9. Sara
Sara
I hold the material up a little higher, alarmed by just how much harsh fluorescent light bleeds through each cutout. The dress is approximately the size of a dinner napkin. How will I even fit into this?
Overnights at the hospital mean I meet a lot of people from all walks of life.
Occasionally, we’ll get a sex worker in the emergency department in need of patching up or an STI test. I’m always amazed by how little they wear, even in polar vortex-level ice storms. Not because I’m a prude, but because I’d get arrested for public indecency if I left the house with that much ass showing.
Guess I’m about to put that theory to the test.
For the hundredth time today, I read over the note I found with the dress just this morning.
Last time, you picked pain.
This time, it’s my choice.
7:30
I crumple up the paper, throw it away, and begin pacing the length of my cell, rubbing my arms to warm them.
The air conditioning’s been on the fritz for days, and despite begging Angela, Gregor, and the blinking light on the camera, my requests for someone to fix it have gone unanswered.
Given how much he clearly hates me, I wouldn’t put it past Dante to crank the temperature down on purpose.
Now that I’ve learned we’re going out, nothing works to calm my nerves.
Angela let me take another shower and brush my teeth an hour or so ago, but I’d put the sweats back on rather than don that tiny sliver of material he left for me.
I have no idea where we’re going or what we’re doing, but I’d prefer not to do any of it while dressed like a stripper.
And yet, biting the bullet may be the only way forward. He wants my submission, and I’m trying to get on his good side, aren’t I? A dress isn’t that big of a deal.
Wait. No. No. I’m not doing this anymore. I refuse to blindly do what I’m told just to make his life easier.
Playing his game won’t solve anything. It’ll just lead to my humiliation, which falls right into his plans. Dante wants to hurt me, and the longer I deny him that, the more time I can buy for myself and Jeremy.
Footsteps grow closer, snapping me from my thoughts. Dante’s long, steady gait. My heart leaps into my throat, and I glare at the dress. I wish I could rip it apart like he did mine, but Dante would force me to put on the scraps. Bastard.
“I’m not wearing this.” I toss the dress onto the ground between us, but he doesn’t even glance down. Instead, he pretends to consult his watch while a muscle bunches in his jaw.
“We leave in five minutes. If you’re not dressed in three, I’ll be paying Jeremy a visit tonight.”
Gasping, I edge forward before I can stop myself. “You son of a b—”
“Three minutes, pet.”
His non-negotiable tone curls my fingernails into my palms as I battle the urge to claw his skin. I’m not sure what prompts him to step closer, but the knuckles that brush my jaw are gentle.
“When faced with a more powerful enemy, one must learn to pick and choose one’s battles.”
Tilting my chin away from his touch, I search his eyes. “Why do you care which battles I pick and choose? You win them all anyway, don’t you?”
His teasing smile almost undoes me. I wonder if he realizes it’s more devastating than any threat.
No. If he did, he’d use it against me all the time.
He shrugs. “It’s no fun for me if you break too soon.” He checks his watch again. “Two minutes.”
I know I need to shift myself into gear, but my muscles seem frozen, the dress still lying between us a tangible reminder of my own helplessness.
Dante tsks. “Need some help?”
The thought of him putting his hands on me again sends my nerves into a tizzy.
From disgust…or I try to convince myself of that.
Because no part of me should want him to touch me.
This isn’t the Middle Ages, and he can’t just decide he owns me as if he’s some feudal lord and I’m a peasant girl serving in his manor.
Presenting him with my back, I strip off the clothes he gave me a few days ago and quickly yank on the dress.
Dante has seen me naked plenty of times before, and unfortunately, my dream the other night reminded me of just how good he used to make me feel.
What does he see when he looks at me now?
Five years may not seem long in the grand scheme of things, but my body has changed so much since I was in my early twenties.
My hips are wider, my breasts fuller and softer. My belly, too, for that matter. He isn’t familiar with this version of me, and I struggle with the desire to hide, busying myself with adjusting the length. Somehow, the garment leaves me feeling more exposed than wearing nothing at all.
The dress he picked out matches my blue eyes, and the stretchy material hugs every curve. The strategically placed cutouts show an almost indecent amount of flesh. As a result, my underwear beneath the garment looks awkward and out of place beneath it.
