If I was smart, I’d take the money Damiano gave me and run somewhere far. After I get home, I count the cash out again and again. Five thousand euros is enough to start somewhere anew, but for some reason I can’t think of a single attractive destination. It’s like no matter where I go, I’m risking leaving a piece of me in Ibiza.
The next morning, the front desk attendant at the hostel gives me a letter. Inside is an invitation for a viewing of an apartment on the nice side of the island. There is no mention of Damiano’s name on the letter, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s behind it. I go to the viewing. The place has a beach view, a private balcony, and looks like an interior designer’s wet dream. I pay the deposit on the spot and get my key.
No matter how I fight it, there’s only one conclusion that makes sense. There’s a part of him that cares about me. Damiano doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who gives up on things that he wants, so I prepare myself for more grand gestures. I can’t let him wear my resistance down.
Yes, I want to sleep with him. Who wouldn’t? But after my reaction on the boat, I’m not confident I’ll be able to keep my head straight when he makes me feel that good over and over again. What if I say something I shouldn’t in my vulnerable state? What if I inadvertently allow him to get too close?
I start my first week as a server. Since I work nights now, I have to adjust my sleep schedule, which means I spend the first few days feeling like a total zombie. I manage to break a few glasses and spill a Cosmopolitan onto a VIP, but he turns out to be too high to notice.
“Is everyone here on drugs?” I ask Vilde one night while we’re on break.
She laughs. “Took you only a few days to realize, huh? Yeah. That’s why our bottles of water are ten euros. High people tend to drink less alcohol, but they need to stay hydrated.”
“How do they get all the stuff in here?” I ask. “The bouncers pat everyone down, don’t they?”
“They’re checking for weapons, not drugs, and there’s always someone dealing here, if you know what to look for.” She glances around the staff room and lowers her voice. “I’m sure the boss knows about the dealers.”
I suspect she’s right. I doubt anything happens in this club without Damiano knowing. No one becomes as successful as him without any exposure to the underworld. Still, it’s an entirely different thing to be a part of its depths.
The next day, Vilde, Astrid, and I are all scheduled to work in the upper-level VIP area. When we arrive, Ras is there. He doesn’t say hello, but even from afar, I can tell he’s staring at me with unmistakable suspicion. I have to fight down the urge to squirm. Nerves flare inside of me. Does he know something?
The night starts off without a hitch. Hostesses seat the VIPs as they arrive, and then I or one of the other servers bring over the bottle service. I can’t be sure until I count, but I think the tips I manage to collect in three hours might be more than I made during one whole cleaning shift. And that’s not including my base salary. My mood lifts with each passing hour. If this is how things keep going, I might be able to pay Damiano back sooner than later.
“We just seated a group of four at Table A,” Maria, the floor manager, tells me. “They have a bottle of Chivas Regal. Can you make them a priority?”
“I have another table first.”
“Do it later,” Maria tells me, looking over her shoulder. “They’re the boss’s friends.”
Damiano’s? I glance over at the table, and one look is enough to make my blood still inside my veins.
At the largest booth in the VIP area, the one Astrid was dancing in before she left for her break a few minutes earlier, are three men I don’t recognize and one that I do.
Nelo.
I doubt Damiano would refer to Nelo as a friend even if he’s his cousin, but the fact that Maria does tells me this can’t be his first time at Revolvr. The back of my neck prickles with unease. Does Damiano know Nelo and his entourage are here? There’s still a fading green bruise on the man’s face where Damiano punched him. At least it doesn’t look like Nelo’s as drunk as he was the night at the restaurant.
I prep the bottle service, roll my shoulders back, and make my way over.
Nelo registers me when I’m almost at their booth. His thin lips glide into a sneer. “Bella,” he greets me, his eyes raking down my body.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” I say, sticking to my script.
He tracks my movements as I transfer the bottle over to their table. “You work here,” he states. “Were you hired before or after the night I met you?”
“Before.”
“Wouldn’t put it past that son of a bitch to hire you just to spite me.”
“I don’t think Señor De Rossi spends a second of his time thinking about your feelings.”
Nelo’s eyes narrow into two lines.
Crap. I shouldn’t have said that.
He leans forward, bringing his face closer to mine. “What you know about how De Rossi spends his time?”
Our conversation finally catches the attention of his companions. One by one, their hard gazes land on me. They all look mean, without exception. One of them is sporting a fading black eye. Another has this gaunt look that can only be caused by excessive drug use or a life filled with violence. I’ve seen his lookalikes back in New York. Foot soldiers, usually. Men who live each day as if it might end with a bullet in their heads.
The last one seems the most normal at first, but then I see his eyes, and nasty déjà vu makes my stomach lurch. His eyes are just like Lazaro’s. Cold and utterly empty of any human emotion.
