13. Camilla
Istare at the midnight blue dress laid out in the middle of the bed.
Dress is probably a generous word for the scrap of fabric given the plunging neckline and the slits up both thighs that I’m pretty sure will make any underwear I wear visible.
Fantastic.
Just when things were already going so well for me, I got this extra gift from the universe.
I glance into the corner of the room where I found the camera the first night I was here, not that they did a very good job of concealing it. Except this one brings me none of the comfort the one at the complex did. I kind of liked knowing they were always keeping an eye on me, even if it was originally because they thought I was going to cause problems for them.
I sigh and start going through the motions of getting ready.
I find makeup on the bench in the bathroom and let out a steadying breath when I realize it’s all the stuff I used to use at home. But then I guess Charles was probably preparing for my arrival the day I ran. My father likely gave him a list of all the things I would need to settle into my new environment.
After six weeks of wearing nothing other than some lip balm each day, it’s weird going through my old routine, and when I’m finished and stare at the woman looking back at me in the mirror, I barely recognize her.
Staring back at me is the cold mafia princess I built myself up to be. No feelings. No emotions. No attachments. The dark cat eye I’ve sculpted is like the ones I used to wear almost daily, but now that I know what it’s like to care for others, I find it no longer feels natural, no longer feels like me, even if I need to be her tonight more than I ever have before.
I style my dark hair in big bouncy curls, and with one final look in the mirror, I move back toward the bed where the dress is mocking me.
Truthfully, I don’t hate it. Not half as much as I should. But the idea of wearing it for anyone other than the men of the Legion makes my fucking skin crawl.
Without allowing myself to dwell on it any longer, I change and slide a pair of shiny black pumps onto my feet just in time for the door to swing open.
I take a step back as if it will do anything to protect myself, but stop in my tracks when I see it isn’t Charles coming through the door, but someone I don’t recognize.
“Who are you?” I ask, forcing an edge of fear into my voice. It’s better they think I’m afraid of them because when it comes time for me to escape, they won’t see it coming.
“I’ve come to meet Charles’s bride.” The man’s deep brown eyes peruse my body shamelessly, and I fight the urge to cover myself. But if this is what my night is going to look like, I may as well get used to it now. “You are a pretty little thing, aren’t you.”
I open my mouth to tell him he can keep his judgments to himself, but quickly snap it shut a second later. Meek and afraid. Those are the only things I can show these men. I need them to underestimate me.
Instead, I brush my gaze over him, sizing him up. His dark hair is long and starting to turn gray around his broad shoulders, and his stocky build stands around six two. It’s not that I couldn’t take him down, but it would definitely be a struggle, and that’s a fight I don’t need to be getting into right before whatever Charles has planned for me tonight.
“Not overly chatty,” he comments, and I flick my eyes up to meet his. There’s something about the color that seems familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Hell, he probably did business with my father at some point or was in the book of our enemies my dad had me memorize before I finished elementary school.
“Are you attending Charles’s bachelor party?” I ask softly. It’s the only thing I can think to ask that isn’t outright rude.
“Unfortunately not.” He frowns and takes a step toward me, but I force my feet to remain rooted in place. He reaches up, his fingers brushing over my cheek in a move that seems almost caring, but I know better than to expect kindness when I’ve found myself in the belly of the beast. “But I’ll be sure to visit again real soon, Camilla.”
I can’t quite force out a response as he takes a step back and retreats from the room without another word.
What the hell was that? And will I be looking forward to more of the same tonight?
I stare at the sign for long seconds, my stomach churning uncomfortably.
When Charles told me he was bringing me to one of his clubs to celebrate his bachelor party, I thought he meant a nightclub.
But I certainly hadn’t prepared myself for a strip club.
Bile climbs up the back of my throat as Charles wraps an arm around my waist and steers me toward the front doors, smiling like the cat that got the fucking cream as every man we pass stares at my barely-covered tits and ass.
If I didn’t already know he was a fucking asshole, I sure as hell know now. I also need to start considering my escape plan more seriously, because if this is his idea of fun, there’s no way I’m sticking around for more of the same.
“Billy.” Charles greets an older man with a receding hairline and more gray hair than his original black. I recognize him from the book as an older member of the Davenport organization and someone you definitely do not want to get on the bad side of. If I recall correctly, he has a penance for cutting off limbs and mailing them to his victims’ families. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” But he doesn’t take his eyes off my breasts for long enough to look at the man of the hour. “And this must be your blushing bride?”
Charles tugs me closer to him, his hand on my hip digging in so hard I’m certain I’ll have bruises in the morning. “This is Camilla,” he confirms, but there’s an edge of possession in his tone that makes my skin crawl. The feel of his body pressed against mine makes my stomach churn uncomfortably.
“I was sad to hear you won’t be having a big wedding, but I understand why you have chosen to go the more intimate route.”
I chance a look up at Charles, who looks down at me expectantly. Is he wanting me to respond? I guess that makes sense. As the wife of a mafia boss, my role is to plan parties and look pretty, and isn’t a wedding the biggest and most meaningful party a woman ever gets to throw? It’s probably irrelevant that I haven’t and likely won’t have a say in anything that happens on Sunday. “It’s more us,” I say politely.
Billy gives me a knowing look before I’m pulled further into the club, and I finally take a look around. There’s a stage in the middle of the huge space, with two smaller stages on each side, each one with a pole in the center. The back of the room is lined with black booths, a few filled with men I don’t recognize, but who watch my every move with hunger.
On the stage furthest from where we’re standing, a thin, blonde woman grinds on the shiny metal while three men stare at her like she was made to entertain them. Usually, I’m all for women using what God gave them to make money. It’s the least we can do considering all the other shit we have to deal with that men don’t, but the dejection in her gaze makes my stomach revolt. Does she want to be here? Or is this part of Charles’s business that he tries to hide from the other families?
He skates the line of sex trafficking but never seems to step over it. Or has he, and we just don’t know about it?
That’s the question I’m asking myself when Charles steers me toward the large chairs in front of the center stage, and I’m so distracted by it that I don’t realize until it’s too late that there are people here I recognize.
My eyes meet Noah Thorne, his ice blue eyes looking me over in a way that’s totally different from the other men, and I realize quickly that he’s looking for any signs of injury. We don’t know each other well, but we did go to high school together, and he understands better than most the pressure of being the heir of a mafia organization.
Beside him is Knox Davenport. His cold eyes meet mine, and I try desperately to suck in a breath as he assesses me. I haven’t seen him since we left the warehouse they kept me in the first night, but his jet-black suit and shirt are the exact same as the ones he wore that day. Does he have anything else in his wardrobe?
“Camilla,” he greets me, and this time Charles doesn’t hold me against him like I’m a piece of property. Perhaps he’s stupid enough to believe the notion that family doesn’t betray one another.
“Knox,” I say, keeping my voice firm to hide the uncertainty that is beginning to wash over me.
Why the hell would Charles bring me here?
To rub my face in the fact he’ll still be fucking around once we’re married?
Or does he have something more sinister planned?