I need to find her.
I pull at the restraints again, harder this time, ignoring the burn in my wrists. And then—
They give.
Not much. But enough.
I freeze, my breath catching. Slowly, carefully, I twist my left wrist, testing the knot. It's loose. Sloppy. Whoever tied me up either didn't care or didn't know what they were doing.
Thank God for incompetence.
I work the rope methodically, my fingers clumsy and slow from the drugs, but eventually it loosens enough for me to slip my hand free. Then the other. I sit up too quicklyand the room tilts violently, my vision blurring at the edges.
I grip the edge of the bed, breathing hard, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
When it finally steadies, I swing my legs over the side and stand.
My knees buckle immediately.
I catch myself on the bedpost, gripping it hard enough that my knuckles go white. My legs feel like they're made of water. My head pounds. But I force myself upright, one hand braced against the wall as I stumble toward the door.
It's locked.
Of course it is.
I rattle the handle anyway, pulling hard, but it doesn't budge. The door is solid, heavy, probably reinforced. I'm not getting through it without a key.
I press my forehead against the wood, trying to think through the fog in my brain.
Maybe I could yell. Scream for help. Someone might hear me.
But even as the thought forms, I know it's useless.
This is Lionetti's club.
Everyone here works for him.
No one's coming to help me.
I'm about to turn back toward the room, to search for something—anything—I can use as a weapon, when I hear it.
The lock clicks.
I freeze.
The door swings open slowly, deliberately, and someone steps inside.
Heels first.
Red bottoms.
Then the dress—black corset cinched tight, feathers trailing from the hem like something out of a burlesque show. A mask covers her face, red and black, ornate and theatrical. Red lipstick. Perfectly applied.
And then she laughs.
That laugh.
I know that laugh.
