Power and Presents (25 Days of Christmas: Bikers & Mobsters)

CHAPTER 1

DOVE

My heart sinks as I finish getting ready before leaving my apartment, and I’m using the word generously. It’s more like a literal hole in the wall with a peep hole and a deadbolt. But it’s what I can afford.

Because I already sell enough of myself; I don’t need to sell my soul for cash or an easy ride. A long time ago I learned nothing is free in this world. There is always a price to be paid, and what it is might not always be readily apparent.

Which is why I work so hard to keep my focus forward instead of thinking about the past. No one benefits from drudging up any of it and I’m not interested in reopening the scars which are just now healing.

Everything feels like a fresh bruise still, even though it’s been years since the worst of it. But that’s pain and trauma for you. It leaves you tender, and you don’t want to look at those bruises to watch them change colors.

It’s been seven years since I aged out of a system built on heartache and red tape. While it might be protecting some kids, it ruins the majority of those who have the misfortune to learn the ins and outs of state care.

If only people cared.

If only those who do care were given the resources, and the money, to make a difference.

If only sick people didn’t try to take advantage of the same people who should be protected at all costs.

But the only thing the kids in the system can do is endure. Endure and try to keep their heads down while everything crumbles around them.

It felt like I woke up every day on edge and prepared to wage war against an enemy I was never going to defeat. Because I was weaker. Because I was powerless. Because no one saw my value or helped me see it within myself.

I’m sure there are plenty of people who would see me today and nod their heads as if my fate was always inevitable.

Was it?

Or am I simply trying to survive a life no one prepared me for? And that’s after forcing me to live my childhood surrounded by a minefield of pain and suffering.

I know the answer. I’ve been living with the answer for the last seven years.

And it’s brought me to where I am today.

I look around my apartment one more time. It’s a single room, and the only privacy I’ve been able to manufacture is in the form of a room screen. Hell, the bathroom door doesn’t even close all the way. It would be a problem if I ever had someone over.

I don’t.

And it’s not because I’m vain and want to hide the reality of my life from the people who love and care about me. No. It’s because I have no one to invite over.

No friends.

My coworkers are my enemies on a good day.

No family, but I think I already covered that.

If there was someone, anyone, who I could have gone to, the state would have made sure it happened. They didn’t want me as their burden any more than my addicted mother did.

It’s funny, when I found her dead body, there was a moment of pure relief. Even with the growing scent of the decay beginning to waft through the shithole of an apartment we were living in, it was like I could breathe again.

In that moment I knew I didn’t have to worry about the next man she’d bring home.

I didn’t have to psyche my ten-year old self into tiptoeing out to the kitchen to look for a snack we didn’t have, while worrying about which version of my mother I would encounter.

I didn’t have to apologize for my existence.

Not in that moment.

Not when I found her.

There were a few seconds there when I felt something I had never felt before—freedom. It was pure. It was exhilarating. It was terrifying in the best of ways.

Then I realized everything was going to change and there was nothing I could do about it. My young heart kept hope alive that some relative was going to come out of the shadows and give me the home I yearned for.

I snort out a laugh as I pat my bag, the one holding the lingerie I’ll be wearing tonight at Second Circle. Because I won’t wear any of the lingerie provided to us, and I don’t trust any of the other women who work beside me. We’re all mired in depravity, but it’s gone to some of their heads.

Some of the women I work with never learned to compartmentalize. But I did. And it’s allowed me to keep hold of who I am instead of being influenced by how some of my clients treat me.

Those clients already get my body. I’m not giving them my mind too.

Even though I spent most of the day cleaning my apartment, it doesn’t look like it. The moldy smell permeating the building is still there. It’s within the walls and no amount of cleaning, or bleach, has done anything to combat it.

The sigh I let out is weary and bone deep as I lock the door behind me and hope no one breaks in while I’m gone. I don’t have much, but I have more than other people do.

Most of the people who live in my rat-infested building are just as desperate as I am. They’d fuck over anyone and everyone if they thought it was going to get them a little closer to climbing out of this hellhole. Little do they realize, nothing is going to get us out.

We’re stuck.

This is it.

It’s as good as it gets.

The only thing that would change it now is a miracle.

“Or maybe a Christmas miracle,” I mumble to myself as I crank up the piece of shit car that threatens to break down completely at least once a week. If it weren’t so late, I would just take public transportation, but I’d rather roll the dice with my rust bucket than rely on anyone else.

I’ve been the only one I can rely on for years. Why should it change now?

While it might be a shitty way to live, it’s all I’ve got and I’m not going to apologize for it.

There will be no Christmas miracle. The luster of the season wore off a long time ago.

I can remember a time when my mother tried. She tried to keep her addiction at bay. She tried to survive without the affection of men. She tried to give me what she never had.

It didn’t last long, and life sucked all of her holiday spirit and left me with a childhood where twinkly lights, ornaments, and dreams of Santa were sentiments I couldn’t afford. Thinking it would change did more harm than good.

Because it never changed.

And I was just more disappointed and resentful because of it.

The worst part?

At some point while growing up, I told myself that I would never become like my mom.

It’s a promise that I’ve kept in a lot of ways. I don’t allow men to rule my life, and I never touch any hard drugs. Still, I use my body as currency, which is something I saw her do time and time again. It disgusted me every time and I looked down on her because of it.

