He’s too angry to accept my daft plea tonight.
Anger radiates off him in invisible heat waves as he steps closer.
“Name your fucking price,” he repeats, louder this time, his words ripping out of him as my heart would have ripped out of my chest if he had arrived tonight five minutes later. “How much were you going to earn tonight?
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The fear I felt tonight hurt, but this, his terrified expression, is so much worse.
“Answer me, Lucia. How much did they have to pay per head to fucking rape you!”
“Stop it,” I whisper, my fight lost to the fear I may lose him forever. He isn’t looking at me like he usually does. He isn’t even looking at me anymore. He’s seeing straight through me.
“No. Answer me. How much?”
“It doesn’t matter?—”
“It matters to me! How much?”
I fling a tear off my cheek that his roar pops from my eye before murmuring, “Ten thousand.”
“Ten thousand?” His laugh is mocking and cruel. “Wow. Tenthousand divided by a hundred is a measly hundred dollars. I thought the going rate for prostitution was more than that per penetration.”
Although I deserve his anger, I can’t help but retaliate. “Stop it. You’re being cruel.”
“Cruel?I’mbeing cruel?” He bends his knees, bringing us eye to eye. Even with me seated on the vanity, he still towers over me. “They were going to tear you to shreds! They were going to fucking rape you. Do you understand that?”
“I would have fought them off.”
His disbelieving chuckle is the most painful to date.
After a brief pace of the bathroom, he rakes his fingers through his hair, fluffing up his scent. It’s clear he’s seeking five minutes of peace when he says, “A hundred dollars per penetration times the legally aged men in Carlisle is…” His eyes, still narrowed and tormented, glaze over as he calculates a figure. “A little over two million.”
When he exits the bathroom at the speed of a bullet, I leap off the vanity and follow him. From my station at the end of the hallway, I track him when he moves to the far wall of the living room. With a quick flick, he knocks a painting off the wall and enters a six-digit PIN into a hidden wall safe. Far more bundles than the three I deposited last week into Edoardo’s offshore account are in his safe. Possibly hundreds.
He stacks the bands on the dining room table Camille colors at every day, then raises his massively dilated eyes to mine. “That’s half your going rate. I’ll get the rest to you tomorrow morning.”
The ends of my wig scratch my back when I disregard his offer. “I don’t want your money.”
He acts as if I didn’t speak. “Is that enough to keep you out of trouble for a week or two, Cici?” He spits out my stage name with disgust. “Or do I have to pay double since I’m unwilling to rape you?”
“I don’t want your money,” I say again, louder this time.
His reply stings more than an acid burn. “Liar.”
His look of disgust makes tears burst in my eyes before he turns on his heel and heads for the door.
“Where are you going?” The words leave my mouth before I canstop them. He can’t stack a million dollars on the table and then leave. He can fake it all he likes, but this is not how an employee–employer relationship works.
Dante freezes partway through the door, his hand shooting up to grip the frame. “Camille needs me. She has a fever.”
“Camille is sick?”
Finally, his eyes find mine.
A new fear erupts inside me when he bobs his chin.
“Then why did you come?” I’m not aiming to be mean. I am simply trying to understand why he would ever place me before the well-being of his child. Perhaps if he can explain it to me, I’ll understand why I’ve been struggling not to do the same.
My chin quivers when he answers, “I don’t know, Lucia. Why did I come?”
He walks through the door and slams it shut before I can voice a single reply.
Although my brain screams at me to let him go, before I can remember my objectives, I race into my apartment, throw on a pair of sweats, rip off my wig, then hightail it out the door.
Dante is sliding into the driver’s seat of the SUV when I reach the underground garage. Even though he could drive away before I slot into the passenger seat, his only response to my sudden arrival in his peripheral vision is the firming of his grip on the wheel.
