6- Word Of Confidence

The scream died in my throat, choked off by the metallic tang of blood that sprayed across the floor.

Mr. Armani's body slumped like a discarded rag, his eyes still wide with that drunken surprise, a hole where his forehead used to be.

I pressed myself against the wall until the stone bit into my spine through the fur coat.

Two buff men dressed in gray suit, appeared from nowhere, their movement robotic as one gripped Mr. Armani's ankles and dragged him across the floor like he was taking out trash, his body leaving a dark smear on the tile. The other crouched with a spray bottle and a cloth, wiping the blood away in long, practiced strokes.

The music never stopped during all these. Nobody seemed to care as they continued dancing and sinning their lives away.

My whole body was shaking, I could feel it in my teeth, in my knees, in the fingers I had pressed flat against the wall like I could push through it if I tried hard enough. My eyes were too wide and I couldn't make them smaller. I couldn't make anything work right at that moment.

He had killed him, he just killed him like that with no remorse. I blinked rapidly looking at the blood then at the man in front of me whose eyes were on me as if I was his next target.

Oh Jesus…I gulped. Dante stepped forward.

He moved slowly, like a man who had never needed to rush for anything in his life. Up close, he was overwhelming in a way the amber lighting hadn't prepared me for. Tall enough that I had to tilt my chin up to see his face, broad shoulders filling out the black suit with the kind of quiet authority that made the expensive fabric look like armor.

His jaw was sharp, clean, the thin scar running from below his left ear to the edge of his chin cutting through the dark beard like a signature. His hair was swept back from his face, not a strand out of place, and his eyes…

His eyes were the color of a winter storm. Gray and cold and utterly, terrifyingly still. Emotionless if I say so myself.

He reached out then.

I flinched so hard my head hit the wall.

His hand slowed. Then continued. His fingers, warm, slowly touched my jaw. Just my jaw. Tilting my face up toward his, his eyes examining every inch of my face.

I gulped down again. If I could have entered the wall, I would have. I would have dissolved into the stone and never come back.

"Are you scared?"

My eyebrows dipped into a frown. What an understatement.

Am I scared? Who wouldn't be in such a situation? As much as I would like everything to end, I didn’t want to have a bullet through my head.

My breaths were coming out in short gasps.

Air. I needed air. My lips were trembling and I couldn't stop them and I didn't answer because I didn't trust what sound would come out of my mouth if I opened it.

He studied my silence.

Then the corner of his mouth curved. His eyes lit up like a vampire who seemed to feed on the fact that I was scared of bim. A smirk that said he already knew the answer and found it interesting.

He looked as if he ate fear for dinner at that moment.

He leaned closer, his eyes darkened like a wolf about to pounce. His cologne reached me before I could steel myself against it. Dark and warm sandalwood and something like expensive leather, the kind of scent that had no right to make your lungs want more of it.

"Palomita," he said softly.

I blinked. The word was foreign on my tongue, strange in my ears. Was that... Italian? Spanish? I didn't know.

Was it an insult? Does it mean foolish girl? My confusion must have shown on my face because his smirk deepened.

"You don't understand," he observed, his accent slipping out then.

I shook my head slightly, the movement barely visible.

"Good," he said. "You don't need to."

His hand dropped from my jaw but his eyes didn't leave my face. They traveled down slowly,like he was cataloging every inch of the white lace barely covering my body beneath the fur coat.

"I don't like it when my things are touched," he said, his voice dropping lower. "When someone puts their hands on what belongs to me–"

He trailed off. His gaze had stopped moving. Fixed on something lower.

Was my fur coat opened and he could see the thin lace and my breasts?

Did it make him…aroused? The thought suddenly sent a shiver down my spine, goosebumps filled my skin as I felt my nipples slowly hardened.

Oh God. Please no. I wasn't ready for this yet.

I followed his gaze instinctively, looking down at myself, and my stomach dropped.

Blood.

Dark red stains splattered across the white fur coat. Mr. Armani's blood. It must have sprayed when... when Dante...

"Tsk." The sound came from Dante, sharp with disapproval.

My eyes shot back up to his face. He was staring at the blood on my coat with something that looked almost like annoyance. Or maybe amusement. I couldn't tell which was worse.

"The irony," he said quietly, reaching out to touch one of the red stains with his fingertip. "A dirty place and they dress you in white clothes. Blood on virgin lace." His eyes lifted to mine. "Is this the convent's idea of mockery? Dressing their nuns like brides and sending them to slaughter?"

My throat closed.

I couldn't answer. Couldn't defend. Couldn't explain that I didn't know, that I had just put on what they told me to, that nothing about tonight made sense.

"Or perhaps," he continued, his finger still tracing the bloodstain, "it's meant to be symbolic. Purity destroyed. Innocence sold. The sacred made profane." His smirk returned. "How poetic."

"I didn't—" My voice came out as a whisper. "I didn't choose—"

"No," he interrupted smoothly. "You didn't choose the dress. You didn't choose to be here. You didn't choose me." His hand moved from the coat to my chin again, forcing me to look at him. "But you chose to take someone else's place, didn't you, palomita? You volunteered for this."

How did he know that?

"Yes," I breathed.

"Why?"

The question hung in the air between us. Behind him, the club pulsed with life–music, laughter, the clink of glasses. But in this small space between the wall and his body, there was only silence and the weight of his gray eyes demanding truth.

"Because..." I swallowed hard. "Because I'm selfish."

His eyebrow raised. "Selfish?"

"I couldn't watch another person suffer because of me," I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "I'm always... I'm always making people suffer. My mother. My sister. Everyone. So I thought maybe this time I could–"

"Save someone?" he finished for me.

I nodded.

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he laughed—a low, dark sound that made my skin prickle.

I felt like a fool for speaking in the first place. This is one of the reasons why I keep my thoughts to myself. How dare I speak? Tears prickle at my eyes as his chuckle traveled through the music.

"You're not a savior, palomita," he said. "You're a martyr. And martyrs don't save anyone. They just bleed like fools."

He stepped back slightly, his eyes traveling down my body again with that same calculated assessment.

"Come," he said, turning away. "We're not doing this here. My mood is ruined anyway."

"Where–" I started.

"Rule number one," he said without looking back. "You don't question me. You follow."

He walked toward a door at the back of the club, expecting me to follow.

I looked at the blood on my coat. At the spot where Mr. Armani had died. At the people dancing like nothing had happened.

If I were to run, I would probably end up like Mr. Armani. But isn't that a good thing? Didn't I want to die... maybe it would be the perfect opportunity.

What was I thinking? The moment I step away from here, it would be a bullet through my body.

And imagine the excruciating pain that would follow if I didn't die immediately.

I took a slow breathe.

Suck it up Celeste, it would be over before you know it.