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“Hello, fiancée.”
“Hi,” I say awkwardly. “How’s your hand?”
His face clears of all emotion. “It hurts.”
I want to tell him I know—and that his fingers are still in my room, placed in a jar with formaldehyde to keep them from rotting, if only to see him squirm.
Instead, I smother a smile and take back my hand. Maybe another time.
“Shall we?”
He yanks my fingers, pulling me close so my hip sways into his. At the car, Ello allows us to enter, and Freddie keeps me close. His undamaged hand rests squarely on my exposed thigh.
I fight the cringe. How dare he presume—
“Your brother is going to hate this,” he mutters, laughing. “He would hate to see you at his club.”
“It’s a Bruno establishment,” I say between clenched teeth. “Technically, it’s mine too.”
Freddie scoffs. “After we’re married, it’s mine, bimba. Watch.”
Something about what he says makes me pause. His?
“What do you mean?”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Nothing for you to concern yourself with. Just worry about how pretty you’ll look on my arm when we get there.” His eyes glaze over as he stares at my legs. “You’re going to see all kinds of things. I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep my hands off you with all that energy.”
I do.
Ello drives us into the back lot, and I all but jump from the car. Shooting my guard a look, he nods subtly, and I allow Freddie to bring me inside.
The scent of perfume, cool air, and old booze hit me in the face. The brightness from outside dies away behind closed doors, surrounding me in a sea of black. Freddie pulls me forward, and I stumble, senses cut off.
After a few minutes, the club opens up, and I’m in the middle of the bar floor. To my right is a large stage with a few spotlights of various colors, with red velvet curtains hanging behind it. The thumping of music pounds into my ears, through my body, rocking into the soles of my feet. Around me, men sit in large armchairs, tiny cocktail tables with a single candle and glasses of alcohol dotting the tops. Some have piles of money in front of them, ready to be thrown to the next dancer.
High above is a wall of glass, blacked out. Up there, my brother sits, watching his girls, and gets off on the control. Bastardo.
“C’mon,” he yells over the music. “We’re going up.”
“Up?” He half-drags me across the sticky tile floor, past the large bar with three bartenders in skimpy bikinis, to a set of stairs. Next to them is a basement door, and I know from Tommaso that it descends to the lower levels.
Cautiously, I take the steep stairs to a balcony suite. The music is fainter here, and the lights don’t blind me. There are couches with low tables, and further back, a drink cart for our exclusive use.
Ello stands there, giving me a slight incline.
Right. First step. Is it the first step? Or fourth? I’ve lost track.
Freddie drops onto a couch, ordering a drink. Patting his shoulder, I try to smile seductively and not lose my lunch.
“Let me get it for you.”
He grins. “You know what? Yeah. It’s about time you learned to take care of your husband.”
Stab me.
Brushing Ello, he slips me a small vial, and I quickly dump it into a glass. The small bottle is tucked down my top, and I pour a heavy hand of bourbon, swirling the glass to stir.
Plastering on a fake, radiant smile, I bring Freddie his drink. He appraises it, then me, nodding as he holds it to his nose.
