Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Siobhán
A n endless stack of People magazines and a change of scenery turned my evening from just-another-night-in-the-clink to relatively acceptable. At least this version of jail had a mini fridge stocked with Kool-Aid and I was allowed to wear shoes.
The Dollhouse wasn’t bad for a strip club. Not that I’d been to many strip clubs or had seen the inside of a strip club dressing room. But the bar and decor gave off a classier vibe than I expected. Polished walnut crown molding. Soft amber lights. Gold accents to rich russet upholstery. It didn’t reek of smoke, and my feet hadn’t stuck to the floor when we walked through the main room of the club. Still, a far cry from Terme di Roma or Terme di Sicilia—not that I’d visited those properties either—but if they were anything like Terme di Boston, The Dollhouse must have been a big adjustment for Luca.
I huffed and flipped the page. Like I cared. Jerk .
A big smile grabbed hold of my face thinking about how badly I’d pissed him off earlier. He had it coming. He was so full of himself. It was about time he experienced a dose of his own medicine. And hoo boy he did not like the taste. At first, I thought he crushed the beer bottle with his bare hand, but that was ridiculous. He must have slammed it on the counter. Either way, he’d been furious with jealousy.
This whole kidnapping thing had gone from terrifying to confusing in a matter of days. Luca wasn’t going to kill me, that much was clear. And the more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself he’d never been capable of killing me in the first place. He thought he was, but the way he held me on that bridge, the way his fingers tightened around my arms, the way he pulled me close as if protecting me from himself…
I drained the rest of my Kool-Aid and tossed the box in the trash.
And then there was my stomach. Set aside the fact he’d intended to go down on me in the middle of his kitchen—I shivered remembering his mouth on my skin—he’d been visibly upset by my scars. So much so, he left a bruise on my right hip from squeezing me so tightly. He even took me to get groceries and let me cancel my interviews.
I dropped my hands and the magazine into my lap. That was some sick Stockholm Syndrome shit right there. Worse, this wasn’t the first time I’d made excuses for his bad behavior. Just last week I’d sat in a mineral bath next to Anna wearing my rose-colored glasses and dreaming of the future that might have been.
At every turn, I forgave Luca his sins—pretended he didn’t betray Marco, pretended he wasn’t a playboy asshole, pretended he wasn’t my enemy. And for what? The vain hope he’d miraculously realize he was wrong? That he’d call me his little shamrock again with love in his voice instead of hate?
I sighed and glanced at the clock. Ten thirty. Dominic said they’d be back to pick me up around closing time, but I refused to spend the next two and a half hours ruminating over Luca. I needed a drink.
The dressing room door opened, revealing a wall of thick back muscles. I tapped the wall. “Excuse me.” The wall’s head turned a fraction to the left. “Can I get a drink? Like a dirty martini or something?”
“Mr. Moretti said you’d ask for drinks.”
“Okay…”
“He said you’re allowed two.”
“Allowed?” I clenched my fists. “I’m going to fucking murder him,” I muttered under my breath. “Tell the bartender I’d like a double dirty martini. Extra olives.” The wall raised an eyebrow. “That’s still one drink.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, and he nodded toward the dressing room behind me. “Go have a seat.”
“Thank you,” I said and shut the door.
I paced the room, investigating the piles of clothes, shoes, makeup, and accessories strewn across surfaces and spilling out of the closet and boxes. There was just so much… stuff.
This must drive Luca crazy , I thought with satisfaction.
The door opened behind me.
“That was quick,” I said, but instead of a muscled wall holding a drink, a petite woman with long raven-black hair and skin even lighter than mine stood in the doorway. She wore black leather hotpants and a lime green tank top that accentuated the deep green of her big round eyes. She was strikingly pretty, but in an unconventional way. The kind of pretty you don’t see in magazines, but when you see it in real life, it makes you pause.
“Hello,” she said with a genuine yet curious smile.
“Hello.”
She closed the door behind her, walked over to the mini fridge, and pulled out a juice box and a Kit-Kat. “I’m Mia.” She sat on one of the stools along the wall of mirrors and unwrapped her snack. “You must be Siobhán. Mr. Moretti’s girl, right?”
I huffed and reclaimed my place on the couch. “I’m not sure I’d call myself his girl , but yeah.”
She took a bite out of her Kit-Kat and smiled. “The way he lectured me and Rocco about keeping an eye on you and making sure you’re comfortable…” She raised an eyebrow. “You’re about as girl as it gets for Mr. Moretti.”
My jaw dropped and I blinked, once again trying to make sense of Luca and his baffling behavior.
The door opened, and the wall—Rocco—stuck his head and my drink inside. “Here you go. Better make it last. You only get one more.”
I rolled my eyes and pushed off the couch. “Thanks,” I said dryly and snatched the glass out of his beefy hand.
