Chapter 5

I pull out my gold swipe card that gives me access to one of the two lifts and all four floors of this building. When Luciano gave me this the day I arrived, I noticed that he had a silver one, which means he cannot access the apartment upstairs, not that anyone can! It’s locked with a keypad that the guard scanned my palm for on arrival. It’s very high-tech for somewhere Carrero rarely uses, and I wonder why he went to so much expense upstairs but left his club to run in incapable hands and still look like it was decorated in the nineties.

It’s a complete contradiction to both the man and his apartment upstairs.

I wander into the open space of the lift and lean back against the railing, sighing heavily. I can hear the thrum downstairs and impatiently run my fingers through my long, straight locks, admiring my reflection as the chrome doors close. I quickly check my flawless makeup and red pout and give my ample breasts a slight jiggle in the moulded lingerie to sit higher under my fitted dress. Looking good is an art form that I have mastered.

Despite not having anything but long slender legs on show when I work the bar, men fall over themselves to be served by me. I was lucky to be born with a naturally pretty face that can be a knockout with the right eyeliner and lippy and a body I work hard to keep toned and fuckable. Experience taught me that I have to live on my looks as much as my skills in this cut-throat world because women are second-rate citizens among gangsters and completely disposable. We are ten a penny, and most women will drop their knickers for any guy with money or a hint of power, so you must stand out as something else. I aim to be more than another forgettable whore. I have skills and ambition.

The girls here all hate me, and I don’t care. I am harsh-tongued and intolerant, and I am not shy to tell them when they are pissing me off. I never came here to make friends, and technically I am still their boss, too, even if Luciano forgets it and treats me like his skivvy.

I must admit, though, the bar is running a lot more smoothly since I picked up the slack than when I first arrived. Minor changes to the Rota, booze brands, and how things are done have made a difference. I could teach them a few things if I could be bothered to up the standard and class to try and pick up the tips a little. I don’t see the point, though; I’m hoping the bar goes under and Alexi has to find another use for me to work off the money I owe him.

I could teach him a few boudoir tricks and show him how good a girl can be with nothing but a tongue and a fair bit of practised suction. I would happily sweat it out under him in any position he required and revel in letting him find exciting ways to extract every last dollar. I did spend my adult life and half my childhood learning how to work sex to my advantage, and I am not against using every tool in my arsenal to achieve my goal.

Alexi would be fun to use it on, seeing as he is the first real crush I have ever had. That man makes me wet thinking about him. I can’t help the little fantasies I have been having about him. Since that certain tall, dark Italian piqued my interest, I have my eye firmly on that rich and powerful package for sure.

Sex is something I miss, even if it’s what screwed me up early in life, and I am more than ready to flex those pelvic muscles in the name of some fun now I have an opponent I’ve found to be worthy.

I got so embroiled in selling other girls to wealthy men when pushing Tyler’s product and surrounding myself with spoiled and fetish-fuelled creeps that, along the way, I lost all interest in fucking anyone.

A dick is a dick, and when you face them shoved your way daily by over-amorous arseholes who see you as a vessel for their pleasure and nothing else, it kills the buzz, and suddenly your best lay is a battery-operated boyfriend. At least it won’t smack you around or push itself down your throat and won’t stop until you reach your climax.

My “BOB” keeps me happy while I avoid disappointing sex, and it’s less messy on the clean-up. It’s also never forced me into anything I didn’t want to do with brute force, and I want to avoid any more beatings in my lifetime if I can help it. I have recovered from my fair share and am so done with broken bones and fractured limbs.

I am lucky that in all the years and the beatings, I have taken, I have very few scars and none that you can see unless you look hard. Most of the scars I carry on my battered soul.

I somehow think that Mr Carrero might have a few skills in the bedroom department, and he doesn’t strike me as a guy who uses brute force to get his way either. He has persuasive talent and command—I doubt I would say no even if he asked me to let him screw me up the arse on his desk while Baldy watched him poke me senseless.

Luciano would probably get off on it; I think he has a hard-on for Carrero, and his sexuality is questionable. His homophobic rage over the gay bartender downstairs screams of a repressed desire, and I wonder if his wife only married him out of pity.

I have heard the bar girls talking about Alexi in the staff locker area at the start of the night shifts. One of the girls used to be his Monday evening boredom fuck—a bit of a kink whore that he tied up and screwed mercilessly. She implied that he likes being in control and likes to be rough…

I wonder if we have ourselves a ‘Mr Grey’ or a guy who is open to experimentation.

Judging by her disappointment that he didn’t beat her down or inflict pain to get her off, I can only assume he has lines he doesn’t cross, even if he is into bondage. Not all Doms are into beating and whipping, and it sounds like Carrero is more into restraining rather than inflicting pain. He sounds like, for him, it’s all about submission and control anyway, and I am sure I can get around that. I’m not really into being cuffed, tied and abused. It’s like reliving my youth, and I have no space in my head for weak little memories and stupid girls who didn’t have the sense to outsmart them.

I have my triggers in specific sexual scenarios and have learned to avoid anything that sets me off. I guess that is one area where he would find me a disappointment because it’s a no-go any day of the week, but I have other skills to distract him.

The doors finally open, and I wander out listlessly, shaking my Tiffany bracelet back down my arm and adjusting my dress as I cross the lobby of the back hall to the bar door distractedly. The bar’s noise seems oddly low, and the house music is off, even though I heard it when travelling down. Now I can only hear hushed voices as though the bar is emptying, and it instantly confuses me. It’s not even midnight; this is usually our craziest time on a Saturday night.

What the hell?

“Miss Walters… Nice to see you upright!”