6. Chapter Six—Carlotta
Chapter Six—Carlotta
Dressed head to toe in black, the calling card of The Thirteen hiding safely in my handbag, I stick my hand out into road to flag down a yellow cab.
Wincing at the scream of tires on the asphalt, I rip open the door, crawling across the backseat, all while reeling off the address to the driver.
He quirks his bushy brow at me in the rearview mirror, perhaps recognizing the name of the strip club I’m about to be paying a visit but doesn’t speak a word.
It’s the way I prefer it.
A quiet calm descends over me as I peer out of the grimy window to watch the streets of New York whiz by.
Blinding lights, cracked asphalt, skyscrapers so tall they almost touch the edge of Heaven and the hustle and bustle of New Yorkers—they all blend, a myriad of colors and smells and sounds, blurring into one in front of my eyes.
It would have been cheaper to walk, or perhaps even take the subway. But, if tonight is to go wrong for any reason, I need to have at least one witness who’s willing to vouch for my presence.
The people on the street and the subway are too engrossed in their own doings to hyperfocus on others—a blessing usually.
But not tonight.
It’s for the same reasoning that I’m dressed the way I am. To stand out.
I thought all-black was fitting to wear to a secret meeting called by a secret group. But I stand out like a sore thumb with my flaming locks of wavy red hair cascading down my back.
Plus, the dark color conceals the small knife hidden between my breasts. I know the invitation called for all weapons to be left at the door, but I’d be stupid to be going into a strange meeting with The Thirteen, completely defenseless.
“Here ya go.” The cab driver grins, pulling up the curb side, engine still idling.
While I pretend to fish around in my handbag for some change, I force my tone into one of flippancy.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Eight fifty seven.”
Nodding, I press a twenty-dollar bill into his outstretched palm. “Thanks. Keep the change.”
A witness and a time stamp. Perfect.
Slamming the cab door behind me, I hardly gaze up at the bright neon lights spelling out EUPHORIA before I duck inside.
If the cab driver is watching, I don’t want to be seen dawdling outside the strip club like I’ve never been here before.
A sultry beat kisses my ears as I stride inside, nodding at the muscular security guards standing on either side of the doors. I’m not quite sure if they’re going to be a help or a hindrance to my cause tonight.
Wrapping my hand around the railing, I follow the steps down a spiral pattern, unsure of what I’ll find at the bottom.
My heart races in my chest, but I keep a neutral expression on my face, eyes surveying the open space before me.
Under the neon lights, a bar takes up most of the right wall. A stage takes up the left wall, a woman currently gyrating against the shiny metal pole much to the excitement of the growing crowd sprawled over the seating area.
Raising to my tiptoes, I spot at least four different corridors leading away from the main area. I wonder what those could be—
“You lost, sweetheart?”
My lip curls upwards at the sight of a disheveled businessman, suit jacket half hanging off his lank frame, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead, a half drunken bottle of beer loosely held between his fingers, leering at me.
The pungent smell of his body odor tickles my nostrils when he takes a step closer, tongue poking out to wet his lips.
“I asked you—”
“Get away from me,” I spit, my hand going to touch the space between my breasts where the handle of my small knife sits in an attempt to reassure myself.
Whatever he sees on my hardened face is enough to have him raising both of his bushy brows, hands rising in the universal ‘I surrender’ sign as he backs away.
Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I stride on shaky legs towards the lit-up-neon bar top.
“Cocktails are 2-4-1,” reels one of the women, hardly even glancing in my direction as she reaches for a clean pint glass from the rack above her head. “Shots are extra, but—”
“I’m here for a meeting with The Thirteen.”
That gets her attention.
Fingers curled tightly around the glass in her hand she looks at me, her gloss slicken lips falling open.
“But you’re a woman.”
I cock a manicured brow. “How very astute of you.”
“Are you one of their…” She trails off, but I catch her meaning. Her amber eyes gliding down the length of my body.
When her gaze eventually lands back on my face, I narrow my own stare. “One of their what?”
