Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Pfeiffer
The sight of two fierce, dead-behind-the-eyes men bracketing the doorway sends a cold shiver across my skin.
Hugging a coat around myself, I approach with the air of someone walking to their death.
I’ve had approximately four hours to mentally prepare for this turn of events and I’m drowning.
The guilt of leaving my father only hours after I’ve returned is eating me up.
Hatred for my uncle for putting me in this position is burning through my chest. And apprehension about what I’m stepping into is setting my pulse on course for a conniption.
Three of those four hours were spent frantically Googling ‘Velvet,’ only to find one elusive website bearing very little information.
I have no idea what this place is, or what’s expected of me. I’m not confident I’ll be able to do a good job because I’ve never done hospitality work, and what will happen if I do it badly?
Do I fail? Does the debt remain unpaid? Will we have to pay some other way?
By the time I reach the men, my lungs feel as though they’ve been put in a flower press.
“I, um… I’m…”
The taller of the two men dips his chin so he can take me in. At five foot three, I’m a lot shorter than him.
“We know who you are.”
I blink at his tone. It’s… surprisingly kind and at complete odds with his menacing form. And, how do I respond to that?
“Oh right. Okay.”
“I’m Dante,” he says, wrapping his hand round a metal door knob. “Come this way.”
Dante guides me through the metal door but just before it closes I catch sight of some bullet-shaped dents in the steel.
A shudder rolls down my spine as the reality thickens. This is a mafia-owned club. And though they keep a low-ish profile in the city, they exist, and they’re dangerous.
“You’ll warm up quick,” he says, assuming my shudder was caused by a chill.
A wall of heat hits me when he pulls back a long, heavy, velvet curtain. As I acclimate to the new temperature, I see why.
Spread out before me is a softly lit lounge filled with dark wood and rococo tables, plush sofas and velvet drapes.
The walls are decorated in voluptuous damask prints, and the floor is thickly carpeted.
Booths and round bistro tables fill the edges and heavily adorned crystal chandeliers hang from the low ceiling.
The large yet cosy room is thrumming with people reclining on velvet sofas, perched on tall, slim bar stools, leaning against low-lit bookshelves. It’s dark, so it’s hard to make out specific details but one thing is clear: the dress code is scant.
I’ve never seen so much bare leg and shoulder in one space in my life.
I try not to stare but it’s hard not to when there’s nowhere else to look.
Bare skin in every direction. I lift my gaze in the hope I might meet a friendly eye or two, but as the vision sharpens and details come into view, I freeze.
“What the—”
Even Dante’s hand pressing into my coat is ineffective. My sneaker-clad feet are rooted in the soft carpet. Air evacuates my lungs and my heart pounds.
Almost every guest in the room is wearing a mask. Decadent, jeweled, heavily embellished masks.
“What is this place?” I whisper.
It feels like I’ve just arrived in Renaissance Italy having taken a detour through the Prohibition era. Opulent, scandalous, teetering on the edge of debauched.
Dante’s solemn voice bends to my ear. “This way, Miss McAllister.”
My palm finds its way to my chest. “I, um…”
“It isn’t polite to stare,” he says, bluntly.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake off the visuals.
“God. Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I—”
“Follow me.”
I anchor my gaze to his back and follow him through the room. Thankfully, his beefy form blocks my view of pretty much everything, which is helpful.
We weave through low, round tables and the smell of cigars lingers in pockets. I thought smoking indoors was banned.
I pass a man seated on a red leather club chair, laughing, with a bronze sculpted mask covering half his face and a fat cigar between his teeth.
To my left is a small bar with every single spirit I could imagine stacked to the ceiling behind it. The unmasked bartender is dressed in a tuxedo with slicked back hair and he’s laughing with a couple seated on bar stools the other side.
I follow Dante through another door placed discreetly in a far corner of the lounge. The music becomes a soft bass when it closes and I look up to find someone else waiting for me.
“This is Vivienne Laurent, our Head of House,” Dante says, air kissing a tall slim woman wearing an expensive-looking black dress and sleek bob to match, on both cheeks. “Vivienne, this is Pfeiffer McAllister.”
Like Dante and the bartender, she isn’t wearing a mask, so I notice her reaction instantly. Her green eyes sweep over me in a quick second. Then her lips thin almost imperceptibly and her nostrils flare.
“Miss McAllister. Come with me.”
Her instruction is clipped—so brief I almost miss the viciousness beneath. But not completely.
