Page 59 of Chained

The bouncer outside the unmarked door gives me a nod as we approach, his eyes flicking briefly to Jarrod before stepping aside. He doesn't speak, and neither do I. We never do. He knows who I am and why I'm here.

I turn to Jarrod, dropping my voice low. "Stay behind me. Keep close. Don't look at anything longer than a second."

Jarrod pulls his hoodie tighter, peering past my shoulder into the dark. "Right, so basically act completely normal then."

I shoot a look at him, one that tells him now is not the time for his jokes. He rolls his eyes, digging his hands deeper into his pockets.

"Sorry. Carry on."

The door swings open and the sound spills out. Loud music booms through the air, the sound of Rihanna-Skin playing through the speakers. I try not to let myself remember the last time I'd heard it, but it creeps in anyway: Melina dressed in crimson lingerie, me tied to a chair for her amusement as she grinds against my cock, straddling me. Shake it off. Now is not the time, I think to myself, trying to find the smallest flicker of composure. The Secret Garden is not a place to be distracted. The manor is full of heathens who will do anything for a second between a girl's thighs, but here? It's full of the darkest men. The most depraved. Every time I walk through these doors, I feel their essence attaching to my skin, it's nauseating. We keep moving, Jarrod following silently behind until we reach the staircase that drops down into blackness. With each step, I know we're getting closer to the collection. You'd think I'd be used to it. I've done it so many times before, but ever since the latest one, something has shifted. I always hated it, but this time…it's different. We step through the threshold, another bouncer giving the same practiced nod as the other.

The dungeons. That's what they call it. Vincent's little nickname for the underground basement that holds all the girls he hasn't sold or found no use for. Instead, they're here to serve in whatever sick way the punters ask for.

Jarrod stays close behind. I can hear his breathing change as we walk through the small hallway, the way it gets a little shallower, a little faster. He's seen this before, and it never gets easier for him. It shouldn't get easier. The fact that it's gotten easier for me is something I try not to think about.

The sound builds with every step. Music low and heavy, the kind that sits in your chest rather than your ears. Voices. The clink of glasses. Laughter that sounds more like a performance than humour. That's the problem here; you don't know what's real or what they want you to believe. The room opens up wide in front of us, black walls lined with fire lamps, the air thick with cigar smoke and the kind of quiet desperation you can smell before you see it. Men in suits sit around low tables, drinks in hand, cards on the felt. Nobody looks up. Nobody ever does when you walk in here. It's better to not acknowledge others, I guess it helps with the guilt.

Looking around, I almost laugh at the people sitting in probably one of the worst places in Ashwood. The lawyers, the police department. The fucking mayor's staff. Vincent promises anonymity, but I know them. I know what they do.

It's easier to look at them than acknowledge the girls around me. They don't care how they're treated here. They have some girls on chains. Some bolted to the walls, the metal around their wrists catching the lamplight. Some moving between the tables, chains around their necks, trays in their hands, eyes down. In the podium above, girls dance in cages. Their bodies bare, every part of them exposed to be enjoyed by the sick cunts who watch.

I clench my jaw and keep walking.

This is the part where I'm supposed to feel nothing. I've been doing this long enough, been inside enough rooms like this one, that the numbness should be automatic by now. And mostly it is. Mostly I walk through and pray to God I don't let them in.

But tonight, something won't settle.

Maybe it's Jarrod's breathing behind me. Maybe it's the weight of what we're here to collect. Maybe it's her—dark curls and brown eyes flashing through my mind at the worst possible moment.

Maybe it's just me and my fucked up mind. I don't know, but whatever it is. I shove it down and get it together.

"You alright?" I mutter back to Jarrod without turning.

"Brilliant." His voice is flat. "Having a wonderful time."

I almost laugh. Almost.

A man I recognise from previous visits raises his glass in my direction from one of the tables. I nod once and keep walking. I don't stop for anyone here. The longer you stop, the more you become part of it. And I've spent fourteen years trying to convince myself I'm not.

One of the side rooms opens beside us and I dare a glance—I spot the girl sprawled out on the bed, needle hanging from her arm while a man feasts between her thighs. She's so out of it, I don't even think she's on the same planet. My hands curl into fists. Not tonight, Jax. Don't fuck this up tonight.

"Ace." I hear my name being called from across the poker table. I turn and spot Giovanni De Luca beside some people I've never seen before.

"Giovanni." I nod, stepping closer, trying to shake the memory of the girl in the room behind me, the door fully closing. Who knows if she'll survive or whether she even cares enough to try anymore?

"Been a while, Ace, where you been hiding?" Giovanni asks, placing his hand on the table. The others groan, none bothering to turn to look at me. Jarrod shifts beside me, his eyes fixed on the floor and lips sealed shut.

Good. I'm glad he finally listened.

"I've had other jobs that don't require this place." I don't smile, I don't let my face give away anything. I just shrug into my jacket and wait.

"Well, it's good to see ya, kid. I've got some business coming up soon. Maybe if Vincent loosens the reins a little, you can help with that." His hands move to the moustache around his mouth, fixing the small silver hairs.

"Yeah. Maybe…" I pause. Life is hard enough being Vincent's fucking lackey and personal executioner, I don't plan on becoming De Luca's, too. "We were told there's a collection for us."

Giovanni grunts. "Yeah, a collection." He nods towards one of the men standing behind him—his own personal bodyguards. Hell, Lord knows he needs them. The De Lucas run an organisation underground in Ravenshead, which honestly, happens to be worse than The Order. While Vincent takes a special interest in women, Giovanni's speciality is children. I've known it for years, heard it from Adrian in one of his rare, honest moments over whiskey, and still every time I'm in the same room as him, I have to remind myself that pulling the trigger would end me and everyone I care about before the body hits the floor.

Doesn't stop me from wanting to, though. From imagining my gun in his mouth, the way my body would tingle as I pulled the trigger, the euphoria that comes after every kill.