The olive juice and vodka hit my lips, and I instantly started to relax. It was the familiarity more than the alcohol that calmed my nerves, and as I sank back down onto the couch, chatting with my new jailer Mia didn’t seem so bad.
“You work here?” I asked.
“I do,” she said and popped the last bit of chocolate into her mouth.
“Dancer?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea how they do it. I’m so uncoordinated. I work the back of the house.”
I tilted my head, not sure what she was talking about.
She smiled. “The private rooms. Here in the back.”
“Ah.”
She gathered her hair, bound it in a high ponytail, and inspected her neck in the mirror beneath the lights.
Whoa. That’s one epic hickey.
“How long have you worked here?” I asked.
“About five years,” she said and grabbed a lip liner off the counter.
“You like it?”
“Yeah, it’s all right. The work and pay are steady. The tips are even better.” She shrugged and meticulously outlined the pale bow of her lips. “What about you? What do you do?”
“I’m the General Manager of Terme di Boston.”
She met my gaze in the mirror, eyes wide and lip liner frozen midair. “You work for Marco DeVita?”
“Yes.”
“What’s that like?” she asked with awed interest and exchanged the liner for a lipstick.
I chuckled. “I imagine pretty similar to working for Mr. Moretti. He’s Luca’s uncle, you know.”
She refocused on her lips, coloring them a deep maroon. “Terrible thing about his parents, isn’t it?” She shook her head and tossed the lipstick into a bag on the counter. She fished a powder brush out of another makeup bag. “I mean, losing both of your parents at such a young age? I was in the foster system growing up, so I never knew my parents. But losing your family the way he did seems worse.” She tapped loose powder across the bridge of her nose. “That’s gotta mess with a person’s head.”
You have no idea.
“Especially what happened to his mother.” She lowered the brush and regarded me through the mirror. “I heard it was a blood incompatibility.”
I wrinkled my forehead. “Doesn’t that usually affect the baby?”
“I have no idea.” She returned to inspecting her makeup. “But I heard his father was inconsolable. Maybe it was a blessing he didn’t live long after she passed.” She stopped and turned on her stool with a grimace. “Sorry. That was totally morbid and inappropriate. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay,” I said even though my stomach twisted into a knot. “Luca doesn’t talk about what happened. It’s nice to chat with someone else who knows him.”
She gave me a warm smile. “Any time. He’s pretty tight-lipped around here too, but he’s always been kind to me. For what it’s worth, he seems to have done all right for himself despite everything. Better than all right. He’s only been here a month, and this place is already running more smoothly. And, more importantly”—she pointed at me with the end of her blusher—“I’m making more money. So whatever you need to do to keep your man happy…”
I laughed and shook my head. I wasn’t about to argue with the woman.
The door opened and a head of bleach-blonde hair on top of artificially large breasts walked in. Her eyes landed on me like heat-seeking missiles, and she narrowed them like she could eliminate her target with a single hateful glare.
“Hey, Jenny,” Mia said. “This is Siobhán.”
Jenny lifted her chin and took short steps on ridiculously high platform heels past me to the makeup counter. “I know who she is,” she said icily and sat to Mia’s right.
My memory kicked in and connected the dots—Luca’s date from the DeVita Foundation gala. I downed a big mouthful of martini.
The door opened again, and the two dancers who’d been on stage when I arrived filed into the room in nothing but thongs and heels. Time to shrink into the corner of the couch with another People magazine instead of ogling their perfectly lush curves, strong legs, and full breasts. What I wouldn’t give…
They grabbed robes and plopped down on the couch opposite me.
“My feet are killing me tonight,” the woman on the right said and rubbed her foot. “New shoes are torture. Are you new? Are you dancing tonight? I could use a break.”
“No. She’s with Luca,” Jenny sniped and filled the air around her with a cloud of aerosol. She swiveled her head from side to side and must have decided her hair was sufficiently shellacked, because she set the spray down and picked up a tube of lipstick. “You know he came to see me yesterday.”
“Jenny,” Mia said in a chiding tone.
Jenny ran the bright pink across her lips. “It’s true. She should know.”
A pang of jealousy slammed into my chest. I was about to launch into a grandiose explanation of why I couldn’t care less about who Luca saw but was interrupted by a disgusted scoff from the other couch. The woman on the left dropped her magazine into her lap and rolled her eyes.
“Nothing happened, Jenny, and you know it. You’re just trying to cause trouble.” She leveled me with an irritated look. “She’s jealous. She’s been trying to bag Mr. Moretti for the better part of six months”—she shot a hard look over her shoulder—“despite him making it very clear he’s not interested.” The woman picked up her magazine and leafed through the pages. “Not to mention, he barely even bit you before he stormed out.”
My head rocked back in surprise.
“Trixie!” Mia’s eyes darted between me and the woman on the couch.
“What?” She looked over her shoulder.
Mia widened her eyes in a non-verbal “shut up.”
