Chapter 18
Damien
Red Poppy is my baby. It was the first business I built with my own two hands when I settled in Chicago. This is where I seized power in the organization. Where I signed my first contract with Roman. Where I first met Luna. And it was here that I cemented my reputation in certain circles.
Because Red Poppy isn’t just an exclusive club. No, it’s where influential people, people who crave discretion, find the privacy and resources to fulfill their every fantasy.
You want illegal poker games? Done.
You want to persuade your business partners to sign on the dotted line while they have beautiful women in their laps? Handled.
But nothing happens without my permission.
Roxanne’s head swivels as she tries to absorb the atmosphere of the place, and even though I'm afraid of the disgust I might see in her eyes, I turn to watch her.
Her gaze is fixed on the central bar, draped in black velvet, then travels up to the massive chandelier hanging over rows of expensive bottles of whiskey and cognac.
Her eyes then drift to the corner sofas, shielded by ornate screens to offer privacy.
Opposite them are round, solid wood tables surrounded by black leather armchairs.
When she has finally surveyed the whole place, her eyes land on the far end of the club, on the stage with a stripper pole in the middle.
I don't miss the way her pupils dilate, and I have to clench my fists at my sides to keep from reaching for her.
I know the kiss in the forest was fueled by adrenaline. I want the next one when she’s perfectly lucid and uninfluenced by anything else. I want her to be fully aware that I am the man she’s kissing, with no excuses afterward.
"It looks…expensive," she finally says, and a grin spreads across my face.
I know she likes it from the way she studies every detail, seemingly at a loss for words.
"I have to handle a problem," I tell her, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "But you can make yourself comfortable at the bar and start planning what you need for the wedding."
The simple fact that she doesn't flinch or pull away as I get close floods my veins with the desire to pull her into my arms. Because her body recognizes me, even if her mind doesn’t.
I watch her nod slightly and head to the bar, where Tommy, the bartender, glances up at me. He knows not to even breathe in her direction, so I turn with Vasili and head toward my office.
"Where is he?" I ask once we’re finally alone.
"Tied up in the basement," he answers.
Like my house, Red Poppy was built with a place for…discussions. Discussions that can get out of hand. It’s not the first time I’ve had to deal with a client who didn’t understand the difference between asking for permission and just taking what he wanted.
I open my laptop, and within seconds, I have the security footage of him and Gigi, one of the girls who works for me, in one of the private rooms. We don't have many such rooms, and the ones we do have are always booked in advance.
My body tenses as I watch the senator’s hand move to Gigi’s throat. I'm all for everyone having their own kinks, but you don’t have to be a genius to see Gigi digging her nails into his hand, trying to push him off. I can even hear her hoarse voice, begging him to stop.
But the animal doesn’t. He keeps applying pressure to her airway even as she's on the verge of unconsciousness. When her body goes limp, the bastard finishes, only then releasing his grip.
"Keep an eye on Roxanne while I handle this."
"I want to be there," Vasili says, his voice thick with palpable fury.
I turn to him. His jaw is clenched, and his fists look ready to explode with tension. Well, well. Looks like someone’s in love. So why the hell didn't he tell me anything?
I could insist he stay and watch Roxanne, but I know no one will dare approach her after seeing us walk in together. Besides, the club is nearly empty at this hour.
"Let's go," is all I say.
The basement is a few feet from my office door, accessible by a PIN that only Vasili and I know. As we enter, the stench of sweat makes me cough.
"What the hell?"
"Not my fault he's a pig, both literally and figuratively," he replies.
In the middle of the room, tied to a metal chair, sits Senator Ashville—completely naked, drenched in sweat, and trembling uncontrollably.
"Damien, what is the meaning of this outrage? I demand you release me this instant if you don't want trouble, boy," he says.
Maybe he thinks his voice sounds authoritative, but all I hear is "blah, blah, blah."
"You don't come into my house and start giving me orders, Mr. Ashville. Especially not after you've abused one of my employees," I spit, and finally, I see fear flicker in his eyes.
"You never specified we couldn't be…rough," he says, his voice trembling.
Behind me, Vasili radiates a wave of fury and death. And though I’d love to have my way with the senator, I’ll let Vasili have the satisfaction of finishing this punishment.
