chapter 7

~~~Anne's POV~~~

The room does not get quieter when Luca smiles. It gets heavier.

The other men keep talking. The women keep laughing. The smoke keeps curling toward the ceiling. Ice clinks against glass. Someone tells a joke I don't hear. Someone else laughs too loud.

But none of it touches me. None of it matters.

Only him.

Only those cold blue eyes watching me from the head of the table like I am something he has caught and hasn't decided whether to kill or keep. Like I am a rabbit in a trap, and he is deciding which knife to use.

"Don't stand there like a ghost," Luca says. His voice is smooth. Too smooth. The kind of smooth that comes before a blade slides between ribs. "Come. Sit."

I don't move. My feet are glued to the floor. My arms hang limp at my sides. The bottles I carried are gone. Taken by Marco. I have nothing to hold onto. Nothing to hide behind.

Marco pulls out a chair. Right beside Luca. Right inside his reach. The cushion is red velvet. Stained. I wonder how many other women have sat there, trapped, while men decide their fates.

"Sit," Luca says again. Softer this time. That makes it worse.

My legs move before my brain catches up. They don't ask permission. They just walk. One foot in front of the other. Across the thick carpet. Past the leering eyes. To the chair.

I sit.

My hands are shaking. I tuck them under my thighs so no one can see.

Luca leans back. Studies me. His gaze crawls over my face like a spider. The bandage on my arm. The split on my lip. The bruises on my cheek where Lucinda's man hit me. The purple crescent under my eye that makeup cannot hide.

"You look terrible," he says.

I say nothing.

"Working here doesn't suit you." He picks up his whiskey. Swirls it. Doesn't drink. The amber liquid catches the low light. "Then again, nothing seems to suit you these days. Not honesty. Not loyalty. Not even a simple job pouring drinks for drunkards."

One of the other men laughs. A short, barking sound. Luca does not look at him. Does not acknowledge him. The laugh dies in the man's throat.

"You're fired, by the way." Luca sets down the glass. The clink echoes in the sudden silence. "Or you were. Until I decided otherwise."

My heart stutters. "You can't—"

"I can do whatever I want." He leans forward. His face is inches from mine. I can smell his cologne. The same one he wore six years ago. The same one that used to make me feel safe. Now it makes me want to throw up. "I own this city. I own this club. I own Tony. And right now, Anne, I own you."

His words land like stones in my chest. Heavy. Cold. Immovable.

"You need money." He counts on his fingers. "I know you do. You need a place to stay. You need protection from whoever put those bruises on your face." His eyes trace the marks. "Lucinda, was it? My stepmother has a talent for cruelty."

I don't answer. My throat is too tight.

"It doesn't matter who." He waves a hand. Dismissive. "What matters is this." He sits back. Spreads his arms along the back of the couch. The king on his throne. The room revolves around him. The men watch. The women wait. I sit frozen.

"I'm offering you a way out."

I swallow. "What kind of way?"

"Mistress." The word lands like a slap. "My mistress. You'll live in my house. You'll wear my clothes. You'll warm my bed when I want you. And in exchange, I'll keep you safe. Fed. Funded. Alive."

The room is silent now. The other men have stopped pretending not to listen. The women have stopped pretending not to care. Everyone waits.

I feel their eyes on me. Judging. Pitying. Envying. I can't tell which is worse.

"You're offering to buy me," I say.

Luca's smile does not reach his eyes. It does not even come close. "I'm offering to save you. There's a difference."

"No. There's not."

"Suit yourself." He picks up his glass again. Drinks this time. A slow swallow. His throat moves. I watch it like I am watching a snake digest a mouse. "Walk out that door. Find another job. Another city. Another life. See how far you get before Lucinda finds you again. See how long you last with no money, no protection, no one to call."

He sets down the glass. The clink is softer this time. Almost gentle. That makes it worse.

"Or stay." He leans forward again. His knee brushes mine. I pull back. He does not. "Be mine. Not because you love me. Not because I love you. Because you have nowhere else to go and no one else to ask."

He reaches out. His fingers brush my cheek. Trace the bruise there. His touch is light. Almost tender. That is the cruelest part.

I flinch.

He does not pull back.

"You used to love my touch," he says quietly. Only for me. The others cannot hear. "You used to beg for it."

"People change."

"Do they?" His fingers trace down my jaw. Stop at my chin. Tilt my face toward his. "Or do they just show you who they really are after enough time has passed?"

I pull away. He lets me.

Sitting beside him, I can feel the heat coming off his body. The whiskey on his breath. The anger coiled beneath his skin like a snake waiting to strike.

He isn't offering me safety. He is offering me a cage. A prettier cage than the one Lucinda has waiting, but a cage all the same.

"I'm not asking, Anne." His voice is soft. Deadly. "I'm telling. You will be my mistress. You will live in my house. And you will learn what it means to belong to someone who doesn't give a damn about your lies."

I stare at him. The man I loved. The man I gave everything to. The man who is looking at me like I am dirt on his shoe.

"You hated me," I whisper. "You said you'd ruin me."

"I am ruining you." He smiles. Cold. Beautiful. Cruel. "This is what ruin looks like, Anne. Not blood. Not fire. This. You. Sitting beside me. Knowing you have no choice. Knowing that every breath you take from now on is mine to allow or take away."

One of the women laughs somewhere behind me. A high, nervous sound. Someone shushes her.

Luca does not look away from me.

"You have until tomorrow to decide." He picks up his glass again. Drinks. Dismisses me. "But we both know what your answer will be."

I stand. My legs shake. I don't care if they see.

"I'd rather die," I say.

Luca laughs. A real laugh. It echoes off the red walls.

"No, you wouldn't." He sets down the glass. "If you wanted to die, you would have let that bullet go through your skull instead of your arm."

I freeze.

He knows.

Of course he knows. He was there.

"Sit down, Anne." He nods at the chair. "We're not done."

I don't sit.

"Sit. Down."

The room holds its breath.

I sit.

Luca leans back. Smiles. And the night stretches on like a blade.