My nerves fire up another notch as she leads me into a small room. I have an irrational but definite feeling she dislikes me, which is troublesome for a perpetual people pleaser like me. I was already feeling nervous and untethered on arrival—now, I fear it’s gone nuclear.
I look around the room to distract my thoughts from my trembling spine. There are lockers one side—not the kind you’d find at school or at the gym, but pristine floor-standing ones so shiny they look like they’ve been painted with glossy red nail lacquer—and a rail of clothes on the other.
I watch uneasily as Vivienne flicks deftly through the rail of clothes, glances once over her shoulder at me, then pulls out a slinky black number and hangs it over an ornate hook. Her eyes flash at me once as she slides past and she barks another instruction.
“Get changed. I’ll wait outside.”
My eyes drift over the thin fabric. This is going to show every curve and bump. It’s too revealing. I turn around to object but the door closes with a sharp click and she’s gone. I doubt she’d come back if I called—her demeanour doesn’t exactly scream ‘warmth.’
With trembling fingers, I remove my coat and hang it over the back of a chair. My sneakers, shirt and jeans follow. Then I step into the black satin and pull it up my body.
It’s so light and soft it feels like I’m sheathing my body in ten denier cashmere. To say I’m covering myself would be an exaggeration though. The hem of the dress comes halfway up my thighs and the neckline darts toward my belly button, revealing my dingy gray hospital bra.
I slip the dress over my shoulders and remove the offending underwear, noticing some adhesive cups on the hanger. I press those to my ribcage, elevating my breasts. Weirdly, they fit like they were made for me.
After I’ve finished dressing I turn to a floor length mirror in the corner of the room and my mouth falls open.
For the first time in my life, I look expensive.
My legs appear insanely long, even though I’m standing flat-footed on the floor. The cut at the shoulders makes my arms look slender. The ruching at the waist pulls me in, exposing curves that are normally hidden beneath hospital scrubs.
Ordinarily, a dress like this would make a woman look easy, even cheap. But the expert cut and the way the silky soft fabric catches the light gives off a totally different vibe. It’s sexy, yet it somehow makes me appear untouchable.
A knock comes at the door. “Are you decent?”
“Y-yes. Come in.”
Vivienne enters the room, pausing briefly to assess my appearance. She nods once, with what looks like reluctance, then she opens a closet door and lifts out a pair of heels. I spot the Louboutin red sole as she holds them out to me.
“Put these on.”
I stare at them blankly. She wants me to wear four hundred dollar shoes? That’s outrageous. Exactly what job am I going to be doing?
“I… I can’t wear those,” I murmur.
“Of course you can,” she snaps, shoving them into my stomach. “Our staff wears only the best.”
She steps back and mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, ‘whether they deserve to or not.’
Swallowing back another protest, I slip my bare feet into them, instantly extending my legs by four inches.
She walks up behind me as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Then she gets to work on my hair, pulling at the strands, yanking me this way and that, until it’s gathered somehow elegantly at the back of my head, some wavy strands tickling my nape and collarbone.
Then she sprays something into the air with a huff and a cloud of glitter settles over my hair like a summer rainfall.
Snapping open a small box, she steps in front of me and starts to work on my face. Her fingers move quickly, applying an array of creams, powders and shimmery substances to my skin. Thankfully, she’s more gentle with my face than she was with my hair.
“You’ll be hosting this evening,” she says, bluntly. “The first person our guests will see on arrival.”
“I—I don’t know how to host,” I say, trying to keep my lips still as she applies something to them.
“Hallie will explain everything,” she says.
I swallow, then bite back nerves as I ask her the one question that’s been preying on me since Enzo Agostini walked out of the apartment.
“Do you know how long I need to work here for?”
She presses a finger to my chin closing my mouth, then sweeps mascara over my lashes. A minute passes before she responds.
“I’m not involved in the hiring of new girls,” she says, eventually. “That is the realm of Il Diavolo.”
“Of what?” I ask, before I can help myself.
She stops, a hand frozen in the air, her gaze snapping to mine. “Diavolo Sovrano. The boss,” she says slowly, as if trying to summon the recollection from the depths of my soul.
I look back at her with yet more blankness on my face.
“Il Diavolo selects each of our girls. There is a reason he wants you here.” Her gaze rakes over me again as if searching for that reason and coming up short. “It’s a privilege to be chosen, Miss McAllister.”