“I know he’s very busy,” I say, placing the last mixer on the table. “That’s all I meant. Would you like me to serve you the first round?”
Nelo flicks his gaze to the bottle and then back to me. “Sure, bella.”
He’s probably used to making people tremble under his stare, but my hand’s steady as I pour him and his friends their whisky.
The guy with the black eye says something to him in Italian. There’s too much of a local dialect mixed in for me to understand. Nelo snorts an ugly laugh. It’s enough warning for me to know I won’t like the next words out of his mouth.
He smirks at me. “There are some other ways we’d like you to serve us later.”
Placing the bottle back down on the table, I straighten out and pretend I didn’t hear him. “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you guys. Have fun.”
The air grows taut and uncomfortable. It’s a game for them. They want to ruffle my feathers and show me just how superior they are to me. Round one is over. I turn on my heel and head back toward the main bar.
I decide I can leave them for at least thirty minutes while I serve my other customers. But not even ten minutes later, they wave me back over.
“We want the thing that table got,” Nelo says, pointing to a booth that has a six-liter limited edition bottle of Dom Perignon.
Of course, he does. Men like him are so predictable. They want the biggest, shiniest toy because they think it will make them look good, but in truth, people simply look at the shiny toy and glaze over them. “Great choice. Just so you know, it’s ten thousand euros,” I tell him while I eye the already-empty bottle on their table. Even with four people, they got through that quick.
“I don’t give a fuck. You think I look at the prices here?”
His entourage chuckles.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Great, I’ll bring it right over.”
“Hurry your pretty ass. And where’s the fucking dancer? We’ve been staring at an empty space since we’ve sat down.”
“She should be back from her break at any moment.” I glance around, my jaw tight. I really hate that my friend’s going to have to deal with them. I spy Astrid on the other side of the room making her way over here. She’ll recognize Nelo even without any warning from me.
The bright smile she wears wavers when she sees my expression. She takes in the men sitting in the booth, and I can see recognition flash over her face. But she’s a professional. She gets up on the platform in the center of the booth and greets everyone.
I doubt Nelo noticed her at the restaurant or knows that she’s my friend. It’s for the best. An association with me is unlikely to do Astrid any favors with this group.
The fancy bottle of Dom is so big that I need the help of another girl to bring everything over. A few people cheer as we walk by them. When we get to Nelo’s booth, his friends join in on the cheering.
“I need to get a video of that,” the gaunt one says. He pulls out his phone and starts recording as we set the bucket down on the edge of their table.
I’m so distracted by the commotion that I don’t notice Astrid isn’t dancing until I straighten back up. She’s not on the platform anymore. Instead, she’s standing directly across from me, by Nelo’s side. Her face is paler than normal. It dawns on me Nelo’s hand is gripping her wrist.
What the hell.
Guests aren’t ever allowed to touch the go-go dancers.
He tugs her to sit on his knee, like she’s a toy instead of a fully functioning human being and starts whispering something into her ear. She’s trying to pull away from him, but he won’t let her. Where are the bouncers?
Nausea appears inside my gut. “Why is she in your lap?” I demand.
Nelo smirks. “You jealous, bella? Don’t worry, I’ve got another knee you can bounce on.” He releases Astrid’s wrist and pats his free knee.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You didn’t seem to think so the other night.”
Astrid tries to stand, but he won’t let her, pushing her back down with a palm on her bare thigh. She visibly stiffens. Her eyes are wide and scared as she flicks her gaze over Nelo’s friends. Astrid isn’t a weak girl, but these men are straight-up intimidating, and I can see that she’s frozen in fear.
“Let her go,” I say. My hand is curled into a fist inside the pocket of my apron, but I’m not De Rossi. I won’t be able to break Nelo’s nose.
But when his hand trails higher up Astrid’s thigh, I realize I’m furious enough to try.
“She’s not complaining, is she?” he asks in a low voice, his lips close to her neck but his eyes glued to my face. He’s doing this to piss me off.
“She’s terrified.”
“Terrified? I don’t think so. I think this pussy—” he moves his hand to cup Astrid’s crotch, “—is nice and wet for me.”
My knuckles brush against the ice pick inside my apron. Fury swarms inside of me like a dark cloud of locusts. I curl my palm around the handle. There are no thoughts. I’m not even breathing.
I jerk the ice pick out and sink it through the top of Nelo’s hand that’s resting on his knee.
Lazaro’s lessons with various sharp objects have finally paid off. I know just how hard I need to ram the pick to make it all the way through Nelo’s hand.
For a moment that stretches in my imagination, Nelo stares at the handle protruding from his hand. Then he shoves Astrid off him and lets out an astonished shout.