"I shouldn't have to explain boundaries to you, Senator," I say. "But since yours seem a little warped, I'll be happy to straighten them out for you."
The blade sinks into his skin, tracing a fine line along his neck. He’s lucky he’s holding still, probably aware I could hit a major artery. Next, I let the blade slice down his torso until I reach his navel. It’s a superficial wound. One that, if cared for properly, would heal without a trace.
"Do you know what's fascinating about human anatomy?" I ask.
He just shakes his head, my cue to continue.
"How easy it is to trick the brain with pain. For example, right now, your mind is relaxed because this cut didn’t hurt as much as you expected."
I don't give him time to process my words. Vasili grabs his shoulders to hold him still while I trace the path of the blade again, this time pressing just a little harder. With the epithelial barrier gone, I’m now cutting directly into the tissue, and I know it hurts. Like a motherfucker.
The senator’s scream brings a smile to my lips as I wipe the blade on one of the towels Vasili left on a nearby table.
Moving to the toolbox, I pull out a Thai knife, the kind ideal for carving fruits and vegetables, and twirl it between my fingers.
I like to carve with it, too. Only my preferred medium is skin.
The senator's eyes are red from broken blood vessels, but all I see is Gigi's face as she struggled for oxygen.
That woman tried to get away. That woman, though she is here of her own free will, is under my protection. A protection that wasn't enough against the monster in front of me.
That same feeling of powerlessness floods my veins because it’s not the first time I’ve failed to protect someone.
First Berna. Then Cas. Luna. Gigi.
The voices in my head become too loud.
"Vasili, hold his hand steady."
My right hand moves to secure the senator better in the chair. With his upper limb pinned to the armrest, I lean in and unleash the demon that feeds on these moments. The secret to removing skin is the level of pressure you apply. You can’t go too deep or you risk "cutting out" a little too much.
At some point, the senator passes out from the screaming and the pain, but I don't stop.
After the skin is no longer attached to the first finger, I continue with the next, until his entire right hand is raw flesh. Only then do I step back. This is the hand he used to choke Gigi. This is the hand that signed his own death warrant.
"He's all yours," I tell Vasili as I walk to the sink to wash my hands.
"You've got some blood spots on your shirt," he says.
My shirt is navy blue, so the stains aren't very visible, but I don't want Roxanne anywhere near the creep’s blood. I take off my shirt, toss it in the trash, and grab one of the clean black ones I always keep here for situations like this.
I don't take two steps before I hear another scream, a sign that Vasili has started administering a few cocktails to wake the senator up.
The light in the hall is dim, but when I step into the main lounge, my gaze instantly finds the woman scribbling furiously in a notebook. Next to her is a cup I assume holds coffee. I look at Tommy, who gives me a slight nod, confirming nothing happened while I was gone.
I approach her slowly, but as if sensing my presence, she turns abruptly, and something like relief flashes in her eyes. It shouldn't please me so much that she's relieved to see me.
"Sorry that took so long," I whisper close to her ear, unable to resist staying glued to her side. I don't know if she realizes how many times I've invaded her personal space, but I can't stop. I know I have to give her room, that this isn’t how I'll get her to yield, but it’s beyond my control.
"It's fine," she says. "I managed to sort out the food and flowers."
When she turns her head, her lips end up inches from mine. Her eyes lift from my mouth to my gaze, and I want to rip away the reservation in them with my bare hands, that fear that I might hurt her.
I’ve pried the stories out of Luna over the past few months. I know all about the shitty relationships she’s had. How could those men not have appreciated her? How could they not have taken care to worship her every day? How could they have cheated on her? Who the hell could ever compare to her?
"What flowers did you choose?" I ask, swallowing the lump in my throat to keep from closing the distance between us.
"Franklin Tea Flower," she says quietly, and I look at her, a little surprised.
What the hell is a Franklin Tea Flower?
Sensing my confusion, she explains, "It's my favorite flower. It's very hard to find, but I have a friend who grows it at her nursery in Springfield."
I lower my head. I should have known that. I should have known her favorite flower, but it's hard to learn these details when you spend more time in the shadows than in the light.