“Be a sweetheart and grab me another bourbon,” comes a grating voice from the table I pass. The guy is old. Balding. Drunk. Also, his hand is on my arm.
I smile down at him, trying not to bare my teeth. “Let me find you a server,” I say. “I can have one of the girls get—”
“I’d rather you do it,” he says, tone laced with a hint of warning. “That’s not a problem, is it, Duchess?”
I’m already fed up with hearing that tone. Duchess. They say it like it’s a joke they’re on the butt end of. It’s said spitefully. Hatefully. But I’m Lavinia Lucia, and I grew used to being in the presence of a man’s hatred long ago.
“Of course not, Mr. Richmond.” I take the glass from him and pry my arm away from him. “I’ll be right back.”
I turn my back to him and feel the sharp sting of his hand coming down on my ass. My spine goes rigid as the table erupts into boisterous laughter, and it takes everything in me not to turn around and smash the glass on his forehead. But, in the split second I’m trying to make my decision, my eyes land on Nick across the room, and I think better of it.
He’s leaning against the end of the bar, a casual smile plastered across his pretty mouth. I don’t miss that he’s speaking with Carmine Ledbetter, distributor of military grade AK-47s. He’s networking, doing his job, and fuck it, I can do mine too.
It’s been two hours since the tent flaps pulled apart and the space filled with loud voices, cigar smoke, and unrepentant testosterone. Poker chips clink as the gamblers toss them on ever-growing piles. The dealers–people Saul hired–do a good job of upping the ante, reminding everyone the proceeds go back to the frat.
With a smile plastered on my face, I keep an eye on everything, although things seem to be running smoothly. The cutsluts work the room like pros, serving drinks and flirting with the alumni who seem pleased with their skimpy outfits and attention.
The entire time I feel awkward and out of place. I don’t know how to be a hostess. I wasn’t raised for this role. Leticia had that honor. Standing by my father’s side during his business dinners and the occasional cocktail party was something she excelled at.
I didn’t realize it was a skill I’d need in my wheelhouse.
Approaching the bar, I sidle up next to Laura. She’s in the red bodysuit I’d tried on with Mama B–the one she said made my tits look flat. Laura’s tits are at least two cup sizes bigger than mine, though. They look fucking amazing. She’s turning to leave with a tray full of liquor, the red diamond on her cheekbone shimmering in the light, when I catch her eye.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She pauses mid-stride, the liquor shifting in the glasses. “The dumbass at table four just offered me a hundred dollars to sit next to him. He said I was his ‘good luck charm’.”
My nose wrinkles. “You know you don’t have to.”
Scoffing, she says, “Please. I’ve done so much worse than sit around and look pretty for cash.” She rolls her eyes. “I mean, one summer I worked at a Taco Bell for minimum wage.”
Well, that puts things in perspective. “Okay, just let one of the Dukes know if he gets too handsy.”
“You got it, girl.” She blows me a kiss and strides across the room in six-inch heels without the slightest wobble.
Embracing these little trips to the bar has been the only thing that’s made the night bearable, my eyes fixing on Remy as he pours a row of shot glasses for a group of younger alumni. I push the empty glass over to him when he’s done. “Bourbon for the perverted geezer at table three.”
His green eyes instantly zing toward table three, jaw shifting irritably. “If he left a handprint on your ass, I swear to fucking god, I’m going to cut his goddamn hand off.” So I guess he saw everything. Great. Grabbing a bottle off the top shelf, he unscrews the top, asking, “You’re up soon, or what? Sick of watching this shit.”
Knowing his frustration isn’t directed at me, I take a deep breath. I’ve been trying not to think about it, even though my eyes are constantly drawn to the stage in the middle of the room, that silver pole sparkling in the lights. “I’m sure they’ll tell me when.” I peek over my shoulder and find Sy manning the bank, exchanging money for chips as the men get drunk and looser with their wallets. He feels my eyes on him and glances up, looking me over like he’s assessing me for damage. “How about you? Doing okay back here?”
“Well, the prospect of this being my future is depressing as fuck,” he says, filling the glass. He tilts his head, eyes sharp. “Do you think if Nicky becomes King we can abolish this fuckery?”