Trixie shrugged and returned to her magazine.
Bit her? I drained half my martini.
“Whatever,” Jenny said and stood. “I need to get ready for my next appointment.” She teetered across the room, sparing me a nasty glance when she reached the couches, and walked out the door.
How this random woman despised me so much when we’d never exchanged more than a handful of words was beyond me. Then again, my blood had boiled at the gala when I saw her hanging off Luca’s arm. But I hadn’t really been angry with her. I’d been angry with Luca.
“Ignore her,” the woman on the right said, still massaging her foot. “She’s bitter. She’s been trying to bag one of the made guys for years. Before Mr. Moretti, it was Richie.” She looked at Trixie. “Remember?” Trixie nodded. “Before Richie, it was…” She furrowed her brow. “What was his name?”
“Enzo,” Mia said and got up from her stool. She smoothed her tank top in the mirror.
“Enzo. Right. Point is, Jenny’s always been out for one thing—money.” She raised her eyebrows. “She’s just salty she’s run into another dead end.”
“Damn straight,” Trixie said.
“I have an eleven o’clock,” Mia said and glanced at me. “You going to be ok until I get back?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said and lifted my drink. “I’ve got one more of these to go, remember?”
She laughed. “Right. I’ll end my session a couple minutes early. Make sure I’m back before Jenny.” She exaggerated an eye roll, and I let out a nervous chuckle.
So Jenny was a gold digger. Fine. Whatever. Go get it, girl. My brain was stuck on the biting comment. Did Luca have some sort of biting fetish? Was that even a thing?
As much as I hated thinking about The Incident, he had been attached to that girl’s neck. Rather aggressively. And just now, Mia had a massive hickey on her neck that looked suspiciously like a bite mark. I mean, I’d heard of kinks like choking or being dominated, but neck-biting?
Something about Mia’s reaction didn’t sit right either, like she was worried about keeping the biting thing a secret beyond protecting my feelings. The suspicion pushed at the back of my mind and wouldn’t let up. It tried to force me into another part of my brain but couldn’t quite make the connection.
I downed the last of my martini. Strange fetishes aside, I was relieved nothing had happened between Luca and his former blow-up doll Jenny. Maybe too relieved. In fact, I shouldn’t have cared at all. Then again, Luca shouldn’t have smashed a beer bottle on the counter earlier.
God, we were toxic together, and this close proximity thing wasn’t doing either of us any favors.
I pushed off the couch. I needed to get away from him and this entire fucked-up situation. But since I couldn’t, time for another drink.
By one a.m., the only people left in The Dollhouse were me, Rocco, Mia, and the bartender. Mia was finishing her last appointment, but the rest of the patrons had left about ten minutes prior. The dancers were done by twelve-thirty, and luckily for me, Jenny’s last appointment was at eleven.
Rocco let me out of my holding cell, and I sat at the bar while he helped clean. I found a deck of cards on one of the tables and laid out a game of solitaire.
Mia walked up, her client in tow. “Can you let him out, Rocco?”
“Sure thing,” Rocco replied.
She stretched her arms overhead, and the big wall of bouncer led a short, wiry man with curly red hair to the front door.
“I’m beat,” she said and yawned.
“Same.” I flipped over a stack of three cards. “And I didn’t even work tonight.”
“You hungry? I’m starving.”
I was, but I learned to answer “no” to that question a long time ago. Nine times out of ten, I couldn’t eat whatever the person was offering and turning down food was awkward business. “I’m good. Thanks.”
She scrunched her nose. “I think I have some protein bars in my car. And I need to get my sneakers. Rocco?”
“Yeah?” He relocked the front door.
“Walk me to my car? I need to get a few things before we lock up for the night.”
“You got it. Keep an eye on her, Joe?” Rocco nodded in my direction.
“Yeah,” the bartender said and continued to stack pint glasses.
I went back to my solitaire game and imagined all the pudding I’d eat when I got back to Luca’s house.
The front door rattled like someone was trying to open it. When that didn’t work, they pounded on the glass. The bartender jogged over, unlocked the door, and Vito Balistreri walked in.
“They here yet?” he asked, unmistakable urgency in his clipped question.
“Vito,” the bartender said, surprised, and hurried to keep up with Mr. Balistreri’s quick strides. “We’re closed.”
He stopped. “They’re not here yet.”
“Who?”
“Luca. Dominic.”
“No. They left hours ago.”
He glanced at his watch. “I need clean towels and a bottle of vodka.” He pointed at the double doors that led to the back. “Where’s the best light?”
“Prolly the girls’ dressing room. What’s doin’?”
“We got trouble.”
“Well, Mr. Moretti said they’d be back before closing to pick up his lady.” The bartender jerked his head in my direction.
Mr. Balistreri turned to where I sat at the bar and narrowed his eyes. “What the hell are you doing here?”