Swallowing thickly, I slip my panties and bra off before he can issue the order. A tiny, rebellious way to reclaim a shred of agency.
From behind me, Dante clears his throat.
“Lift your hair.” I do so, still too embarrassed to do anything but stare at the floor.
When the locket at my neck disappears, I spin with a cry and grab for it.
Though his face remains unreadable, a storm brews in his eyes, a dark, savage tempest that vies with his sanity.
I don’t know which will emerge victorious, so I turn away, dropping my hand back to my side.
Something cool presses against my throat, and at first, I think he’s putting the necklace back on. Then I touch it and realize that it’s not my locket at all, but a snug choker with a little metal ring attachment on the front.
A collar. He put a collar on me.
Dante jerks me closer with a possessive grip. “So you remember who you belong to tonight.”
Whether a threat or a promise, the result is the same. He’s claimed me more thoroughly with this little trinket than he ever could have when we were together, and I hate him for that.
I’ve never been to a place like Club Paradiso before.
Someone like me wouldn’t. It strikes me as the type of establishment that requires a six-digit annual membership fee.
Of course, the building didn’t look like much when Dante pulled his car up to the valet.
Just another skyscraper in an expensive part of Manhattan.
The elevator brought us straight to the forty-first floor, and the bouncer recognized Dante right away, so he must come here often. I ignore the way my gut twists as I speculate on what, exactly, Dante gets up to in here, and instead drink in the surroundings with wide, greedy eyes.
Though my legs shake, relief accompanies my anxiety. I may not know what Dante has in store for me, but at least I’ve temporarily escaped that miserable cell.
The club stretches the entire expanse of the top floor, and the ceiling must be twenty, no thirty feet up.
Two walls have floor-to-ceiling windows that offer the most beautiful view of the city I’ve ever seen.
Private booths facing the dance floor span the back wall, some enclosed by curtains that can shut.
The sinking sensation in my stomach suggests that I’m beginning to understand what happens in places like this.
The most remarkable element of the space, though, is the bar that extends almost the whole length of the last wall.
It’s this gigantic wooden anomaly, like something out of Peaky Blinders or one of those old noir films my mom used to watch on TV late at night.
Every kind of alcohol known to man covers the shelves, and the mirrored backing reflects the room back at me.
The retro glamour almost seems misplaced amid the rest of the nightclub’s modern extravagance.
Like me.
Lines of coke and stray pills litter some of the tables.
A man leans into his partner and snorts something off her breasts.
I glance away as Dante presses his hand to the small of my back and guides me through the thick crowd.
The air brims with expensive perfume, marijuana, and sweat, all mixing into an intoxicating cocktail.
As a nurse who’s witnessed the disastrous effects of substance abuse, I’m not one for partaking. Given the current situation, though, I don’t feel bad about inhaling the skunky cloud as we cross the room. I wouldn’t say no to a little contact high to help numb at least some of my senses.
The club is packed, but people part for us like the Red Sea did for Moses.
Eyes wander from Dante to me as we parade through, and my self-consciousness skyrockets.
Dressed like this, these people must think I’m a hooker, and I feel the sudden urge to distance myself from Dante.
I lengthen my strides, trying not to wobble on the four-inch heels he forced me to wear, and as the edge of the crowd comes into view, Dante locks his arm around my waist.
“Don’t wander too far from me, conglietta.
After all, you’re just a little rabbit who’s hopped into a den of wolves.
” He places the gentlest kiss on my shoulder, his free hand toying with my wrist, and electricity wreaks havoc on my nerve endings.
My first instinct is to shove him away, but I refrain.
The back and forth, the constant switch from hot to cold and back again, overwhelms me.
As if he can sense my internal struggle, Dante lifts and places another kiss on my wrist there. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he couldn’t keep his mouth off me. “Relax, Sara. The party hasn’t even started yet, and I still need to introduce you to a friend of mine.”
We stride past a beautifully carved wood bar and toward a short flight of stairs that leads up to a room I hadn’t noticed. From there, we ride the elevator one floor up and exit to dark-paneled walls and low lighting.
Another bouncer, this one even bigger and more menacing than the one downstairs, nods to Dante without sparing me a look and pulls open a thick, heavy door for us.
