Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Pfeiffer
Nineteen nights to go.
I don’t even bother hoping for Fiero to make an appearance as I take my usual place at the podium for the fourth night since he ordered me to not feel a thing for him.
I’ve had time to cool off and realize he’s absolutely right.
Who in their right mind would want to catch feelings for a blackmailing mafia don who has bodies buried under the parking lot and is known to the rest of New York as the Devil?
I mean, really. It doesn’t make for a tempting personal ad now, does it?
“Fi!” José calls me over. He’s getting a little too used to giving me jobs when the other wait staff is busy. “Would you mind taking this over to the corner booth?
I glance down at the clear drink in a crystal tumbler. “Sure.”
“It’s a Grey Goose, on the rocks, squeeze of lime. His usual.”
I pick up the tray and make my way over to the Irish guy in the corner. I’ve seen him here a few times. Or rather, I’ve felt his presence a few times.
The nights he’s been here, I’ve felt him watching me from across the room.
I’ve felt his gaze glued to me in a way that makes me feel deeply uneasy.
The few times I’ve glanced his way, it’s always me he seems to watch—not the other girls.
Even so, I haven’t mentioned it to anyone because I don’t wish to sound like a diva, or like someone who thinks they’re more attractive or important than they are.
I squash my apprehension down into my belly as I walk to his table.
His suit is pale gray and loose—not dark and fitted like the ones I’m more used to seeing at Velvet.
And his mask isn’t as close-fitted or embellished as other guests’, which suggests it isn’t money that grants him entry to this club—it’s business.
He looks up as I reach his table, watching closely as I place the glass on a coaster.
“Your Grey Goose, sir.”
“Thanks,” he mutters.
I turn to walk back to the bar when his words halt me.
“Slow night?”
I straighten and glance about the lounge. “For now. It usually picks up around eleven.”
He takes a long sip of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of the hand he’s still holding the glass with. “Is your man about?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your man. Fiero.”
Blood rushes up my throat, threatening to taint my whole face beet colored.
“Fiero isn’t my man,” I say, backing up.
“No.” He places his glass on the table while my heart pounds. “He’s your boss, now. Your man’s your boss.”
“Oh, right,” I frown. “You mean, where’s my boss?”
“Right y’are.”
“Um, I don’t know, I'm afraid. I… I can ask Vivienne. She’s his Head of House.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “No bother. I was just curious. He’s usually around, like.”
“Yes.” I swallow. “Yes, he is.”
“How long’ve worked here, Pfeiffer?”
His use of my name startles me. We don’t wear identity badges here and I’ve never told him my name. He could have asked someone who works here but… I never see him speaking to anyone.
“Um, I don’t know…” I feel strangely uncomfortable and not just because of the questions. He’s looking at me in a way that feels predatory. “Three weeks I think.”
“Not long then.” He takes another sip of his drink.
I shake my head, glancing back toward the bar in the hope someone might rescue me. No such luck. José is laughing with another customer—a masked woman who clearly enjoys his stories.
The Irishman watches me closely, his eyes like slits. “Why don’t you sit for a while? It’s not busy. They can spare you for half an hour.”
My throat is completely dry.
“I’m sorry, it’s not allowed.”
His face doesn’t fall as such but he licks his lips like he’s tasting my lie on the air. I conceal a shudder.
“I’m grateful for the invitation though,” I rush out. “I’m sorry. I have to get back.”
He nods slowly as I back away from him, bumping into another table as I do. Thankfully, it’s unoccupied. Then I turn and head back to the podium.
Safely behind the screen, my fingers find the red alarm button but I hesitate. I intuitively know there’s something off about him, but it’s a hunch, nothing concrete.
If I press this button, security will ask me what the concern is, and what do I say? “Oh, that guy over there just gave me a weird feeling”?
But if I don’t press it and it turns out he planted an explosive device or something equally horrifying, the fall-out would be all my fault because I didn’t alert someone of my hunch.
Oh God. Panic starts to scratch its way up my chest as my finger hovers over the button.
It’s only when the curtains part and two men enter the lounge, one I know more intimately than any other man in my life, and sit on a table adjacent to the Irishman that I feel safe enough to remove my finger.
I have no evidence to prove this but a very strong feeling that as long as Il Diavolo is around, no one will hurt me.
My useless, misguided heart hammers inside my chest.
I’ve never felt so torn. My head knows unequivocally that Fiero Bellucci is wrong for me in every possible way, but my heart can only hear the soft voice he uses when we’re alone, and the gentle way in which he coaxes me to an orgasm, without—mostly—putting his hands on me.
