Page 18 of Nicoli

My own tears start to lap off my cheeks, the pillow soaking it up as I lie there in the dark, listening to a little girl cry, hearing her pain in every single sob. It’s too much. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything sound as broken as her. God, I wish I could snap my fingers and take away her pain. Take away the memory. I wish I were older so I could help my dad find whoever is responsible for Mirabella’s heartache. Just like she saw her mother’s blood seeping through the floors, I want to see those bastards’ blood coat my hands. But I’m not older. I’m thirteen, and there’s nothing I can do to help her. So, I do the only thing I can do in the middle of the night with a girl crying in my bed…

I reach behind me and take her small hand in mine, squeezing it tightly. I have no idea how much time passes, but her sobs slowly start to wane, and I’m silently thanking God for it because I’m not sure how much more of it I can take before my heart explodes.

“I don’t think I want to talk about this again,” she whispers, clasping my hand tight. “I don’t want to cry again.”

I wipe my cheeks across the pillowcase and take a deep breath as Mira snuggles deeper into me. “I think I like Mr. and Mrs. Del Rossa. I hope we can stay here forever.”

Oh, I’ll make sure of it.

“I’m going to sleep now. I love you, Max.”

That night Mirathought she had wandered into her brother's room. She opened her tiny little heart and spoke her pain, put her nightmare into words and told her big brother what she saw the night her mother was murdered in front of her. Only, it wasn’t Maximo she told.

It’s been seventeen years since that night, and she still doesn’t know…that it was me.

ChapterSeven

NICOLI

After my impromptu trip down memory lane’s graveyard and sitting on my couch wondering if I had a good enough excuse to drink an entire bottle of bourbon before midday, I decide thrusting my frustration into sex and drowning my feelings in a climax that turns my spine inside out might be a better option.

It’s something I tell myself every damn time, that maybe today I’ll be able to fuck her out of my system. Perhaps this time the past would tear right out of me while I come down a Myth girl’s throat.

Wishful thinking, motherfucker.

I’m about to get into my car when Alexius comes rushing out the front door, wearing his Ray-Ban sunglasses, slipping on his suit jacket, looking like God dunked his ass in ice-cold confidence, moving like he’s featuring in a goddamn men’s cologne commercial.

“Nicoli, we have a problem,” he says, adjusting the collar of his jacket.

“Of course we do,” I scoff, pulling my hair back with my fingers.

“Caelian just called. There’s an issue over at Myth.”

“Myth?”

“Yeah. Some fucker tried to recruit one of our girls.”

I slam my car door closed and face him. “Say what?”

“Some motherfucker got caught trying to smooth-talk one of our girls into leaving Myth and going to work for him.”

“Who the fuck would be that dumb?”

Alexius rounds his car. “Don’t know. Caelian just said to get our asses over there asap.”

“Wait,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “You’re going to Myth?”

“Yup.”

“So, your wife is actually letting you go to Myth without her?”

He opens the door to his car. “Not the time, Nicoli.” Then he gets in, starts the engine, and spins out of the driveway. Dammit, if I had two more seconds, I could have ripped into him with my award-winning sarcasm. But, instead, I’m short on his ass, soon tearing onto the asphalt as I speed off the estate grounds. The idea that someone had the balls to walk into our club and try to recruit one of our girls is fucking unbelievable. Who would have a nutsack that big? Who would want to die so badly he’d scratch the lion’s balls by taking a shit on our porch? I already know it’s not some scumbag, backstreet pimp. This person is high enough on the food chain to be able to set foot in Myth in the first place, let alone get a one-on-one with our girl and think there’s half a chance she won’t be loyal to people who fucking feed her.

Club Myth isn’t just some sleazy strip club. It’s not a cheap brothel where filthy fuckers come to get their dicks wet. It’s the Dark Sovereign’s most elite club. A place where the world’s most expensive champagne flows like water, a place where beautiful women bring the Chicago night sky to life. It’s the playground of the upper echelon of this city’s high-flying society, and you don’t get through those doors with a minimal entry fee and a stamp on your goddamn wrist. Those who frequent Myth have an exclusive VIP membership with a six-figure monthly price tag. With it comes a vow of secrecy and loyalty toward our family’s business.

The only way you’re exempt from that fee is if you make a highly confidential contribution toward our club—the kind of contribution that has a pretty face, firm tits, and a tight ass.

There are so many rumors flying around town about Myth. But my favorite rumor is the one about the women we keep captive to bear children for us, how we raise the girls and teach them to be slaves and whores while we bury the boys below the maple trees.

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