Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pfeiffer
If I press my fingertips to my breast bone I can feel the throbbing of my heart. I was already on edge coming into this evening knowing—or not really knowing, to be more accurate—what I was walking into.
It wouldn’t have taken much for my heartbeat to skyrocket, and the brief graze of a guest’s fingers did the job.
Jeez, if I can’t even handle someone brushing their fingertips across my forearm, how on earth am I going to handle giving myself over to someone to use as they wish, before the night is over?
I’m doing it for the money, I keep telling myself.
If I can just get my hands on a hundred thousand dollars, I can pay off Callum’s debt and never have to step foot in this club again. Even if it’s a tenth of that amount, I can invest it—I’m sure Google can help teach me a few stock market tricks—and shorten the length of my sentence just a little.
Trying not to tug at the hem, I glance down at the dress that was already waiting for me when I arrived.
It’s a similar style to those I’ve worn every night up to now, only this one feels a little tighter and shorter, and there’s a gold tag shaped like a pair of angel wings stitched just beneath the shoulder.
The tag marks me out as a bidding item—something someone can own for a short period of time. I suppose I should consider myself lucky there wasn’t a branding iron involved.
I also have to wear a gold, intricately woven mask—all Angels do. Though, in my case I don’t see the point, because guests I’ve served in the past few days will see me waiting tables and know who I am. Still, it helps conceal my nerves a little.
The club feels different this evening. More discerning. Guests are seated as they are most evenings—solitarily, in couples and in small groups. There’s laughter, but with an edge to it. There are conversations, but they’re short. And there’s people-watching—on another level.
I’ve felt the gazes before, mostly curious and appreciative, but tonight there’s an undertone of intent. Tonight the gazes feel predatory and possessive, and there’s a kind of jovial hostility in the air because guests are competing for their prizes.
The bidding is anonymous and recorded on a privately hosted network accessible by registered cell phone. Over the course of the evening I’ve watched as men and women periodically reach for their phones, glance up at the merchandise and tap out bids.
There’s a hum of adrenaline lurking within these velvet curtains—from people performing in the hope of earning themselves a bid and a lot of money, to people setting their sights on someone they like and defending their bids like lions with their kill.
The one person yet to show his face is Il Diavolo. When I mentioned this, as casually as I could, to Hallie, she said he would likely be in the offices watching as the bids come in. And, she added, that’s probably where he’ll remain all night.
Something deflated in my chest when she said that, and I realized I want to see him.
He’s treated me with nothing but silent disdain since I joined, and his harsh, puncturing gazes knock me entirely off balance, so I don’t understand why mine gravitates to him like he’s oxygen whenever he walks into the room.
My heart flutters along with the butterflies in my stomach and the air around me heats up a few degrees.
It must be the power he wields. Power is supposed to be an aphrodisiac isn’t it? And it’s obvious he holds all the power in the room. Everyone defers to Il Diavolo, drifting into his orbit like the tide toward the moon.
I hate the effect he has on me, especially because I’m basically his prisoner, but it also makes me tremble with something that feels a little like lust.
My weight shifts slightly on my heels. It’s been a long time since I lusted after anyone. And never someone I haven’t exchanged words with. And there’s nothing worse than lust without an outlet. It just simmers beneath the surface, making parts of me I didn’t know could ache, ache.
I should be relieved he’s not in the room this evening. My focus needs to be on the guests with their eyes on the golden tags and phones in their hands. I don’t just need a bid—I need a bidding war if I’m going to raise a hundred thousand dollars.
Plastering a broad smile to my face, I pick up a tray of champagne flutes bubbling with Dom Pérignon and work my way around the room.
When I return to the podium, a recognizable figure is waiting for me. My mouth drops open when I see a gold mask identical to mine and the familiar gold tag attached to her dress.
“Hallie… You’re an Angel?” I whisper. “What about… your previous experience?”
“I need to fund another move,” she says, plastering a broad smile to her face for the benefit of potential bidders.
I suck in a gasp. “The stalker?”
She nods. “He’s been outside my apartment. Right outside the door. It’s getting way too close and it’s starting to freak me out.”
It’s only starting to freak her out? I would have been freaking out daily since the very first sighting.