“Never mind. I—” The rest of her sentence is drowned out by the cheers and whistles emanating from the crowd as the voice over the speakers announces a new dancer. “Please welcome to the stage, Tease!”
The sultry music transforms into something more drum and bass, the volume turned so high I can feel the sticky floor vibrating beneath my feet. A dark-haired woman appears, much to the delight of the patrons, her all white outfit leaving very little to the image.
By the time I turn my attention back to the bartender, I find her still trying to hide her shock at my presence—she’s making a terrible go of it.
“The Thirteen?” I press, raising my watch and squinting when a strobe of green neon lighting passes me by, making it incredibly difficult to make out the placement of the two hands on my clock face.
If I’m correct, I make it two minutes past nine.
Great. I’m late already.
“Shush.” The woman signals to her co-worker to take her place, rounding the bar and making a grab for my upper arm. “Mr. Folonari won’t appreciate you drawing attention to the meeting. Do you have your invitation?”
I allow her to lead me along the back of the rowdy crowd and into the one of the corridors leading the furthest away from the stage.
She flicks a switch on the wall, plunging us both into harsh, florescent, almost yellow tinged, strip lighting.
Blinking back the silver spots dancing across my vision, I thrust the thick card between us, watching as she turns the invitation over in her hands.
Satisfied, she presses the card into my chest and points to the metal staircase leading so far down to the underbelly of the club that I can’t see anything but looming darkness ahead. Who knows where the end lies.
“Down. Take a left. He’ll meet you there.”
Instructions given, she turns on her heel, closing the door behind her, leaving me alone.
Or, at least, I think I’m alone.
Curling my palms around the railing, the cold metal biting into my flesh, I duck my chin to peer into the nightshade coated depths, ignoring the tickle of my unbound hair as the strands kiss my cheeks.
I strain my ears, listening out for the low hum of male voices, but to no avail. Nothing but silence and the quick thrum of my pulse raises up to greet me. I can’t even hear the music blasting through the club speakers or the rowdy cheer of the crowd.
I shiver, gooseflesh erupting over my skin, hidden beneath the thin layer of my black zip-up jacket.
If I can’t hear them, then…
Out here, I don’t think anyone will be able to hear me scream.
I feel my heart jump, throat tighten; the binds of fear beginning to take a hold of me.
But I can’t afford to back out now.
Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I recall the image of Cristiano lying dead asleep in his silk laded coffin.
I need to do this for him; it’s my first step in finding out how he really died.
Sinking my teeth into my lower lip, I bite down hard enough to taste the copper tang of blood as it welts on my flesh. The pain zips through me fast like a whip, jolting my body back into the here and now.
Brushing my fingers against the small blade between my breasts and the larger knife hidden in my leather boot to reassure myself with their heavy presence, I take a step forward, and then another, descending down, down, down into the unknown.
Thirty-four steps. I count each and every one until I land in a dank, dimly lit cellar, stagnant water, the source of a rancid smell, visibly dripping down the exposed brick walls.
There’s hardly enough room to swing a cat, something, I realize, will be more of a hindrance than anything if I have to fight off a potential assailant.
I really hope it won’t come to that.
Noting my surroundings, I decide to take a right, walking ten paces before I reach a dead end. Great.
I retrace my steps, only then remembering the bartender upstairs and her so-called instructions.
Down. Take a left. He’ll meet you there.
Who the fuck is he?
I don’t allow myself to even think about racing back up the metal stairs, out of the club and into the street beyond.
I’ve gotten this far. I just need to—
There’s a man waiting at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, eyes trained on me.
Straightening my spine and ignoring the tremble in my legs, I walk towards him, shortening the distance between us until he’s within arm’s reach.
“Carlotta Bellucci,” he utters, not a question but rather a statement.
I search his face, the heavy ridge of his furrowed brows, the slight crooked offset of his nose, the sour pucker of his lips, trying to find any hint of familiarity. Could he be the man who sent the parcel boy to drop off a bouquet of dead black roses and my brother’s finger?
He certainly appears capable; dangerous looking hands clenched together, each of his hairy knuckles tattooed and bearing a different letter.