Now that’s an idea. “I don’t know. This is the Royalty. It’s probably written in blood somewhere that this shitshow has to keep going, no matter what.”
We share a dark, mirthless laugh, because what else can you do? None of us were cut out for this kind of charade.
“Discussing blood doesn’t seem like the ladylike thing for a night like this, does it, Ms. Lucia?”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles at the sound of his voice. Remy’s smile falters, lips pressing into a tense line, and we share a brief look.
Good thing I’m not a Lady then.
Saul lifts his chin. “I’ll take a glass from my personal bottle, Remington.” Remy seems to understand what this means, and he reaches under the bar for a bottle of whiskey with a blue label. Remy pours it into a glass and Saul says, “Make that two. One for Ms. Lucia.”
I keep my eyes trained to the pervy geezer’s drink. “I’m not drinking.”
“I thought maybe you’d like a hit of liquid courage before your debut,” he says, leaning in to whisper in my ear. “I can smell your fear from here. I don’t really care if it’s real or not. The alumni are eating it up with a spoon.”
Instead of tossing that two-hundred dollar glass of whiskey in his face, I square my shoulders and walk away, carrying the drink back across the room. It’s obvious in the last ten minutes the energy in the room has changed. Too much booze and money. Too many men. Saul’s right. The clock is ticking, and the bead of sweat sliding down my back confirms it.
I’m going to be grinding on that goddamn pole soon.
“There’s that slippery snake,” I hear at the same moment a hand reaches out. I’m yanked down into a lap, my ankle twisting at the sudden fall. The move is so abrupt that it takes a moment to process that it’s Bruce who has his arm latched around my waist.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I say quietly, eyes darting toward my Dukes. Sy is busy counting money, Remy is suffering through Saul, and Nick… I don’t know where he is. This table is tucked against the back wall of the tent–not exactly the most visible spot.
“Thought you may want to meet my family,” he says, baring his teeth in a savage grin. Bruce has this weird little mole beside his nose, and from this close a vantage, I can see a single hair poking out from the middle. It moves when he talks. “You may not realize it, but the Oakfields have a long legacy with DKS.” He nods to an old man with a weathered face and thinning hair, who’s eyeing the four cards in his hands. “That’s my Grandpa,” he says, running his sweaty hand down my arm. “He was a Duke back in the day.”
“Great.” I clench up as his hand travels lower. “Let me go.”
“No can do, Duchess. I know you have no choice but to play nice tonight.” His eyes flick around the room. “All of you do, and I’m going to make the most of it.” His hand slides under my robe, rough against my thigh. “That’s my Dad over there…” he nods to a man across the table, leaning back and smoking a cigar. “Also a Duke.”
I keep my voice even, even though it’s strained. “Lovely.”
Fingers inching higher, Bruce shifts his attention to the guy next to us. He’s only a few years older, and the striking similarity can only mean one thing. “And this is my brother, Brice.”
“Of course,” I say, scoffing.
“Why do you say that?” his brother says, grinning as he lifts his glass to his mouth.
“Because only rapists are named Brice.”
Brice barks out a laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Gesturing to me with the glass, he asks, “So this is the Count cunt you’ve been telling me about.”
Bruce grins back, holding me tighter. “The very one.”
“I see what you mean,” Brice says, looking me up and down. “I hear you’ve got some kind of magic pussy. You know, good enough to convince Dukes a Lucia is worth fucking.” He leans forward and reaches out, ignoring my flinch as he tugs at my bottom lip. “You’re right, Bruce. She would definitely look better with a dick in her mouth.”
I jerk away from his touch and go to stand. “Okay, I’m done.” But Bruce yanks me back down, hand moving between my thighs. I’m only wearing lace panties under this robe, and I clamp my legs together to fend him off. Stiffly, I hiss, “Let me go, Bruce.”
“Did you know my brother was a Duke, too?” His fingers stab between my legs, working against my muscles. “Every male in my family, for generations. Everyone but me.” His fingers inch higher and I grimace, feeling his obvious erection pressing into the back of my leg. “You know why?” Across from me, Brice’s grin slips away, and I fight off a gag at the scent of alcohol from Bruce’s breath on my ear. “Because Nick fucking Bruin showed up.”
