Chapter 2 #3
Beyond this curtain requires a membership. I know this from my research. The Scarlet Thorn has layers, and the deeper you go, the more exclusive and expensive it becomes.
But I don't have time for rules. I don't have time for anything except survival.
I slip through the curtain before anyone can stop me.
The corridor beyond is quieter, the bass fading to a dull throb that I feel more than hear. The lighting shifts from red to something softer, almost amber, like candlelight trapped in glass. Doors line the hallway, all of them closed, all of them hiding secrets I don't have time to uncover.
And at the end, just like Sloane said, is a red door.
I push through it and step into a room that steals my breath.
Candles line the perimeter, their flames dancing against walls painted the deepest black I've ever seen.
But swirling through that darkness are streaks of scarlet red that twist and curl across the surface like blood flowing through midnight veins.
It's beautiful and terrifying and exactly the kind of place where desperate women come to trade pieces of their souls for a chance at salvation.
At the center of the room, on a pedestal draped in black velvet, sits a box made of dark wood and gold filigree. The wish box gleams in the candlelight like something sacred, something that has witnessed countless desperate prayers and impossible hopes.
A small table beside the box holds a stack of red envelopes and a fountain pen, the materials provided for those who have come to beg for miracles, I assume.
This is it.
I pick up the pen with trembling fingers, and for a moment I just stand there, staring at the blank paper, trying to figure out how to condense my entire desperate situation into words that might make someone want to help me.
What do I have to offer? I think about my research, my files, six months of painstaking evidence gathering that I had to leave behind at my father's house when I went out that window.
But I still have information. I still have secrets locked in my head, names and dates and details that could bring the Malone empire crashing down if the right people got hold of them.
And I have one thing my uncle was planning to sell.
I see only one option that will take away all leverage my uncle has on me and give me protection.
My virginity for their protection. My secrets for their help.
It's a two-fold transaction that holds value even if it is cold and calculating.
I learned at my father's knee even if he never meant to teach me.
I've been trading pieces of myself to survive my family my whole life.
At least this time, I'm the one setting the terms. I'm the one who decides what I'm worth.
I write carefully, my hand steadying with each word as they take shape on the paper:
Take my virginity and grant me protection from my uncle, Seamus Malone. In exchange, I will give you one secret about the Malones for every day you keep me alive.
I fold the paper and slip it into a red envelope from the stack. The slot in the top of the wish box accepts my wish with a whisper of paper against wood, and I watch it disappear into the darkness inside.
Gone. Irrevocable. No taking it back now.
I press my palm flat against the cool surface of the box, feeling the smooth wood and the ridges of gold filigree bite into my skin. My eyes fall closed, and I let myself do something I haven't done in years.
I pray.
Please. Whoever reads these wishes, please let them feel something. Please let them help me. I need someone on my side for once in my miserable life.
The candles flicker as if in response, their flames dancing shadows across the blood-red walls, and for one wild moment I swear I can feel something watching me from the darkness.
Then the moment passes, and I'm just a girl alone in a candlelit room, hoping strangers will save her from her own blood.
I walk back through the corridor and slip past the black curtain into the chaos of the club. The bass hits me like a physical force after the silence of the wish room, and it takes me a moment to reorient myself.
Sloane is exactly where I left her, sitting in the booth and chewing on her thumbnail like she's trying to gnaw her way through to bone. She looks up when I approach, her eyes searching my face.
"Well?"
"It's done." I slide back into my seat across from her, feeling the leather stick to my sweaty palms. "Now what?"
"Now we wait and pray that someone important reads it before Saturday rolls around.
" She flags down a passing waitress with a wave.
"You need a drink. And a place to crash.
My apartment has a guest room with a lock on the door and a doorman who doesn't ask questions as long as I tip him well enough. "
"Sloane, I can't drag you any deeper into this mess—"
"Too late, babe. Besides, these walls have eyes. They’ve already captured you with me. They’ll know where to find you when it comes time to grant your wish." She gives me a look that says arguing is absolutely pointless.
“I never thought about that.”
"I know. It’s why you have me. You're my friend. Friends don't let friends get sold at creepy underground auctions. We're in this together now, whether you like it or not."
Something warm and terrifying loosens in my chest at her words. I'm not used to people choosing me, not used to anyone putting themselves in danger on my behalf.
