"Ha, of course." I laughed bitterly, heart bleeding. "By my own mother."
"This is the back warehouse of a strip club in New York." Liamlooked up at me. His expression didn't look like he was lying. "I work here as a bartender. Almost a year now. This morning, they brought in a new girl. I saw it was you, volunteered to watch you and talk you around."
"Strip club." I heard my voice shaking. "Did I sell for a good price?"
Liam didn't answer directly. He just said, "I don't know the specifics of the deal. All I know is the two guys who brought you said they picked you up today."
"Liam, untie me." I tried to make my voice sound calm and rational. "This is completely illegal. I didn't come here voluntarily. I need to leave. I need to call the police."
Liam untied the ropes, then immediately shook his head.
"They won't let you leave, Chloe." Liam's voice dropped low, like he was afraid of being overheard. "There are guards outside the door. Even if you ran out of this warehouse, there'd be more people outside. Security here is tighter than you think."
"Then I'll call the cops," I said. "This is kidnapping and human trafficking. Federal crime."
Liam smiled bitterly.
"Chloe, the guy who owns this club is one of the most powerful people in New York. Not just some corporate CEO—he's connected to the mafia. You think nobody's tried calling the cops before? Last month, there was a girl, Casey. She said the exact same things you're saying. Said she'd call the police, get a lawyer, expose everything about this place."
He paused.
"Then she jumped out a third-floor window."
Liam looked at me, face dead serious. Not a hint of joking.
"If you go to the police, the club won't disappear. You will."
I didn't say anything. Didn't know what to say. My goddamn, fucked-up life.
Crushing despair surged up my throat. I closed my eyes, hand instinctively covering my stomach. There was a three-month-old baby in there.
And we were trapped in this godforsaken hell.
Chapter Five
Enzo
I never got around to tracking down the woman who humiliated me.
Lately, my schedule had been crammed with two things: laying the groundwork for the alliance with the Lombardi family, and crushing my own brother Julian into the dirt. Days spent maneuvering with suits at the company, nights settling accounts with a different crowd in the basement.
Julian had quieted down some. Not because he'd grown a brain—because I'd broken his leg. Last Tuesday, his crew set a trap at a warehouse in Brooklyn to lure me in. I flipped it, raided his hideout, and nabbed Julian himself. Had Luca drag him to the docks. Then I took a steel pipe and shattered his right kneecap myself.
He screamed "brother" while he was at it. First time in twenty-eight years he'd called me that. But watching his face slick with tears and snot, I felt nothing.
When Carmine heard, he went quiet on the phone for a beat. No anger, no questions, no pleading for Julian.
Just: "You better know what you're doing."
Of course I did. I always did.
Then he hung up. Start to finish, Carmine Falcone let nothing slip. Cold as ice, saw everyone as pawns. Apparently, even his precious youngest son didn't rate special treatment.
Sometimes I thought I was just like him. The thought made me sick.
My phone buzzed. A message from Valentina Lombardi popped up.
Two selfies of her fresh from a fitting. Gold hair swept into a loose twist, one strap deliberately slipped down her shoulder, exposing a delicate collarbone. Caption read: What do you think? Spent all afternoon torn between a V-neck and a square neck.