“Yeah,” I say, fighting to get away, but his grip is solid. “He has a way of doing that.” Except right now. Where is he? Does he know I’m being manhandled by this asshole? I could yell. Shout. Make a scene.
The worst thing–maybe even worse than the way Bruce is forcing his fingers between my thighs–is the little niggle of worry in my mind that says Nick doesn’t care anymore. Maybe the fight was the last straw. Maybe the man who would have once done anything to keep me safe has given up on loving me enough to make a fuss.
That thought settles in my gut like a smoldering bomb. Regardless, it’s with confidence that I add, “They’ll kill you.” They will, but the threat falls flat. Bruce knows as well as I do that if I fuck up this night, they’ll be dead first. Saul and the Lords will see to it.
“Then I may as well make it worth it.” Bruce pushes me off his lap, but before I can even get my legs beneath me, his brother plants a hand on each of my shoulders, shoving me to my knees.
Right between Bruce’s legs.
“Remember that blow job you weaseled out of before?” Bruce says, looking deceptively loose as he thumbs open his pants. “You better open wide, slippery snake, because it’s time to pay up.”
“Fuck you,” I spit, elbowing Brice in the shin. He barely even moves, laughing as Bruce grabs hold of my chin, working my jaw open.
“God, you’re going to look perfect with my cum dripping down your chin.” Bruce’s eyes are glazed with the booze and lust, but beneath it, I see a murderous spark, jaw tight as he unzips.
I look around, desperate to find help. Not all these people are bad, I reason. They can’t be. This isn’t a room full of rapists and abusers. They aren’t Counts.
But I make eye contact with one guy–a forty-something VIP–and he just smirks, jabbing his friend with an elbow. I hear laughter, and their words might be muffled, but I catch enough to make my blood turn to ice. “Count, North Side, whore, traitor, on her knees where she belongs…”
Soon we’re surrounded by horny former frat boys, blocking me from the rest of the room. “Is this part of the show?” one guy asks, pulling out his phone.
Another executive-type comes up behind him to say, “Finally. Was starting to wonder why I bothered dropping seven grand on this.”
The walls close in on me. Brice’s grip tightens on my shoulders, Bruce reaching into his open pants, eyes glinting with an evil I’ve never seen. Not at the Hideaway. Not in the tower. “First,” Bruce says, voice gruff, “you’re going to take my cum. Then my brother is going to drag you out of here, and trust me. What he’ll do to you will make you beg for my cock again.”
A deep feral scream rips from my throat as I jerk away from Brice and reach to the back of my head. The hairpin slips from my hair, the weight perfect in my hand, and I slash out, the razor-sharp tip slashing satisfyingly across Bruce’s cheek.
There’s a split moment of stillness where the red burbles up, blood appearing as if from out of nowhere, and then Bruce reaches up to touch it, fingertips coming away crimson. “You fucking bitch!” he shouts, blood racing in fat streams down his cheek. His arm jerks back, fist curled, and I know how hard he can punch. He’s one of the best fighters in the frat. He swings, fist barreling toward my face, and I brace myself for the hit.
It never comes.
His arm is stopped mid-swing, his elbow twisted back. I don’t even hesitate. As soon as he’s restrained, I spin around, stabbing Brice in the thigh. He releases a pained snarl, but instead of reaching for the hairpin, he lashes out at me, palm slamming like fire into my cheek. It knocks me to the side, the bloody pin still clutched in my fist as I topple over.
The sound of a gun’s hammer cocking plunges the space in a frozen silence.
“Touch her again,” Nick says, the barrel of his gun pressed to Bruce’s temple, “and I’ll spray your whole family with your brother’s brains–assuming he has any.”
I gaze up at him, palm pressed to my stinging face. The anger rolling off Nick isn’t just something you can feel. You can see it, a low hum vibrating across his skin.
Nick Bruin is looking for a reason.
Any reason.
