion, spend my summers at horse camp and the rest of the year in boarding school?
I can’t seem to remember a time when I didn’t have to add up purchases on my phone at the checkout line to make sure I had enough money and didn’t embarrass myself.
“Thank you, to all the lesser gods of water-based implements,” I sigh gratefully, toweling my hair dry. There is enough hot water for a full five, glorious minutes and by the time I’m shaking out my blankets for the couch, the rest of the night’s clamoring has dulled to a buzz in the back of my head. This is a one-bedroom flat, so Jeanie and Gabby share the bedroom and I get the couch in the tiny living room. I’m tired enough these days that I can sleep through anything less than Jeanie’s attempts at Karaoke.
One last thing…
Pulling my burner phone out from the underside of the couch, I dial the only number in it.
“Sloan, are you all right?”
Relief sends an infuriating wave of moisture to my eyes. Carmella sounds calm, which means Nate had a good day.
“I’m good, everything’s fine. I’m just checking in on you two. How did Nate do with his chelation appointment?”
“He wasn’t happy,” I hear the wry humor in her tone, “he threatened to kill the doctor and feed him to the poor.”
“So, like always then.” I crawl out the kitchen window and huddle on the creaky fire escape. There’s club music echoing down the street and bursts of drunken laughter, but I can still smell the sweet scent of oregano from the herbalist shop and the tang of sea salt from the ocean. “Did Dr. Ramirez change his diet again?”
“No, he was pleased Nate was tolerating complex carbohydrates again.”
“Oh, good.” Resting my head against the windowsill, I struggle to keep my eyes open.
“There is something…” she says regretfully. I’m suddenly wide awake.
“What? Have you seen anyone hanging around? Or phone calls? Are you getting random calls?”
“No! No,” she hurries to calm me, “we’re safe, I’ve seen nothing that worries me. It’s about the clinic payments.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off my oncoming headache. “Tell me.”
“They’re raising costs, I could tell Dr. Ramirez was genuinely regretful to have to tell me.”
“How much more?”
“Another $5,000 a month,” she says quietly.
Five thousand. It may as well be five hundred bazillion dollars.
“Okay… okay. Well, I…”
Don’t you dare cry!
“Sloan, I’m sorry,” she says miserably. “I can start researching clinics again.”
“We both know this is the best option,” I sigh, “maybe the only one. I’ll call the Broker and see if he’s sold my mother’s necklace yet. That would bring in at least twenty thousand.”
“What time is it there?” she scolds gently. “Get some sleep. We’ll figure this out, okay?”
“Yeah,” I’m nodding into the phone like an idiot. “I got this. Goodnight, C. Thank you, for everything.”
“Goodnight, you get some sleep, you hear me?”
My smile drops as the call does. Another five thousand dollars a month?
Well, shit.