Tables are scattered throughout a lounge-like setting, each one boasting a Tiffany lamp that casts an intimate glow. A glass wall offers a perfect view of the club below, and the sleek, backlit bar running along the back of the room paints the liquor bottles a sinister red.
This space is quieter, less crowded, and creates even more of an exclusive vibe than the rest of the club.
A man motions us over. “Dante!”
Along with several other men, he’s seated at a small round table littered with cards and chips.
It’s still early, but an empty bottle of whiskey in the middle tells me they’ve been going for a while.
His golden brown hair and scruffy beard are the exact opposite of Dante’s serrated polished edge.
He’s lean, muscled, and dangerous, like a hunter, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his lead gray eyes as he studies me.
“You brought her?” He doesn’t hide his surprise well, and he and Dante exchange a long look before he presses his cigar out in the ashtray beside him. “Good. I was hoping to meet her.”
Dante laughs, his fingers teasing a strip of cloth across my abdomen. As the other men at the table track the motion, my body warms. Trying to remain subtle, I push at Dante’s wrist, but he ignores me.
“We would have been here sooner, but I got caught up playing with my new toy.” His voice purrs as one of his fingers slips inside the front of my dress, and I balk. “You know how it is.”
A flash of what might be understanding flickers in the man’s gaze before he reclines in his chair.
His demeanor grows cocky as he scans me from head to toe.
I try to remain unmoved, but it’s getting harder.
“Toy, huh? More like a snack if you ask me.” His attention flits to the man behind me.
Assessing. Challenging. “She taste as good as she looks?”
Dante stills. The shift is so slight that I doubt anyone besides me and maybe the sharp-eyed ass with the degrading questions notices. This feels like a test with a weight clinging to it that I can’t understand, but Dante doesn’t hesitate.
“Better.” His husky, almost taunting admission tightens the area between my legs, and my stomach clenches, both with desire and aggravation. Here I am on parade like some kind of prized poodle in a dog show, yet I’m getting turned on?
One of the other men whistles, his gaze stripping me bare. “You’ve got yourself a hell of a view, Argento.”
Pressing his free hand along my upper back, Dante forces me to bend over until the side of my face presses into the poker chips on the table, their ridged edges digging painfully into my cheek.
The edge of my skirt rides up over my ass, and to my horror, he brushes his knuckles across the exposed lips of my bare pussy.
“You should see her from this angle.”
Humiliation burns through me like a lit fuse.
Dante’s body blocks anyone else from seeing me, but being used like this almost seems worse than the exhibition.
I developed early, and when you’re a thirteen-year-old with hips and already a 34C, you’re a target until you learn how to shrink yourself or hide.
I chose to become invisible, wearing bulky sweaters and loose-fitting dresses to camouflage my figure rather than let men objectify me.
Once, Dante represented my safe space, a place where I could explore my sexuality anxiety-free. With him, there was never a time when I was ashamed of what I wanted or too scared to ask for what I needed.
But this…this feels shameful.
In part because, despite the circumstances, I’m still growing wetter.
A part of me enjoys this.
As the men burst out laughing, I push myself upright and straighten my clothes. My skin flushes bright red, and my rapid breathing rate verges on panicked.
As if sensing my agitation, Dante hooks me by the waist and kisses my temple. With a guttural growl, I shove at his chest.
“We’re going to head back down and get a drink. I’ll catch up with you later, Luca.”
Luca nods, rolling his lips as he gives me another once-over before Dante pulls me away. His hand molds to the spot just above the curve of my ass, and despite the indignity I just suffered, lingering tendrils of yearning stretch through my lower belly.
Biting my cheek, I push the errant thought from my mind as Dante leads me back downstairs. My pace is slow to prevent the additional humiliation of a twisted ankle. “Who were those men?”
“Council soldiers.” His reply is clipped. “They’re the type of men who’d ruin you worse than I ever could. Be grateful you’re in my cage and not one of theirs, coniglietta.”
I peek up at him, frowning. “Council?”
He helps me down the last step before he responds. “The governing force behind the Italian mafia and the men who decide whether you live or die.”
The blood ices in my veins, and I stumble. Dante grabs my elbow to steady me, but nothing can tame the frantic gallop of my heart.
The Italian mafia.
I’m so screwed.