“Ah...there he is. The big man.”
It’s barely 8 a.m. and Arno’s already drunk. His bloodshot eyes glare as I cross the bar. He has two bottles before him. One looks half-empty. He pours the other into a fresh shot glass and knocks it back, hissing at the taste. “You wanted to fuck her first, is that it?” he demands. “I would have let you have the first bite. You only need ask—”
“She has a plan.” The words seem ripped from my chest against my will. Frowning, I approach a barstool and sit. Two of Arno’s thugs linger around the edges of the room, pretending to play pool, but their suspicious gazes irritate the back of my neck. “The girl,” I grunt when Arno doesn’t react. “She has a plan of her own for getting back at Stacatto.”
Arno laughs and pours himself another shot. “Let me guess.” He props a finger beneath his chin and pretends to mull it over. “We send her back with a pat on the ass, and she’ll beg her fiancé to apologize for treating my sister like a fucking whore?”
“No,” I say, my gaze on the counter. Something that might be...fuck, admiration? swells in my chest before I can swallow it down. “One man. No chains. The camera. She says she’d do it willingly.” Even I had to admit that it was sadistic as fuck. No man would stomach watching his woman be raped by other men—but if she willingly sullied herself just to erase his touch? Screwed a stranger on camera for no reason other than to prove that despite wearing his ring, she owed him no loyalty?
That was the kind of shit that fucked with a man’s head. It set the fires of rage that couldn’t be easily smothered. It was the kind of twisted mind game that started a war.
“Bullshit,” Arno groused, but I had his attention—his hand stilled on the bottle of liquor, and he cocked his head, his emerald eyes mean and mistrustful. “You’ve been talking to her, eh Dante? Lapping up her fucking lies. I know you’re picky about your women, but Jesus Christ—”
“She’ll do it.” My voice resonates with conviction, though I’m not sure why. For all I know, the little bitch could be trying to merely prolong her own life but...ah, fuck. She wasn’t lying. I could see the desperation on her. “She’ll do it,” I repeat. “And when Stacatto wants her back, you use this as an opportunity to extort whatever you want from the fucker.”
Arno frowns down at his still-full shot glass. “What makes you so sure he’ll even want her back? If my girl fucked another—”
“He’ll want her back.” There was something inherently cruel about possession—that dark, brutal need that drove a man to draw his own name onto his victim’s skin. She could leave on his terms. Die with his say. Bleed at his hand.
But if she dared to make that choice on her own? Well...it wouldn’t matter what the hell Arno asked for. Stacatto would entertain paying it—if only for a second—to have his disobedient toy back. He’d make her suffer for daring to exert her own will.
“He’ll want her back...”
Arno’s thinking. He does so loudly, fumbling to lift his glass. He drops it, and liquor sloshes across the countertop. Some of it wets my fingertips, but I don’t attempt to wipe them. Her blood is on my fingers as well. Literally. Figuratively. She willingly put it there, and I fucking let her.
“You sure she’ll do it?” Arno asks finally.
I nod. “Yes.”
“Hell, even if she doesn’t, I’ll still let my men have a go at her anyway.” He chuckles darkly, relishing the idea of torture as an appetizing side dish to his liquid breakfast. “But...let’s say she does go through with it. Who will be the lucky man? You?” His gaze pierces me as if seeking out any ounce of lust I could be trying to hide.
“No.” I shake my head. “Maybe you or one of your men.” That would be an interesting sight, seeing them all fight over who gets to screw an easy lay.
“He’ll have to wear a mask, I guess,” Arno suspects, already arranging the details in his head. “Stacatto will make whoever the bastard is a target. And she’ll need something sexy to wear. None of that pathetic tee shirt shit.” He nods and then glances over at me, his smile gruesome. “Ask her to make a list of what she’ll need. And tell her to get specific—if she doesn’t ask for condoms, she won’t fucking get any.”
“When do you want her?” I ask, rising to my feet. I don’t waste time on the stupid questions. So, you’ll do it? Arno’s mind is already made up, that’s one good thing about the bastard. He rarely lets emotion cloud his fucking common sense.
“Tonight,” he says. “Maybe. I need to fucking sleep.” He eyes the bottle as if it holds the answers to nights without memories of Parish. “I’ll probably need to move her too. Stacatto won’t find her here, but that bitch isn’t good for morale.” He sniffs the air as if tasting her scent along with that of his own stink. “I’m putting you in charge of this, Dante,” he adds while I head to the back of the pub. “Get our little movie-maker whatever she needs...”
