Chapter 4

Seraphina's POV

"Well, well. What do we have here?"

A man's voice. Amused.

"Looks like a little lost lamb stumbled to our doorstep."

Shadows materialized into shapes. Three men. Four. Their faces swam in my drugged vision.

"Please—" My voice cracked. "I need help. Someone drugged me—"

Laughter. Low and mocking.

"Drugged, she says." One of them crouched down, gripping my chin, forcing my face up toward the neon light. His breath reeked of whiskey and cigars. "Sweetheart, girls don't end up at Crimson Thorn by accident. You knew exactly what you were getting into."

"No—I didn't—my boyfriend—"

"Boyfriend dropped you off as a gift, did he?" More laughter. "Lucky us."

Hands grabbed my arms. Hauled me upright. My legs buckled, but they held me between them, half-dragging me toward the entrance.

"Let's get her inside. She'll make quite the party favor."

The doors of Crimson Thorn swallowed me whole.

Inside, the club was a fever dream of red and black. The air was thick with expensive perfume, cigarette smoke.

Everywhere I looked, power dripped from the walls.

Men in tailored suits lounged on leather sofas, surrounded by women in barely-there dresses. Private booths lined the perimeter, their occupants hidden behind sheer curtains. In the shadows, I caught glimpses of things I couldn't process—restraints, blindfolds, figures bent in submission.

This wasn't just a club.

This was a kingdom. And everyone here was either predator or prey.

"Bring her to the main floor," someone ordered.

They dragged me deeper into the crimson maze. Past a bar made of black onyx. Past alcoves where business was conducted in whispers—I caught fragments of conversation. Shipment arriving Thursday. The Colombians want a bigger cut. Tell him if he doesn't pay by midnight, we start removing fingers.

My stomach churned.

Mafia. This is a mafia club.

We stopped in a open area near the center, where clusters of men gathered around low tables, drinks in hand. Their conversations paused as I was deposited on a velvet chaise like merchandise on display.

"Look what wandered in from the cold."

They circled. Vultures scenting weakness.

"God, look at her. Face like a virgin saint. But that dress..." He let out a low whistle. "That dress says she's begging for it."

"I'm not—" I tried to push myself upright, but my arms shook. "Please, this is a mistake. I was drugged. My boyfriend left me here—I don't know why—"

"Sure, honey." A man with slicked-back hair and a scar across his cheek leaned closer. "That's what they all say."

"I'm telling the truth!"

"Even if you are... You're here now. Might as well make the best of it."

His hand moved toward my thigh.

I slapped it away. The crack of palm against skin echoed louder than it should have.

Silence.

His expression darkened. "Little bitch—"

"Wait." Another man stepped forward. Younger, eager, with the desperate energy of someone trying to climb the ranks. "Wait, think about this. A girl like her—innocent face, that body—she's exactly his type."

"Whose type?"

The eager one smiled. "Mr. Vitale's. Everyone knows he has... particular tastes. Why waste her on ourselves when we could present her as a gift? If he's pleased, he might remember our generosity."

Vitale.

Lorenzo Vitale.

"Will he be here tonight?" someone asked.

The eager man opened his mouth to respond—

"Are you inquiring about Don Vitale's whereabouts?"

The voice came from the shadows.

A man emerged from the darkness. Tall, lean, with dark hair and eyes that missed nothing. His face was expressionless, but something in his stillness radiated menace.

The eager man's smile faltered. "I—no, I was just—"

"Because that sounded very much like you were trying to determine when and where the Don will be." The newcomer stepped closer, and I watched the eager man shrink back. "Which would suggest you have reasons for wanting that information. Reasons that might concern me."

"Nico, I swear, I wasn't—"

"You weren't what? Weren't attempting to leverage a drugged girl to gain favor with the Don? Weren't asking questions about his schedule in a room full of associates, any of whom could be reporting to rival families?"

The eager man's face went gray.

The tension in the room ratcheted up. Men shifted. Hands moved toward concealed weapons. The air crackled with the promise of violence.

Now.

I didn't think. Didn't plan. My body moved on pure survival instinct.

I threw myself off the chaise and ran.

The drug made everything wrong—my legs felt like they belonged to someone else, the floor tilted beneath my heels, the exit seemed to stretch further away with every step. But I ran anyway, shoving past bodies, knocking drinks from hands, ignoring the shouts behind me.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

I rounded a corner—

And slammed into a wall.

No. Not a wall.

A man.

The impact knocked the breath from my lungs. I stumbled backward, would have fallen, but a hand shot out and caught my arm. Steadied me.

I looked up.

He towered over me. Six foot four, maybe more, with shoulders that blocked out the light. Black hair swept back from a face that looked carved from marble.

But it was his eyes that stopped my heart.

They swept over me once—clinical, assessing—and then dismissed me entirely.

He looked past me. Toward the commotion I'd fled.

The shot was deafening.

I didn't see him draw. Didn't see him aim. One moment the eager man was raising his weapon, the next he was crumpling to the floor, a hole blooming red between his eyes.

The gun disappeared back into the man's jacket like it had never existed.

Already, men were moving. Two of them grabbed the body by the arms, dragging it toward a back exit as casually as if they were taking out the trash. Someone else was on the floor with a rag, wiping away the blood. Within seconds, there would be no evidence anything had happened at all.

No one screamed. No one called the police. No one even looked surprised.

This was Vitale territory. Different rules applied here.

My vision tunneled.

He just killed someone. Right in front of me. Without hesitation. Without expression.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. My body acted on its own, lurching forward, hands fisting in the fabric of his suit jacket as I pressed myself against his chest.

I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered.

"Hey." A different voice. Nico, I realized distantly. "Little one. Do you have any idea who you're clinging to right now?"

I forced my eyes open. Forced myself to look up.

He was staring down at me now. Those bottomless dark eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that made my knees buckle.

I opened my mouth to speak. To apologize. To beg for help.

Nothing came out.

My legs gave way entirely.