“I completely understand. I would’ve moved sooner had I been you.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t have the money. But I could have it tonight, if all goes well.”
I turn back to the room and exhale a shaky breath. “So, what happens now?”
She takes a deep breath. “Now? Just keep doing your job, Fi. Let them see you. Talk to people and get them interested. The more people who bid, the more money you’ll raise.”
I push my shoulders and force a smile onto my face. “Right. Got it.”
I’m about to head back to the bar for a fresh tray of champagne when she stops me.
“Fi?”
I glance back at her face. It’s suddenly serious.
“Good luck.”
My lips twitch, nervously. “You too, Hal. You too.”
I spend the next couple of hours circulating with fresh drinks and appetizers and making conversation wherever I can.
Some guests bite; others don’t. There’s a particular gentleman I haven’t seen before who seems friendly.
He gives me a polite smile whenever I pass and has asked how my evening is going.
He doesn’t look like a murderer or a mob man.
Part of me hopes he bids on me—he might be gentle.
There’s an ancient grandfather clock in one corner—the only evidence I can find that time, contrary to how it feels, is actually passing.
The closer the short hand gets to twelve, the faster my heart beats. When the clock signals just five minutes to go, sweat breaks through the pores all over my skin.
Have I done enough? Have I been pleasant enough? Sexy enough? Has anyone bid for me? Would the condition I wrote down by my name put them off?
Nerves flare across every contour of my body like flames licking at gasoline-covered ground.
I spot Hallie making her way toward me, a sweet but forced smile on her face.
She stands in front of me with wide eyes. “It’s time,” she says, and I catch the slight tremble in her voice.
I follow her to the front of the room where we’re joined by eight others—six women and two men, all of them guests. Hallie and I are the only ‘employees’ up for auction.
Turning my face toward her ear, I whisper. “Is there a reason no one else who works here has signed up?”
Her breaths are steady. “Not everyone has an urgent need to make a ton of money, fast. Plus, a lot of them are in relationships.”
I slowly turn back to face the room. Alcohol has loosened limbs and jaws, and now most people are sitting up, their pupils widened, their lips wet.
The room falls quiet when three men enter.
Each one is masked but I recognize Il Diavolo straight away.
He doesn’t stand any taller or broader than the other two but he carries authority like it’s a breath in his lungs.
He and one of the men take seats to our left, so I’m positioned furthest from him. It doesn’t stop my heart from having a fit. His gaze rests heavily on my skin, the unknown and the anticipation making me feel lightheaded.
The third man takes a mic and stands before us all.
“Who are they?” I whisper to Hallie.
“That’s Cassio Bellucci,” she mutters under her breath. “And seated, Il Diavolo, and… that’s Remo.” Her voice swells a little. “Remo Bellucci.”
My chest pumps with fear. I’m sharing a stage with the mob and I’m about to be auctioned off to a stranger. How has this become my life in only two weeks?
“Ladies and gentleman,” Cassio starts. “It’s been an absolute pleasure welcoming you all here this evening for Fallen Angels.”
A round of applause follows and my pulse throbs against my ear drum. I barely hear the rest of Cassio Bellucci’s speech, eventually anchoring my attention when he calls for quiet so he can announce the winning bids.
The first Angel to fall is woman who’s been ‘sold’ to the man I’d hoped would bid for me. My heart drops instantly. A flicker of recognition lights up the lower half of the woman’s face and she makes her way through the tables amidst more clapping and whooping toward the man.
He immediately pulls her onto his lap and a dart of apprehension freezes my heartbeat. That could be me in a few minutes. In a short time, I could be someone’s plaything.
The next Fallen Angel is a man I haven’t seen at the club before. He’s ‘won’ by a jovial, pink-cheeked man sitting with a group in the center of the room. The winning bidder punches the air when it’s announced.
The man to my left blushes beet red beneath his mask before making his way over. Then, he promptly drops to his knees, lays his head on the man’s lap and closes his eyes blissfully.
“Some people are already in relationships with one another,” Hallie explains. “They just do this for fun.”
I gulp. Hard.
Three more women are selected—by a couple, a single man and a single woman—then the second man is selected by a fierce-looking woman at the front of the room. She immediately handcuffs him as he sits.