Bruce’s family must see it too, because suddenly, everyone’s pulling out a gun, Brice’s hand forming a tight fist in my hair. There’s something cool against my temple, and I know immediately that Brice has a barrel pressing into me.
“Let him go,” Brice barks, and all around us, more guns are coming out, one by one. Even the geriatric Duke–class of 1958–who had to be parked at the blackjack table with his walker, tugs a pistol from his jacket.
Fucking West End and their fucking guns…
“Gentlemen,” comes a voice that’s far too friendly for the standoff, Nick’s eyes flicking from me to Brice’s gun. “If those guns are loaded, then you’re breaking an unspoken rule of the event. If they’re not loaded, then you just look ridiculous. Either way,” Saul breaks through the throng, assessing the scene in front of him, “this is unseemly.”
“It’s going to get bloody,” Nick grits out, and from Bruce’s wince, he’s driving the barrel in harder, “unless this sack of shit lets her go.”
Saul looks first at me, then at Nick, his nostrils flaring as he flicks a hand. “Put your guns away.” When no one moves, he snaps, “Right fucking now!”
Brice is the first to move, and I gasp in relief as the metal disappears, the hand in my hair giving me a sharp shove before he steps away. Nick moves next, hurling Bruce into the table as he lowers his gun.
I feel a soft hand on my arm, but flinch, slashing the hair pin in that direction. “Whoa,” Laura says, hands up in surrender. “It’s just me.”
“Sorry,” I say, cradling my cheek as she helps me stand. That’s when I see both Sy and Remy at the back of the room, Saul’s security restraining them both. From the way their shirts are mussed and tangled, they tried fighting back, too.
Both of them are ashen, watching me with wide, panicked eyes.
I want nothing more than to run to them–to Nick–but then Saul lets out this curt, irritated sigh and says, “Ewing, I’ve had enough of this.” Jerking his head, he orders, “Head across the park. Get Payne. We’ll put an end to this now.”
“No!” I shout, tearing away from Laura. Every eye in the room snaps in my direction. Including Nick’s. Approaching Saul, I beg, “Please don’t,” lowering my voice to a strained whisper.
Saul narrows his eyes. “Why shouldn’t I? I made my demands perfectly clear. The two of you were to act as hosts. You were to provide entertainment.” He looks around at the blood and the toppled table top. “As thrilling as this has been, it’s not what you promised.”
“I-I’ll do it,” I stutter, untying my robe. “I’ll go dance. Right now.”
Saul looks unimpressed, mouth pinching in distaste. “You think these men came here for some amateur striptease, Lucia?” Gesturing to the crowd, most stopping their games to spectate, he says, “Not good enough.”
My stomach roils, and I swallow down the taste of bile. “I’ll undress,” I offer, voice wobbly and thick.
“Like fucking hell you will,” Nick spits, surging forward. Neon grabs him, yanking him back. Nick could easily break out of his grip, but he goes stock still instead, jaw hardening.
I can’t see it, but I’m willing to bet there’s a gun in his back.
The last person I’m expecting to speak is Bruce’s father. “I wouldn’t write the night off just yet, Saul. We were already having ourselves a nice little show. I say we finish it.” His beady eyes lock on me, mouth twisting into a demented smile. “The Lucia bitch should get on her knees for my boy.”
“Fuck that!” Nick’s eyes meet mine, full of an anger that I’m not used to seeing on him, always so composed and cool. But there’s also a shrewd sort of panic in them, and I know he’s thinking fast, sizing up our options. I see the moment something sticks, his eyes sliding to the side to meet Sy and Remy’s. Whatever passes between them, it makes Nick’s expression firm out, his voice rising to address the room.
“Who would you rather see Lionel Lucia’s daughter on her knees for, boys? Some random DKS?” He raises his chin, peering out over the men. “Or a true, full-blooded Bruin.”
There’s a hush of silence, and then the room erupts into disgusting, excited murmurs. A man by the roulette table cups his hands around his mouth to shout, “Show us what it’s really like up in that belfry, Bruin!”
