Page 11 of The Beast Who Bought Me
My sleep is broken. The next morning, I scrub myself down with cheap hotel soap, comb my hair with my fingers, and pull on the same clothes I wore last night. My stomach cramps hard enough to make me double over. I’ve missed so many meals lately that my body will have to start eating itself, just like the ouroboros, the tail-eating snake that serves as our Family sigil.
“Just one month,” the guy in the mirror tells me this morning. “You can survive anything for a month. And one day, you’ll make them all pay.”
Every single one of them.
Including whichever motherfucker buys me tonight.
The door is black metal, featureless except for a subtle engraving of a slender obelisk barely visible in the low light of the alley. It seems unlikely that something Jesse insisted was “incredibly exclusive” would be accessed by this Lower East Side back alley reeking of piss and rotting garbage, but that’s the Bratva for you. Nonno Lou always hated the Russian mob, said they brought the city down.
Now they’re my only hope.
Nonno Lou must be spinning in his grave. Well, he can spin all he likes. I don’t plan on joining him there.
The door slides open silently at my tentative knock. Jesse stands there in a deserted hallway, smelling of weed and dressed like he just came from a GQ shoot. “Cal!” he squeals, and then goes on dramatically, “Oh, thankGodyou didn’t chicken out. My owner has a good friend who’sveryinterested. He’s really kind, andsooogenerous, you’re guaranteed a great time…” He trails off as he looks me up and down with a critical eye. “Well, you’ll look better when we’re done,” he says. “I didn’t mean it likethat,” he adds at the look on my face.
“Done with what?” I ask suspiciously.
“Preparations.” He grabs my arm and starts towing me down the hall. “Come on. We’re going to be late if you don’t hurry.”
We go through an inner door and the world changes. Dark wood panels and thick, deep red carpeting absorb sound. Dim wall lights bathe everything in a Renaissance glow. And it’s deathly quiet. “Where is everyone?” I ask halfway down the next corridor.
“You came in via the service entrance,” Jesse explains, guiding me through yet another door. “The members come in from the private garage below. They needdiscretion.”
And when we get deeper inside, I hear the low rumble of voices. Men’s voices. Rich, powerful men discussing their rich, powerful lives. I strain to listen, wondering if I’d recognize any of them. The place might be owned by the Bratva, but Jesse told me it’s open to anyone with enough money to pay the exorbitant members’ fee—anyone except the Morellis or their allies.
That’s the one thing that gives me a little hope. At least I won’t be bought by a Morelli. I’d open up my own veins before I allowed them power over me.
I focus on my feet. Left, right, left. Or I watch Jesse’s back, wondering what’s really going on behind those big blue eyes of his. Jesse isowned. Property. And in a few hours, I will be too.
My skin goosebumps despite the perfectly regulated temperature.
The rabbit warren finally ends at a door. Jesse knocks three times, pauses three seconds, enters. The office inside is fitted out in the same dark-red-and-wood aesthetic, lined with books I bet no one has ever cracked open.
There are no windows.
The man behind the desk doesn’t stand to greet us. He merely looks me head to toe. “The merchandise, I presume,” he says.
Something proud, something Clemenza-born, snarls in my chest. I imagine wrapping my hands around this man’s neck, watching those insolent eyes bulge as I squeeze. But I don’t. My hands remain at my sides, and I keep my face still.
“My name is Daniel King,” he goes on.
His accent, like his name, is upper-crust English, not the slightest Russian tinge. But he’s Bratva. I know a gangster when I see one. I bet he was born Daniil Korolyov or something like that.
I don’t bother to respond to his introduction. He’s beneath me, and he already knows who I am anyway.
He makes an impatient gesture. “Take a seat.”
I do, while Jesse stays at the door. I wonder if he’s actively blocking it. If I tried to leave, would I be stopped? But I have no more time to think about that as I’m peppered with questions. Cold, clinical questions that strip me of any remaining dignity. Medical history. Allergies. Pain tolerance. HIV status. STI history. Sexual experience.
“I’m a virgin,” I mutter in response to the last.
“You’re not on the stage yet,” King snaps. “I need complete honesty from you so I can?—”
“I’m a virgin,” I repeat.
Jesse gasps behind me. Sharp. Delighted. Like he just found out his favorite show got renewed.
King’s interest sharpens visibly. “Entirely untouched?” he asks, leaning forward. “You’ve never even sucked?—”
