13. Chapter Thirteen— Carlotta
Chapter Thirteen— Carlotta
Tucking my chin into my scarf to ward off the freezing chill, I stalk down the sidewalk, heading towards club Euphoria.
My legs wobble with nerves; my mouth so dry, my tongue feels as thick as cotton.
I’d be an idiot to deny to myself how shit scared I am to enter tonight’s meeting with The Thirteen.
Rome mentioned an initiation task, if I agree to joining…
Really, what other choice to I have? I’ll be killed if I don’t agree to take Cristiano’s place and join their ranks.
Pressing my lips together, I smother my hysterical laugh threatening to slip out.
How can this be happening to me?
My stomach turns, flipping upside down, with each step closer to the strip club.
Balling my hands into fists, I feel my nails dig into the mounds of my palms, creating half crescents moons and a sting of pain. I’m willing to feel something, anything, other than the spasms of terror wracking my nervous systems.
Will my initiation task be tonight?
What the fuck will Rome have me doing?
God, I wish my brain would just turn the fuck off.
I got a full night’s reprieve from my thoughts on Monday, after Rome screwed my brains out, sating my body and my mind enough so I could catch more than a few hours of broken slumber.
I wasn’t sure if I was still dreaming, when I awoke to find Cassiel sitting in the velvet covered chair at the end of the bed, his eyes trained on me.
He’s been there all night or so he said.
Strangely enough, I believed him.
But where Cassiel went, Rome followed, of that I’m certain and I wasn’t ready to see him in the light of day. I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact he’d pulled off my blindfold before he slid inside me, capturing my face with his long fingers so I couldn’t look away.
Not that I’d wanted to.
I’d hightailed it out of Nameless before I come run into Rome face-to-face, declining Cassiel’s offer to walk me home and leaving him in the dust.
The last thing I needed was more people knowing where I lived. I already had one stalker on my case—the same person who’d sent me the bunch of dead roses and Cristiano’s pinkie finger—I didn’t need anymore.
Just the thought makes my skin crawl, a shiver snaking up the length of my spine.
Peeking over my shoulder, I scan the surrounding areas for… what, or who, I’m not quite sure, but I look regardless.
Sliding one of my hands between the warm layers of my scarf and coat, I smooth my fingers down the dull side of the pen knife I tucked back between my breasts.
It’s presence, as well as the knife in my boot, reassures me somewhat.
Sucking in a cold, crisp lungful of oxygen, I will my heartbeat to calm down.
I wish this wasn’t happening, my god, I wish it wasn’t, but I have to face that it is.
I’ve spent all burying my head in the sand—following my usual routine of waking, heading to work and traipsing back to my apartment ready to do it all again the next day, whilst also trying to break into Cristiano’s phone to get on my hands on information about The Thirteen. But now…
Now I have to face the truth head on.
For Cristiano’s sake.
Raising my chin, I steel my spine, focusing my attention on the task ahead.
I can do this.
Mentally, I will my legs to move, one step in front of the fucking other, feeling the solid concrete of the uneven slabs of sidewalk beneath my heavy footsteps. Every thud matches the beat of my heart, sounding like a sinister metronome in my ears.
Beside the lit-up neon entrance to Euphoria, stands a gaggle of burly security guards, skintight vests to ward off the evening chill straining tight across their biceps.
I eye them cautiously, hoping tonight isn’t the night they choose to pat me down, because otherwise I’m sure to be spending my night in a musty jail cell rather than in the dank basement of The Thirteen’s meeting room.
I purse my lips. One of those scenarios actually sounds better than the other. With one, I’d be a free woman come the morning sun, but with the other… the other doesn’t appear to have a ticking countdown; it sounds more like a life’s sentence to me.
Up ahead, the guards crowd around an impressive looking motorcycle, it’s gunmetal gray shading gleaming in the overhead florescent lights spelling out the strip club’s name in big, bold letters.
Growing closer with each step, I bundle my coat around me, hoping to simply slip around security, who are too pre-occupied with petting the dangerous looking mode of transport, to even look up at the handful of customers walking into the strip club and check their ID’s.
One of them, the tallest man of the group with long, dark hair tied back in a messy ponytail, moves back, allowing me to the motorcyclist himself leaning against the back wheel, his mouth open wide in laughter, teeth shining brightly.
I stop dead in my tracks, narrowly avoiding ploughing into an oncoming couple walking hand in hand.