He sits with Remo, one ankle crossed over his knee, suit jacket open, black shirt stretched across his chest, his eyes drifting intermittently in my direction.
I force myself to look away from him.
Thankfully, a group of three enters and I busy myself checking them in and showing them to their table. But on my return, I notice the Irishman has gone.
My shoulders settle with relief but the anxious prickle at the nape of my neck remains.
I accidentally slide my gaze back to Fiero and find his eyes already on me, watching me move about his club, serving his guests. There’s a flicker of pride on his face which I choose not to read into.
By midnight, the lounge is alive.
Jazz hums through the low-lit room, glasses clink, laughter rolls across velvet booths and softly carpeted floors.
It’s business as usual.
I’m checking names on the reservation list when the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Something feels very wrong. And something—instinct, perhaps—compels me to look up.
A wisp of air dashes across my face and the Irishman appears out of nowhere.
“Oh, hi! Can I—”
I don’t get a chance to finish my sentence when he grabs my arm hard enough to bruise. All the nerves in my body fire up at the contact and my head spins.
“Wait—let go,” I say, panicked.
“No lass, you’re coming with me.”
What?
One second I’m at the podium, the next I’m being dragged across the lounge. His free hand holds a gun and he holds it aloft, daring anyone to approach us.
The lounge fills with the sound of chairs and tables falling over, women crying out in shock, men shouting, and the soft bass pumping through the speakers.
I search desperately for Fiero but all I can see is a blur of suits and masks and guns pointing in our direction.
The Irishman’s arm bands across my chest, making it hard to breathe.
“Easy now, Pfeiffer,” he growls in my ear. “Do what I say and no one gets hurt.”
Terror detonates in my chest. I have no idea what’s going on. I don’t know how this man knows my name and I can’t imagine what he could possibly want with me.
“What’s going on?” I gasp, short of breath. “What do you want?”
My eyes continue to search for Fiero. Then they find him, and God—
I’ve never seen anything more terrifying in my life.
He’s moving with horrifying speed, shoving through tables toward us, eyes black with murder.
“Let her go,” he roars, “or I’ll rip your spine out through your throat.”
The Irishman laughs lightly as though he just won a prize at the funfair, and pulls me even tighter against him.
I feel something cold press against my ribs and my breaths falter. He’s no longer pointing the gun at the ceiling—he’s pointing it into me.
Fiero keeps advancing, reaching behind his back for the gun in his waistband.
No.
My heart sinks to my toes and my bloodless head sways.
He doesn’t take his eyes off the Irishman. “You don’t touch what’s mine.”
The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. Mine.
The Irishman laughs again. “I’ve found your weakness, Il Diavolo.”
Fiero doesn’t blink. “You seem to think that’s useful information, when you’re not even going to leave this building alive.”
The gun digs harder into my side and I steel my breath, sweat dripping down my temple.
Fiero stops three feet away, close enough that I can see the absolute fury vibrating beneath his skin.
Then his eyes flick to the right, noticing what everyone realises too late. There’s a second gunman across the room with a pistol aimed at Fiero.
Before I can process it, Fiero moves.
A gunshot explodes through the lounge—the sound is deafening.
My lungs burst as Fiero slams into me, wrenching me out of the Irishman’s grip with catastrophic force.
Another gunshot sounds, closer this time, almost perforating my eardrum. It had to be point blank range.
We crash to the floor together and he immediately covers my body with his.
More shots ring out above us, obliterating the sounds of screams and shouting. Glass shatters overhead.
Fiero’s weight crushes me protectively against the carpet, one large hand locked around the back of my head.
“Stay down.”
My ears ring violently as more men flood the room. From my position on the ground all I can see is an army of polished leather shoes descending on the lounge. More shouting, more pounding footsteps.
The Irishman who’d grabbed me is lying several feet away, his eyes wide, blood running from his nose and mouth. The second one is collapsed over a table, also bleeding and terrifyingly motionless.
There’s more gunfire but it’s receding now. Then there’s silence. Sudden, heavy silence. Even the music has stopped.
My chest heaves beneath Fiero’s body. It’s pressing me into the carpet so hard I can barely draw a breath.
“Fiero?” I whisper, brokenly.
When he doesn’t answer, ice floods my veins.
“Fiero,” I force out, louder.
I bend my head, trying to wriggle free, and catch a glimpse of his face. He’s pale as a sheet.
A damp warmth seeps into my back and I smell something I encountered every day in the hospital.
Something rich, thick and metallic.
Blood.