But Bruce shoves forward toward Nick, his face sticky with smears of blood. “Why? So she can manipulate you even more? Face it, Bruin, you’ve been playing all sides for a long time now. One day you’re a soldier for South Side, the next you’re worshiping Count cunt. You’re no better than a goddamn whore, looking for a warm place to land.” He spits a glob of blood at Nick’s feet. “Prove to us that you’re really a Duke.”
“You’re questioning my loyalty?” Nick says, holding Bruce’s glare. There’s murder in his blue eyes, but Nick just nods, breaking away from Neon to march up to me.
I gasp when he grabs me by the throat, shoving, guiding me to the stage like his palm is a collar. I grab onto his arm and struggle to keep my footing, the alumni we pass smirking at us the whole way.
They don’t know that Nick’s fingers are loose.
If that wasn’t enough to signal what this is–a show–then the look on Nick’s face when we dip behind the curtain seals it. He releases my neck, breathing hard as he turns my face, assessing the damage from Brice’s hand. A lock of hair has fallen into his eyes, enhancing the unhinged look I see there.
“I have seventeen rounds in my mag,” he says, glancing toward the room. “Remy has twelve. Sy probably carried lighter, but he’s a good shot and he’s better with his hands–”
“What are you talking about?” I struggle to keep my horrified voice to an urgent whisper. “Nick, if someone shoots, this place will turn into a bloodbath.”
He fixes me with a bright, belligerent glare. “What are we going to do, sneak out? I’m not going to make you their whore!” He wrenches me closer, his face twisted with fury. “They don’t want to watch you suck a dick. They want to watch someone fucking ruin you!”
My stomach sinks at the realization he’d rather we shoot our way out of here than put me on my knees.
The bloody hair pin clatters when I drop it. Reaching up to cup his face in my hands, I say, “I know.” Staring into his eyes, I make sure he sees the honesty in mine. “Baby, I don’t care.”
He tries to turn away, eyes shuttering. “Lavinia–”
I pull him back to me, adding, “I’m sorry.” My eyes swim, but I don’t make an effort to blink back the tears. “I’m sorry I doubted you, and I’m sorry that I’m asking you to do this.” I search his dark eyes, feeling a pang in my chest. “I know what Daniel used to make you do in the pit.”
He grabs my wrist but doesn’t try to pry me away. He just touches it–holds it–his answer gruff. “This isn’t about that.” His thumb presses into the letters Remy inked there hours ago. LB. The same letters Nick asked me to tattoo on his own flesh. Suddenly, Remy’s question flutters back to me.
“You know what that stands for, don’t you?”
At the time, I didn’t understand the way he looked at me, as if he was waiting for me to understand something. And now it’s finally dawning on me.
LB doesn’t just stand for Little Bird.
They’re initials.
Lavinia Bruin.
“Then listen to me,” I say, chest aching with this new knowledge. “If I’m the reason you don’t want to go through with it, then you’re an idiot. Because I trust you, Nick Bruin. And because…” My breath hitches, the words vibrating through me just as surely as my own pulse. “And because I love you.”
His chest goes still, and even though the harsh lines on his face remain, his eyelids fall closed. There are three hard breaths, and then a mangled demand.
“Say it again.” He sounds gutted.
This time, it’s easier. “I love you,” I say, straining up on my toes to brush a soft, tentative kiss against the tense line of his mouth. “I love you, Nick.”
He snaps into motion like a loaded spring, grabbing my head and crashing our lips together. It hurts–the clash of teeth, the bruising pressure of his fingertips, the cartilage of our noses colliding–but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Loving Nick Bruin should hurt a little bit.
He breaks away with a low grunt, lashes fluttering open to reveal blazing eyes. “I’ll have to make it convincing. That doesn’t mean–”
“I know,” I assure him, touching the hard plane of his chest. “Don’t hold back. I can take it.”
Nick releases me, backing up against the curtain. “So can I,” he says, reaching up to thumb my lipstick from his mouth. “Remember the first time we met?”
A slow, mischievous grin rises to my lips. “Are you sure?” I ask, bending to adjust the strap on my shoe. “It might hurt.”
“Oh, Little Bird…” He spreads his arms, smirking back. “Wouldn’t be any fun if it didn’t.”
