Chapter 6

~~~Anne's POV~~~

The Velvet Room smells like spilled whiskey and desperation.

Same smell every night. Same sticky floors. Same cracked vinyl booths where men old enough to be my father try to put their hands on my waist. Same dead look in the eyes of the other girls who work here, the ones who have been here too long, the ones who have stopped hoping for something better.

I have only been here a month. Already I understand.

My arm aches. The bandage is fresh—I changed it before my shift, wincing at the angry red skin underneath. My ribs scream every time I reach for a glass or bend to wipe a table. My split lip has stopped bleeding, but the cut keeps opening when I smile at customers.

I smile anyway. Fake. Hollow. The way I have learned to survive.

You have survived worse, I tell myself. You survived Lucinda. You survived the fire. You survived watching your mother's body burn.

A man at table four snaps his fingers at me. Demands another drink. I bring it. He doesn't say thank you. They never do.

"Anne. Back office. Now."

Tony's voice. The owner. He never calls me to the back office. Ever. In a month of working here, he has spoken to me maybe four times, and never in private.

My stomach drops.

I wipe my hands on my apron. Walk past the bar, past the tables, past the eyes that don't see me. The hallway is dark. The office door is open. Yellow light spills out.

Tony stands behind his desk. He won't look at me.

"Close the door."

I close it.

The room is small. Filing cabinets. A computer from the 1990s. Photos of Tony's kids on the wall. He has three of them. Girls. I wonder if they know what their father does for a living.

"Someone called me today." He still isn't looking at me. His hands are flat on the desk. White knuckles. "Someone important."

My blood goes cold.

"He said you're done here. Effective immediately."

"Tony—"

"Don't." He finally looks up. His face is tired. Not angry. Not cruel. Just tired. The kind of tired that comes from knowing you don't have a choice. "I don't know what you did. I don't want to know. But that man owns this city. If I don't fire you, he burns my club."

"He can't—"

"He can. He will. And he'll sleep fine after."

I stare at him. My mouth is dry. My hands are shaking.

"Please." My voice comes out small. Broken. I hate how I sound. "I need this job. I don't have anything else."

Tony looks at me then. Really looks. At my bandaged arm. At my split lip. At the bruises Lucinda's men left on my face.

"Someone hurt you," he says quietly. Not a question.

I don't answer.

"Whoever called me—he's the reason you're hurt, isn't he?"

Luca. I want to say yes. I want to tell Tony everything. But what good would it do? Tony is a small man with a small club in a city owned by monsters. He can't protect me. No one can.

"No," I lie. "He's not."

Tony doesn't believe me. I can see it in his eyes. But he doesn't push.

"I'm sorry, Anne." He means it. That makes it worse. "Take your last paycheck from the register. There's an extra hundred in there. From me."

I open my mouth to beg again. To fall to my knees if I have to. This job is all I have. The only thing keeping me in Italy. The only thing keeping me close to the answers I came here to find.

Then his phone rings.

Tony holds up a hand. Silences me. Answers.

"Yeah." He listens. His face changes. The tiredness doesn't leave, but something else creeps in. Fear? Relief? I can't tell.

"Hold on."

He covers the mouthpiece. Looks at me.

"You still want to keep your job?"

I blink. "What?"

"VIP room. Table seven. They asked for you specifically. You serve them, keep them happy, make sure they leave smiling—you stay."

My heart pounds. "Who are they?"

Tony shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. You want the job or not?"

I think about Austin. About the money I need to send Sarah. About the diary hidden under my mattress, waiting for me to find the courage to read it again.

"Yes," I say. "I'll do it."

Tony nods. Uncovers the phone. "She's on her way."

He hangs up. Looks at me one more time.

"Be careful in there, Anne. Some men don't know how to keep their hands to themselves."

I don't answer. I just turn and walk out.

---

The VIP room is at the end of the hall. A black door. Gold handle. The kind of door that promises money and danger in equal measure.

I stop outside. Breathe.

You can do this. You have survived worse.

I push the door open.

The room is large. Dark. Red velvet walls. Low lighting. A circular table in the center surrounded by leather couches.

Bottles of expensive whiskey line the table. Glasses. A bucket of ice. Cigars burning in an ashtray.

Men in suits. Women in short dresses. Laughter. Smoke. The kind of wealth that doesn't need to show off because everyone already knows.

And then I see him.

Luca.

He sits at the head of the table like a king on a throne. Legs crossed. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled up. A glass of whiskey in his hand that he isn't drinking.

His eyes find mine.

I freeze.

No. No, no, no.

The bottles in my arms suddenly feel like they weigh a hundred pounds. I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't think.

Luca smiles.

Slow. Cold. Deliberate.

He knows.

Of course he knows. This is his doing. The call to Tony. The threat. The firing. The last-minute reprieve. All of it. Every piece.

He isn't here to drink.

He is here to watch me squirm.

One of the men beside him—Marco, I recognize him—stands and walks toward me.

"You must be the new girl." He takes the bottles from my arms. Sets them on the table. "Don't just stand there. Come. Sit."

I don't move.

Luca's smile widens.

"Anne." My name on his lips is a weapon. "So nice to see you again."