Page 21 of Souls and Sorrows
The vein splitting my forehead in half pulses with anxiety.
It doesn’t even make sense, my reaction. By nature, the fact that she’s clearly so popular should turn me off.
Ariana’s mouth falls open, an almost-imperceptible moan coming from her lips, but for some reason, I catch it. One of the men dips his fingers between her thighs, though I can’t see what exactly he’s doing.
It’s obvious anyway.
Chest on fire, I blink several times, trying to eradicate myself from the onslaught of rage coursing through me. My vision weakens, morphing to reflect the color of the flames, and I don’t even notice my arm extending.
Don’t notice the ticket clasped tight between my fingers.
And I certainly don’t recognize the words that come from my mouth, brought on by blind emotions I don’t want to put a face to.
“Two hundred fifty million dollars.”
6
Play stupid games,win stupid prizes.
If she could have, Mamma would’ve branded that mantra across my forehead, though it wouldn’t have done any good.
Apparently, I don’t learn lessons, and I’m not sure this can be cataloged as anintelligentdecision on my part. Even if it was Papà’s idea to come here tonight.
I don’t know what I expected to happen when I arrived at Anteros, a nightclub specifically frequented by men of the underground, but I can’t exactly say it wasthis. Auction participation is what Ermes Barbieri—the head of his notorious crime family—suggested as my story for visiting the Tallericos last week, citing that Fiero and Cosetta were regulars here and it could be conceived that I had reached out to them for advice on how to secure the highest bids.
Apparently, allowing yourself to be touched by strangers in front of other strangers is the way to go.
Vitus would be here tonight, Ermes said, and he’d most certainly bid when he saw me up there. Then, it would take only a little convincing to prove that I’d been practicing my stage presence for weeks before his parents’ disappearance and that my participation was driven by a need for income, not revenge or anything else.
It was all very convoluted, but I went along with it because Vitus is an idiot, and it seemed like the sort of thing he would believe even if I did admit that I’d been with his parents for nefarious reasons.
Most people will believe what you tell them if it’s what they want to hear. They don’t want the truth; they just want whatever reality makes them feel best.
Mikey P., the auctioneer, drags me off to one of the dressing rooms in the back of Anteros, where Ermes still sits on a leather chair against the wall, smoking a giant cigar. Two scantily clad dancers kneel on the floor on either side of him, stroking up and down his pant legs.
Metal spikes dig into my neck as I’m shuffled along, and I reach up for the millionth time, trying to give myself a little reprieve. The restraint isn’t as tight as it could be, but each prong is sharp and digs into my throat with every movement.
Evidently, it’s what the club members like.
“Ah,” he says as the metal door swings shut behind us, “there’s my little star. See what I told you about the collar? These men want pets, not dancers.”
“Well, we like the dancers too,” Mikey P. grumbles, his hand still wrapped around the metal leash. “Maybe not more than the virginal bride bit, but I bet you could’ve gotten even more if you’d gone out in a tutu and done some pirouettes.”
My brows shoot up. “Wow,Mikey,you know a ballet term. I can’t decide if that makes you more or less of a pervert.”
“Ballerina is my favorite search category.” He grins, reaching down and grabbing a handful of my ass, yanking me into him.
Bile teases the back of my throat as the hard length of his arousal pushes into my stomach, and I attempt to twist away.
Ermes clicks his tongue, blowing out a plume of smoke. “Stop harassing my merchandise, Pacetti. Not every day we get a record-breaker in here.” He pauses, letting his gaze dip slowly over me, so I know he isn’t intervening for my benefit. “Besides, she belongs to someone else now.”
“Yeah, about that—”
“What do you mean, belongs?” I ask, making a move to step forward.
Mikey P. tugs against the leash, pulling me back.
“What the fuck, asshole? I did my song and dance. Let me go.”