The music around us blares so loud it nearly drowns out the sound. Nelo’s men shoot up to their feet and yell in angry Italian. Someone grabs my arm.
“Ale!” It’s Astrid. I’ve never seen her eyes so wide. “Ale, what did you do?”
Nelo pulls out the ice pick with a pained grunt and blood streams out of his hand, dripping all over the floor.
He stands and levels his bloodshot gaze on me. “I’m going to kill you for that, bella.”
I suck in my first breath in a long while and look down at the blood on the floor. It’s like a gruesome piece of art.
My God, what have I done? I promised I’d never do this again.
The guy with the dead eyes pulls a switchblade out of his jacket.
Astrid gasps. “Ale, we have to go.” She manages to drag me a few steps before we’re stopped by two bouncers. Behind them is Maria. She must have summoned them just now. Where the hell were they moments ago when we needed their help?
“Get the fuck back,” Nelo says to them when they move to stand before Astrid and I. “We’ve got shit we need to sort out.”
“Sit down,” one of the bouncers says, eyeing the four men wearily. “Señor De Rossi is on his way.”
“Fuck you.”
Nelo and his companions start slinging insults at the bouncers, but the two men are clearly doing their hardest to deescalate by staying impressively calm. Astrid squeezes my wrist, and I whip my head around to meet her eyes.
What I see inside of them makes me stagger back.
Damiano appears on the other side of the booth and pushes past the seats. “What is going on here?” He does a double take when he sees me behind the bouncers, and then his gaze sweeps over the booth and all the involved parties. If he’s shocked at the sight of Nelo’s hand, he doesn’t show it. His eyes only narrow when he sees the other man’s switchblade.
“You brought a weapon into my club?” his voice is deadly.
Nelo’s face turns red with rage. “This bitch just cut me.” He lifts his hand. It’s looking ghastly. “Your rules don’t mean shit anymore.”
Immediately, Damiano gets in Nelo’s face. “Watch your mouth,” he warns.
“Or what?”
Around us, other patrons have begun to take note of the commotion, and some are trying to get closer to see what’s going on.
“My office. Now,” Damiano says.
“No. I think we should do this here, orphano. Let everyone see who’ll win,” Nelo taunts.
I’m close enough to see the muscles in Damiano’s back go stiff.
“I’m going to pretend all the blood in your brain is bleeding out of your hand, which is why that sentence just left your mouth. Maybe you’re not thinking straight, but I am. Look around. Does this look like a scene Il becchino would like to see on the news tomorrow?”
The grave digger. Unease flutters inside my chest. Who is Damiano talking about and why does that sound like the nicknames Papà gave to his men? They always called each other things like that. Il grasso, il dente, il matematico… Each name had a story. Il dente lost his front tooth in a fight when he was sixteen and walked around like that for a few weeks before my grandfather paid him to get it fixed. Il grasso was always snacking on the job. Il mathematico wouldn’t tell me when I asked, but later I found out from Tito that after every job, he’d always count how many men they’d killed and tally up the numbers in a little notebook he carried in his breast pocket.
Nelo sneers and gives a sharp shake of his head. “Fine. We settle this in your office.”
Damiano jostles the bouncers out of the way, takes me by the elbow, and leads me away. I twist my neck to see if the others follow. They do.
Ras runs up to us. “What’s happening?”
“The thin one has a knife,” Damiano snarls but doesn’t stop walking. “Get it from him as soon as we’re inside my office and figure out how the fuck he managed to get it past the guys at the door.”
“Ale! Wait!” It’s Astrid. I see her trying to get to me, but Ras stops her and says something that makes her scowl at him angrily.
Damiano pulls me through a door marked “Private” and the sounds of the club dim.
I notice there’s no one behind us anymore.
The full realization of what I’ve done slams into me right then.
I just…stabbed a man. Spilled his blood like it was nothing. There was no puppet master pulling the strings this time. It was all me.
The edges of my vision blacken. I sway on my feet, and Damiano’s grip on me tightens.
He stops moving us and brings his face close to mine. “Are you okay? Did they touch you?”
He’s so angry he’s shaking. I suck in a desperate breath and force a single word out. “No.”
He exhales in relief. “What happened?”
“He grabbed Astrid. He touched her over her clothes. It was sick, he wouldn’t let her get away.”
“Astrid stabbed him?”
“No. I did.”
Something that might be pride flickers in his expression, but that must be my imagination, because there’s nothing for me to be proud of in this situation. Yeah, Nelo is sick. But so am I.
Lazaro really did ruin me. And now Astrid knows. I saw it in her eyes when she looked at me moments earlier. She looked terrified of me. Finally, she understands who she’s been living with for two weeks.
A monster.