“Who are you?” I find my voice, proud of myself when it doesn’t crack with fear. “Are you Mr. Folonari?”
Mr Whoever He Is throws his head back and laughs, exposing his gold capped teeth sitting in the back of his mouth.
I take an involuntary step back at the loud noise, unprepared for such a reaction.
Finally, he looks back at me, brawny shoulders still shaking with laughter. “I wouldn’t wish to be him for anything in the world, kid. You got your invitation?”
Shocked into silence, I hand over my calling card, careful not to let out fingers brush. Maybe I should have worn gloves.
Nodding, more to himself than anything, I watch as his rips up the card between his meaty fingers, dropping the shreds to the floor like they’re nothing.
I don’t manage to get my protest out of my clogged throat, before he tips his chin towards the door I’ve hardly registered he’s standing outside of.
“Weapons off. Leave them in the pile. The boss don’t like them inside.”
Whoever this boss is, he certainly has a lot of rules.
I follow his line of sight, finding a pile of weapons—small knifes, long knives and a couple of guns, their safety latches catching in the overhead light—beside the door.
Finding myself with little choice but to comply, I slide my palm inside the calf of my leather boot, retrieving the wicked long blade hidden there.
It lands in the pile with a loud clatter that vibrates against the cold brick walls surrounding me.
Stepping back, I push down the overwhelming wave of nausea and fear rising in me with the lack of secure weight pressing against my calf. I curl my fingers into a fist, the edges of my nails creating crescent moon divots in my flesh, to stop myself from…
From what?
Picking the knife back up and turning on the guard?
I scoff at myself silently. As if, Carlotta. I’ve never even wielded a knife properly, let alone used it to stab a man.
I only bought them with me tonight so I would feel more reassured.
“That everything?”
Whipping around to face the Nameless guard, I nod, staring him down.
He stares right back at me and shrugs. “Boss told me I wasn’t allowed to touch you, so I suppose I’ll just have to take your word for it. In you go.”
Wrapping a meaty, tattooed, hand around the door handle, he shoves it down without preamble, revealing a table, twelve men sat around it.
The din of chattering and gruff laughter ceases as soon as I step over the threshold, the ominous click of the door sounding behind me.
I spot the blond first, standing behind the chair of a dark-haired man, who sits front and center at the head of the round table.
“It’s you, again,” I spit, starting forward, narrowing my eyes to slits.
The blond, so tall he could easily pass as a Viking, simply smiles and raises his fair brows.
He’s appears so nonchalant; as if the whole attending my brother’s burial, keeping me from the cold and then tracking me down at work to hand deliver my invitation to this evening’s meeting, means nothing to him. As if it we’re all so easy.
He smiles, tight lipped if not warmly, but it’s the glitter in his brown eyes that warn me of something a little more sinister hiding behind the angelic mask he dons.
“The fuck—”
The dark-haired man, who I quickly spot as the head of this meeting—if there is such a thing—rises to his full height. My sight follows him, gazing up, up, up. He’s well over six feet; taller than the blond bodyguard behind him.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man in the flesh quite so tall, except for…
“You were at Cristiano’s burial too,” I say, swallowing back to quiver in my tone.
He nods wordlessly, allowing me to really look at him. In the golden overhead light, I recognize him as the tall man, dressed all in black, who stood at the head of a triangle formation and watched my brother be lowered into the consecrated ground.
“Are you the leader of this group. Gang. Whatever you want to call yourselves?”
The rest of the men are unsettled, I can hear them in the shuffle of their clothes, the grumbles escaping from under their breaths, but they don’t dare utter a word to correct me.
He nods and raises both of his broad hands, palms faced upwards toward the ceiling.
“Welcome, Carlotta Bellucci.”
My legs tremor beneath me, but it isn’t the fact he knows my name without even having to ask. Or the fact that I’m standing before a very dangerous gang leader with nothing but a small pen knife to my person.
It’s the fact I recognize that voice.
Only, I never learned his name.
No.
I’ve only ever known him as Sir.