"Okay. Your place. But I can't stay long." I force myself to think tactically, to push down the gratitude threatening to crack me open. "If they trace me to you—"
"We'll deal with that when we deal with it." The waitress appears at our table, and Sloane orders two whiskeys, neat. "For now, drink. Then we plan."
The whiskey burns going down, settling into my empty stomach like liquid fire, and it's exactly the kind of burn I need right now. The kind that reminds you you're still alive when everything else is trying to convince you otherwise.
I'm reaching for my burner phone to check the time when a notification pops up on the cracked screen. News alert from one of the local Chicago stations. I almost swipe it away, but the headline catches my eye and wraps cold fingers around my throat.
Body Found Near North Shore Estate. Household Staff Member Identified as Victim.
My blood turns to ice in my veins, and the whiskey in my stomach threatens to make a reappearance.
I click the short article with numb fingers, my eyes scan the details so fast the words blur together before snapping into horrifying focus. There’s a picture. The body is that of a Malone’s groundskeeper. I know because my father makes them wear a hideous shade of brown as part of their uniform.
I scroll down to the few lines of description under the picture. Body found near property line of the Malone Estate only a half hour ago. Cause of death is "under investigation," which is cop-speak for "we know exactly what happened but someone powerful told us to keep our mouths shut."
That was too fast.
I scroll back to the photo. I recognize the shoes.
Miguel. The groundskeeper's name was Miguel.
He'd worked for my father for fifteen years, ever since he immigrated from Guatemala with his wife and two kids.
He worked the night shift because it paid better, walking the perimeter of the property with a flashlight and a radio, keeping watch over a family that didn't deserve his loyalty.
He would have been patrolling near the back gate when I made my escape. He would have seen me running through the trees, would have heard my footsteps pounding against the grass, might have even called out to ask if I was okay.
And now he's dead because Seamus most likely thinks he helped me.
My stomach churns. A good man with a family is dead because I ran past him on my way to freedom...
The room spins around me, and I grip the edge of the table to keep from sliding onto the floor.
"Onyx?" Sloane's voice cuts through the roaring in my ears, sharp with concern. "You just went white as a ghost. What's wrong?"
Before I can figure out how to form words around the horror lodged in my throat, her phone buzzes against the table, vibrating loud enough to make us both jump. She glances down at the screen and frowns.
"That's weird."
"What?" My voice comes out as a croak.
"Blocked number." She picks up the phone, her manicured nail swiping across the screen. I watch her read the message, watch the color drain from her face the same way I felt it drain from mine thirty seconds ago.
"Sloane." I reach across the table and grab her wrist, my fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. "What does it say?"
She turns the screen toward me, her hand trembling just enough to make the words swim before my eyes.
Have you seen Onyx Malone tonight?
The room tilts on its axis, the red lighting suddenly too bright, the music too loud, every face in the crowd a potential threat.
My uncle's reach is longer than I thought, faster and more ruthless than I gave him credit for even after everything I've witnessed over the years. He's already traced my friendships. Miguel isn't even cold yet and Seamus is already closing in.
The five days I thought I had just evaporated like smoke.
"We need to go." I grab my laptop bag with one hand and Sloane's arm with the other, hauling us both out of the booth. "Like right the fuck now."
"Onyx, what the hell—"
"That text is from my uncle's people. They know we're friends. How? I don’t know." I'm already moving toward the nearest exit, dragging her with me. "If they trace you to this club, if they find out you helped me, you'll end up just like Miguel."
"Who's Miguel?"
"The groundskeeper. The body in the news alert." My voice breaks on the words. "He saw me leave tonight. Now he's dead. That's how my uncle operates, Sloane. We don’t need to see it happen again to know the new pattern is clear. Anyone who helps me ends up dead. "
Her face goes pale, but she doesn't freeze. Instead, she kicks off her heels, scoops them up, and matches my pace in bare feet.
"Back entrance. The staff uses it." She takes the lead, weaving through the crowd. "Less visible, no cameras on the door."
We push through a door marked STAFF ONLY and into a narrow corridor lit by flickering fluorescent lights. The sudden quiet after the assault of the club is disorienting, and my ears ring in the silence.
Five days. I thought I had five fucking days.
I don't even have five hours.
The back door looms ahead, a rectangle of shadow promising escape.
For some reason my brain jumps to my wish waiting for someone to read it.
I just hope I live long enough for that to matter.