We’re sitting in his office on the top floor of Club Vice. The MacTavishes and the Toscanos don’t often cross paths, but we’ve helped each other out enough in the past that I knew I’d get a warm welcome.
“So, who are you tracking now, Demon?” Dario looks at me over his glass. “You’re on the hunt. I recognize the look.”
“I’m looking for a girl named Sloan Masters. She’s twenty-three, tall, short dark hair and unusual eyes, almost a violet shade. She took off from home a year ago and her daddy’s been hunting her down since. He got desperate enough to call our Chieftain for a favor.”
I dinna know it was possible for someone as jaded as Dario to look shocked. “He wants you to kill his daughter?”
“Aye, his exact request was, ‘If you can’t extract her, kill her.’ So she has something or knows something that the sleazy bastard wants back.”
“Gavin Masters…” Dario taps his finger on his glass. “Ah, thequel fottuto stronzo,the fucking prick testified before a State Senate subcommittee against expanding one of our entertainment districts in Boston because he claimed it was too close to his neighborhood and we’d be bringing ‘moral turpitude’ to the children.” He laughs heartily. “This coming from an asshole who’s imported more guns stateside than we have. What do you think the girl has that he wants?”
“Maybe proof of Daddy’s illegal shite, she could be blackmailing him.”
He shrugs, “Do you have a picture? I’ll circulate it through my staff. If she’s here in Naples, she’ll show up here eventually, we’re the biggest club in town.”
Pulling out my phone, I text him a picture. “When I find her, I’m takin’ her back to my Chieftain. He’s not liking the idea of killing her either.”
When Dario looks at Sloan’s picture, his eyes widen. Looking up at me with a grin, he says, “I know you’re Scottish, but tonight? You’ve got the luck of the Irish. Come with me.”
He leads me deeper into the sex club, passing surprisingly empty playrooms. “Ya know, with your magical Toscano name and all, I was thinking you’d be more popular.”
“Laugh it up, asshole,” he says, “tonight everyone’s in the main room, watching the auction. This is a special, invitation-only evening.”
“What are ya auctioning?”
Giving me a gleeful grin, he slides open a side door and we enter a quiet corner of the huge room, watching expensively suited men smoke cigars and shout out bids for the blushing girl onstage.
“Ach.Thatkind of auction.” I roll my eyes. “And why are we here, then?”
“I never would have connected it but I was looking at the call sheet for the girls on auction tonight,” he whispers, leading me over to some empty seats near the front. “It’s the eyes, they’re too unusual to be a coincidence.”
“Is this voluntary?” I ask, mouth tight. I hate this shite, these pampered fecks buying women like they’re a new car or a suit.
“If you weren’t from an allied family, I’d punch you in the nuts for even asking,” Dario says. “This is strictly voluntary and after the auction, the couple spends the night here in one of our suites so we can make sure they stick to everything that was agreed upon. The women - and sometimes men - keep the bid money. We never run out of people interested in participating in the auction.”
The auctioneer straightens his tie. “We’re ending the night with a young lady who’s joining the auction for the first time. Please give Ivy a warm welcome!”
The applause rises to a thunderous level and when she finally makes her way to center stage, I see why. Ivy is a bonnie thing, the most beautiful girl I’ve seen in an age. She’s tall, with bright blonde hair that flows over her shoulders. Ivy’s wearing a nervous smile, but she’s moving with grace, her sleek body is wrapped in an expensive purple gown.
Ivy’s not Ivy, though. When I catch a closer look at her eyes, they’re a glowing, dusky violet.
This is Sloan Masters.
“What’s your plan?” Dario asks with a grin.
“I dinna suppose you’d just whisk her offstage for me, then?” I ask sourly.
He gestures around us. “They’d set the building on fire if we don’t see this through. Watching these women get auctioned off is as big a turn-on for the guests as actually buying the night with one. You MacTavish aren’t a poor family. Pull out your banking app.”
“Arsehole,” I sigh, settling in to spend some money.
“Ivy is 5”8, a hundred and fifty pounds,” the auctioneer intones, “and her bio says she’s here in Italy for sun and adventure.”
“Is she a natural blonde?” Someone shouts from the audience. Ivy puts a finger to her lips and shoots him a wink.
“A lady never tells,” she sasses. Feck, even her voice is beautiful, low and smooth.
She gracefully circles the stage, keeping up her smile. “Ivy’s a bit shy,” the auctioneer says, fielding the groans of disappointment from the members, “but she says she’s willing to try rope bondage, spreader bars, corsets, roleplay, and suspension.”