Now, I know you have to use what you have to stay alive.

And men love my body.

They’ll pay handsomely to use it. They’ll pay even more if they believe they’re in control of your mind the same way they’re in control of your body.

If they believe my performance, it’s because they’re desperate to believe their own lies. It has nothing to do with me.

By the time I make it to Second Circle, a brothel dressed up as a sex club where the rules are supposed to matter but rarely do, I’m exhausted. I’m not tired because I spent most of the day cleaning. I’m not tired because I’m starting a long shift. This isn’t tired.

It’s something else, something more. The exhaustion I feel is something that sleep won’t help go away. This feeling is wrapped up in my life and knowing I’ll never get far in this world, not with the way everything is stacked against me.

Hell, I stopped applying for a new job over a year ago because having Second Circle in your work history doesn’t exactly have reputable jobs rolling out the red carpet for you. And this job is the only consistent work I’ve ever had.

If that doesn’t show you where you stand in this world, I don’t know what does.

The moments when I’m getting dressed for the night are the last moments of relative peace I’ll have for hours. Because the last thing you want to do while working the brothel floor is to lose focus.

That’s when you get hurt.

That’s when you get pulled into a situation which leaves scars, all while you can’t say no.

As my fingers reach for the velvet curtain that divides the floor from the behind-the-scenes area, I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. It’s time to leave my worries, my cares, and especially my dreams behind. At least for a few hours.

There’s no room out on the floor for any of those things. The last thing I want is for the dreams I have, small as they are, to be tainted or pulled into the shadows lurking throughout Second Circle.

If anyone wanted to look closely, they would notice how fake the smile on my face is the moment I step out from behind the curtain. It’s rare for any of us to be requested specifically. We have to use our…assets to garner business. And we are expected to entertain effectively.

Because the boss is always watching. And the house always wins.

An hour into my shift, my insides are roiling as I sit on a man’s lap. His hands are roaming freely over my body, but he’s not willing to commit to taking me to one of the rooms where the real work happens. I almost roll my eyes because he’s taking as many liberties as he can without paying.

It happens all the time.

He might be holding out for another girl, but if I can’t get him into a room soon, I’ll officially be wasting my time when I could have lured a different man into spending some time with me. Time alone. Time I get paid for.

“How about we pick out a room to play in?” I purr the question and watch as the man’s eyes darken with desire.

He wants me. And I’ve hooked him.

A man clearing his throat is the only warning I get before my boss is there and leaning over me. His lips brush against the shell of my ear as he murmurs, “Dove. A word.”

That’s it.

That’s all he says.

Then he’s straightening and striding out of the room without looking back. Clearly, he expects me to follow him without argument.

Romeo Amato is used to getting what he wants.

If the rumors about the man are true, which I know most of them are, he was born into the power he wields. Sure, it’s not nearly as much as what his brother, Angelo, has, but it’s not nothing.

Angelo is the one who sits at the top.

There can only be one man at the head of an organization which most people think only exists in nightmares and crime dramas. If you think mafia organizations aren’t still in operation, then you’re living the good life and should do whatever is necessary to keep it that way.

I don’t have that luxury.

I’m very much aware mobsters exist. I work for them.

The Amato name keeps the women here safe from raids and prosecution. But that’s where the safety begins and ends.

When it’s the boss who thinks he can do whatever he wants, is there any way to stay safe?

My steps are slow as I follow Romeo while my heart pounds in my chest. There isn’t a lot in this world that scares me, but being alone with Romeo does.

The man has a cruel streak which he is more than happy to show the women who work here.

When I step inside his office, Romeo strikes. His fingers tangle in my hair and he uses his hold on me to put me where he wants me. With only a few steps, he’s pressed my back against the wall while his free hand begins to roam over my body.

He squeezes my hip so hard I know it’ll leave a bruise behind. It’s not the first one.

“You’re looking very tempting tonight, Dove,” his words are meant to be seductive, but they have bile rising in my throat.

I force a smile onto my lips and keep my voice soft, “I’m hoping it means good tips tonight.”

“I’m sure you do,” he taunts.

Before I know what’s happening, he pulls back just enough to slap me. My head tries to swing to the side with the impact, but he’s still holding me in place by my hair, which pulls at the root like a threat.

I cry out but quickly bite down on my bottom lip. Romeo likes the sound of women in pain. He gets off on it.

My lip stings where I’m biting it and I know he’s split it. Again. I can taste my own blood on my tongue and Romeo’s eyes light up as he looks me over.

He taps his chin like he’s thinking. “Should I make you mine for the night? Would you like that?”

“Whatever you’d like,” I murmur the words and hope he can’t hear the disgust in my voice.

I hate this man. With everything in me, I hate him. I’ve thought about how it would feel to slide a blade across his neck so many times I can almost feel the warm spray of his blood on my face.

Yet, he’s still alive. And he has me cornered. Right where he wants me.

“Oh, I fucking know I can do whatever I like, bitch,” he sneers the words while his eyes flash with malice. “You’d love to be my personal sex doll, wouldn’t you?”

There’s no right answer here. I’ve learned that the hard way. The only thing to do is keep my mouth shut and hope he loses interest quickly.

I was right earlier; Christmas miracles aren’t for people like me. They never were.