“Watch where you’re walking, lady! God,” mutters the woman, rolling her eyes at me, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of biting back.
I couldn’t even if I wanted to; my mouth too dry, tongue sticking to the ribbed roof, because there, up ahead, leaning against what is quite obviously his motorcycle is tall Viking of a man, his hair as blond as any angel’s.
Cassiel.
My body heats up involuntarily at the sight of him.
My core clenches greedily, nipples forming points which rub against the thin material of my bralette.
I wish, more than anything, that I could blame my bodily response on the February air, but I’d be a liar, because it has nothing to do with the cold air blowing around us, lifting the bottom strands of my hair.
No.
Instead, it has everything to do with the man standing a yard or so away from me, his head turning at just the right time to catch my appreciative gaze.
Pushing off from the bike, I watch him move fluidly through the throng of security guards without a backward glance, stopping only a hairsbreadth away from me. I have no doubt that if I was to take a large inhale in, my stomach would be brushing his.
At that very thought, I suck in a greedy gasp, tasting the scent of cloves wafting from Cassiel, at the back of my throat.
The scent of him is familiar, but I can’t quite place my finger on why.
“Hey, Princess,” he drawls, smirking at me.
I resist the urge to surge forward and wipe the look from his face with my lips.
“Why aren’t you downstairs, already?”
“Change of plans. We’re meeting someplace else tonight.”
My ears begin to ring with the thrum of blood. “And you couldn’t have told me that before, so I wouldn’t traipse my ass over to this side of the river for nothing?”
Cassiel’s pretty hazel eyes, framed with envious long lashes, glance down the length of my body at my barbed words.
“Hm?”
“Nah.” He pops his shoulders. “It was a short notice thing. Rome and I thought it best to come get you ourselves.”
“Oh, you did, did you? The two of you? So, where is Mr. Boss Man? Is he going to be jumping out of the shadows anytime soon?”
Cassiel grins, showcasing his perfectly straight teeth, except for a left hand side incisor which twists slightly. I wonder if he ever had braces as a kid. “That isn’t really Rome’s style, Princess.”
“Stop calling me that!”
It takes everything in me not to stomp my foot on the sidewalk like a toddler having a tantrum.
It feels like the very world has been pulled beneath my feet.
I was just hyping myself up, ready to head into the lion’s den residing at the bottom of the strip club, only for everything to be changing once more.
And of course, I’m the last to fucking know.
The other members, Rome himself, probably had a right laugh, imagining me floundering, unprepared, unsure where the meeting was now taking place.
“Why didn’t Rome just tell me the new address himself?”
Cassiel simply blinks at me before he shrugs his broad shoulders again. “Are you coming on not?”
“Do I really have a choice?” I spit.
I’m being unreasonable, I know I am, but I can’t stop myself from becoming defensive, my nerves already frayed as they are.
“You always have a choice, Princess.”
Cassiel offers up his large hand between us, palm facing the night sky.
I stare down at his hand, watching his thick fingers, the tips visibly calloused, twitch under my gaze, before I raise my colder, much smaller palm and slide it alongside him.
A strong grip interlaces with my slim fingertips, squeezing my wrist in what I think is meant to be reassurance.
I follow behind Cassiel, ignoring the security guards and their questioning looks, while his words play like a haunted carousel around my brain.
“You always have a choice, Princess.” Yeah, I scoff mentally, that’s easy for him to say. He isn’t the one in this predicament; with a deceased father, absent, emotionally abusive mother and now a dead brother too, whose large shoes I’m supposed to fill.
It hardly feels like I have a choice at all.
Cassiel drops my hand to flip up the seat and rummage around inside the compartment, leaving me feeling suddenly bereft at the absence of his warm touch.
Shoving my cold hands back into my jacket pockets, I trail my gaze down the muscular length of Rome’s bodyguard and best friend, zeroing in on the thick set of his thighs encased in a tight-fitting pair of light wash denims.
It’s impossible to deny how attractive I find Cassiel.
And why should I?
I’m a single woman. Rome and I never promised to be exclusive to one another, although we both made sure to get tested fortnightly at the sexual health clinic and show one another our results before we fell into bed.
Not for the first time, does the thought of Rome sleeping with another woman, or maybe even multiple, send a pang of jealousy through my being.
Although, before, it was easier to shove those thoughts away, hiding them in a locked box at the very back of my mind to collect dust.