The mocking request chases me up the stairs. The hallway is empty. There is no one there to see me barge into the apartment and face the woman still sitting on the couch. Her hazel eyes watch me cross the room, but she doesn’t react. Her head lolls against the back of the couch. She’s fighting to stay awake or maybe just conscious. Her skin is paler than the milk I left out on the counter. I reach out for the bottle and then march over to the fridge.
“Will you do it?” I ask without turning around. I shouldn’t have to fucking elaborate as to what.
“Yes.” I turn to find her watching me from the couch still. There’s no hesitation in her gaze. No questioning. “I’ll do it...but—”
“What?” I chuckle darkly, steeling myself for some silly, childish request. But the man has to treat me nice first. I need to be drugged. I need you to tell him that I didn’t really mean it...
“When it’s all over...you can barter whatever you want for me, but after that, you kill me. I go back to him dead. Promise me.”
There she goes, commanding again. Her princess nose juts high into the air, her eyes seeking mine. The haughty act is almost enough to counter the shocking truth in her words. She’s that damn sure the bastard will be willing to trade for her.
“I don’t make promises,” I grunt.
“Make this one.” She sits forward, her hair draping her like a cape. Her hand flies out, the fingers aimed like an arrow for my chest.
I stare at it, and slowly she brings it back down. Her face is dazed. “Vinny does handshakes...” She sounds horrified that she’s driven to use the same tactics as him. Then she shakes her head, clearing it. “You have to promise me.”
The next few seconds hang between us, a silent draw. I don’t tear my eyes from hers, and she doesn’t so much as flinch. The bitch has honed her poker face. How many times has the bastard hurt her while she struggled to keep her face blank? How many horrors has she watched be committed right under her nose without batting so much as an eyelash? Something catches in my chest and makes me grit my teeth before I can help it. Holy fuck, I think I’m impressed.
“I...” My fingertips burn at the subtle hesitation. Dante Vialle never fucking hesitates. “I’ll strangle you myself,” I tell her, curling my hands into fists.
“Thank you.” She exhales sharply, her eyes closing in relief. The emotion deflates her, and she falls back against the headrest of the couch. “Thank you...thank you.”
Her gratitude stings. I’ve signed up to be her murderer, and she looks ready to kiss my fucking feet. “It’ll be my pleasure.” I put as much fucking violence and hate that I can into the words; they become a cutting whip that glances off her skin with barely a nick to show for it.
“Thank you.”
“Make a list of what you need,” I tell her, turning to face the door.
“N-Need?”
“Make sure you add condoms.” I leave her there and enter the bathroom. I piss, gritting my teeth as irritation seeps into my veins. There’s a buzzing at the back of my skull, harder and harder to ignore the longer I breathe the same air as Stacatto’s whore. I stand before the toilet for minutes. When I wash my hands, a fucking stranger glares at me from the mirror’s surface—some bastard who promised to murder a woman in exchange for a sex tape. Parish will be avenged, all right. I hiss and flick my wet hands in the air, watching drops of water distort my reflection.
When I return to the living room, the bitch is still on the couch.
“I’ll need new un-underwear, I guess,” she says softly. “And c-condoms. And...” She recites her list blankly while her eyes focus on the far wall. “I’ll need...video.” She licks her lips as if the word is too dirty to leave there. “Tapes. S-So I c-can...”
Oh. I nod sharply. She wants to study a porno in action and see what it takes. Again, I don’t know whether to be impressed by the cold, calculating way she’s planned her fiancé’s humiliation, or just...disgusted. The man sure did a number on her. The princess knows what’s expected to make her show look real. She’s unafraid. I can see the determination in her gaze from here. It burns like fire, smoldering and quiet.
“And,” she starts, meeting my gaze. “The man...he’ll...I’m a virgin.”
I feel myself frown, and I turn away before she can discern the shock I’m too fucking stupid to hide. A virgin. My eyes find her again and seek out that ring. Vincent’s Stacatto’s virginal little fiancé is willing to dance with the wolves just to keep some part of her out of his reach. It’s sick. It’s twisted.
It’ll make for a good fucking show.