Chapter 4: The First Payment

I don't sleep.

I lay on the silk sheets in my clothes, staring at the ceiling until the sun bleeds through the glass.

When the knock comes, it isn't Spadino. It’s a guard.

"Boss wants you," he grunts. "Office."

He doesn't wait. He turns and walks down the hall. I scramble to follow, my shoes loud on the marble.

Aureliano’s office is on the ground floor. Double doors. heavy dark wood. The guard opens one, jerks his head inside, and leaves.

I walk in.

The room smells like old paper, espresso, and the sharp, metallic tang of ink. It’s freezing. The air conditioning is humming, keeping the temperature low enough to preserve a corpse.

Aureliano is sitting behind a massive mahogany desk. He’s writing in a ledger. He doesn't look up.

"Lock the door," he says.

My heart stutters. I turn. The lock is heavy brass. Click.

"Come here."

I walk toward the desk. My legs feel like lead.

One step. Two steps. Three.

I stop in front of the desk.

"Closer," he says. He still hasn't looked at me.

I step around the edge of the desk. I am standing right beside his chair now. I can smell him—bergamot and cold detachment.

He finishes writing a number. He closes the ledger with a snap.

Finally, he looks at me.

His eyes are grey ice. There is no anger in them. No lust. Just assessment.

"You are here to pay down the interest," he says.

He spins his chair toward me. He spreads his knees.

"Jacket off."

I freeze.

"Jacket," he repeats. His voice doesn't rise. It doesn't have to.

My hands shake as I fumble with the zipper. I shrug the oversized coat off my shoulders. It falls to the floor. I’m wearing a thin t-shirt and leggings underneath. I feel naked.

"Sit," he commands. He points to the edge of the desk.

Not his lap. The wood.

I hesitate.

His hand shoots out. He grips my wrist. His skin is dry and warm. He yanks me forward.

My hip hits the desk. He lifts me effortlessly, planting me on the hard mahogany surface. He steps between my legs before I can close them.

"Rule number one," he says softly. "You don't hesitate. Hesitation costs time. Time is money."

He leans in. He doesn't kiss me. He grips my jaw, holding my face still.

"Rule number two. You belong to the house. That means you belong to me. To Ciro. To Spadino."

He pushes my t-shirt up. His palm is rough against my stomach.

"Look," he orders.

He turns my head toward the wall on the left.

It isn't a wall. It’s a pane of one-way glass that looks out into the hallway.

And they are there.

Ciro is leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed. Spadino is standing next to him, eating an apple.

They are watching.

They can see me. They can see my legs spread on the boss's desk. They can see Aureliano’s hand sliding under the waistband of my leggings.

Heat floods my face. It’s not arousal. It’s shame. Thick, choking shame.

"Don't close your eyes," Aureliano says against my ear. "They like to watch."

He yanks my leggings down.

I gasp. The air is cold on my skin.

He doesn't unzip his pants. He just undoes the front, freeing himself. He is ready. He has been ready.

He pushes into me.

It’s dry. It hurts.

I make a sound—a small, pathetic whimper.

"Quiet," he hisses.

He starts to move. It is clinical. He isn't making love. He isn't even fckng me with passion. He is using me. I am a tool. A stress ball. A warm place to empty himself before a meeting.

I turn my head away from the glass. I look down at the desk.

I focus on the wood.

Mahogany. Reddish-brown. Grainy.

I start to count.

One grain. Two grains. Three grains.

He thrusts harder. My body rocks back, my head hitting his computer monitor.

Four grains. Five.

There is a knot in the wood near my left hand. It looks like an eye.

Six grains. Seven.

Aureliano’s breath hitches. His grip on my hips tightens until I know there will be bruises. Fingerprint bruises.

"Look at them," he growls.

I don't. I can't.

Eight grains. Nine. Ten.

I count the swirls in the varnish. I count the seconds.

He is big. He fills me completely, stretching me until I feel like I might tear. But I’m not here. I’m in the wood. I’m swimming in the grain.

Thirty-two. Thirty-three.

Spadino must be smiling. Ciro is probably blank.

Forty-five. Forty-six.

Aureliano groans. It’s a guttural, angry sound. He slams into me one last time, deep and hard, grinding his hips against mine.

He stiffens. He shakes.

He pours himself into me.

I count the pulses. One. Two. Three. Four.

He stops.

He pulls out immediately.

He fixes his pants before I can even sit up.

I feel hollowed out. Used. Wet.

Aureliano walks back around the desk. He sits in his chair. He opens the ledger again. He picks up his pen.

I am still sitting on his desk, exposed, trembling.

He writes something down. A number. Maybe he’s deducting a thousand euros from my debt. Maybe five hundred. I don't know the exchange rate for dignity.

He doesn't look up.

"Get off my desk," he says. His voice is back to normal. Ice cold.

I slide off. My legs almost give out. I grab my coat from the floor, clutching it to my chest to cover myself.

"Clean yourself up," Aureliano says, flipping a page. He points his pen at the mahogany surface where I was just sitting.

There is a smear of fluid on the dark wood.

"You made a mess of my ledger."

I turn and run. I unlock the door with shaking hands.

I burst into the hallway. The glass wall is opaque from this side. Just a mirror.

I see my own reflection. Wild hair. Swollen lips. Dead eyes.

I don't see Ciro or Spadino. They’re gone. The show is over.

I wrap the coat around me and start to walk.

One step. Two steps.

I survived the first payment.

Only nine million, nine hundred thousand to go.