Chapter 4 The Special Position
AMELIA
An hour later, I heard voices filtered through the thin walls.
I'd been lying on the bed, trying to rest, when I heard multiple female voices coming from somewhere nearby—the bathroom, maybe, or another room.
"I can't believe Marco gave her the position," one of the voices said sharply. Bitter and angry.
"Who, the new girl?" Another voice, filled with curiosity, spoke up.
"Yeah. Amelia. She literally just walked in off the street and Marco put her with the special customers? I've been here six months, doing everything Marco asks, and he won't even let me near the private rooms."
"Maybe she's got something you don't have, Jade," another voice said.
"Like what? She's blind, for God's sake."
"That's exactly it, idiota," a hard and older third voice said. "Think about it. Special customers are made men. Capos. The kind who can't afford to have witnesses. A blind girl who can't identify them later? She's worth her weight in gold."
A pause. Then Jade's voice, lower but seething: "That's fucked up."
"That's business. You want the position? Go blind then."
They all burst into laughter. Cold. Cruel.
"Whatever," Jade muttered. "She won't last a week. The first time Santoro or one of the Castellano crew decides they want more than drinks, she'll be crying to go back to serving regulars. If Marco even lets her."
"You're just pissed you're not the favorite anymore," one of them said mockingly.
"I'm pissed because I've earned it and she just—"
"Life's not fair, princess. Get over it."
Their voices faded as they moved away, but the words lingered.
Made men. Capos. Santoro.
I sat up slowly, my hands clenched in the bedspread.
I wasn't just serving wealthy men. I was serving the Families. These were the same people who had been shooting at each other in the street just four days earlier.
The same people who'd made that stranger—Santoro—bark orders like a general and have men obey without question.
And I was supposed to bring them drinks and smile and pretend I wasn't terrified.
A knock on my door made me jump.
"It's Nina. Time to get ready." She said and opened the door.
Nina led me to the bathroom and sat me down hard on a stool.
"Listen carefully," she said, already pulling a brush through my hair. "The customer tonight is high-level. Connected. The kind of man who could have you disappear if you piss him off."
My throat went dry. " Marco said—"
"Marco said he doesn't force his girls. That's true. But he can't protect you if you make yourself a target." She yanked my head back, pinning my hair with sharp efficiency. "Rule one: you don't ask questions. You should not ask questions about their business, their families, their scars, or the blood on their suits.
Blood on their suits.
"Rule two: you don't repeat anything you hear. Do not share anything with other girls, Marco, or even God himself. Omertà isn't just for made men. It's for anyone who wants to stay alive in this world."
"I understand."
"Do you?" she asked, stopping. The brush stilled. "Last year, one of the girls got chatty with her boyfriend. Told him what she'd overheard about a shipment coming in. Two days later, they found her in the river. Marco couldn't stop it. Wouldn't stop it. You break the code, you pay the price."
I couldn't breathe.
"Rule three," Nina continued, her hands moving to my face with makeup brushes. "You set boundaries and you hold them. These men respect strength, even in the girls who work here. You say no, you mean it. But you better be prepared for them to walk away—and for Marco to dock your pay for it."
"I thought Marco said—"
"Marco said he doesn't force you. Didn't say there wouldn't be consequences." She applied eyeliner with brutal precision. "You want to make real money? You learn to be flexible. You want to just survive? You hold your boundaries and accept you'll stay broke."
She finished my makeup and pulled me to my feet.
"Put this on."
The dress was soft fabric that clung to every curve. Nina zipped me up—tight enough that I felt exposed, yet loose enough that I could still breathe.
"Shoes."
Heels. They were taller than anything I'd ever worn.
"Can you walk in those?" she asked, eyeing the heels.
"I'll manage."
"You better. The customer's already waiting. He has been here for twenty minutes, drinking Marco's expensive scotch and becoming increasingly impatient."
My heart hammered. "Who is he?"
"Does it matter? Just remember the rules."
She led me downstairs. The bar was louder now—conversations I couldn't quite hear, laughter that sounded forced, the clink of glasses, and the shuffle of cards. Beneath it all, an undercurrent of tension. Like everyone was waiting for something to go wrong.
"Private rooms are down this hall," Nina said, her voice low. "Six doors. You're in room three. Table's already set up—whisky, vodka, wine. Buzzer by the door if he wants something else. Don't make me come get you unless it's an emergency."
"What counts as an emergency?"
"If he pulls a gun, use the buzzer. Anything else, you handle it yourself."
She left me outside the door.
I could hear music inside. Jazz, slow and sultry. Ice clinking. The sound of expensive alcohol being poured.
He was already in there. Drinking. Waiting.
I smoothed down my dress and reached for the handle.
Just survival. One night. I can do this.
I pushed the door open.
"Well." A male voice, low and rough and soaked in whisky. "Aren't you a pretty little thing?"
I stepped inside, forcing a smile I didn't feel.
"Good evening, sir. My name is Amelia. I'll be—"
"Come closer." It was a command, not a request. "I want to get a better look at you."
I moved forward carefully, hands slightly out to avoid obstacles.
Glass clinked. Liquid was pouring. Another drink.
"Marco said you were special," he continued, his words slightly slurred. "Said you were perfect for clients like me. Clients who value discretion."
"Yes, sir."
"Look at me," he said, and held my chin up.
My stomach dropped. "I... I can't."
"Why not?"
"I'm blind, sir."
He was silent for a while.
Then he laughed—low and dark and dangerous.
"Blind." The word rolled off his tongue like he was tasting it. "Cazzo. Marco wasn't lying. You really are perfect."
He moved closer. I could smell him now—expensive cologne, whisky, and underneath it, something metallic. Gunpowder, maybe. Or blood.
His hand touched my face, his fingers trailing down my jaw, possessive and claiming.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked quietly.
"No, sir."
"Good." His thumb brushed my lower lip. "Keep it that way."
I stood very still, every instinct screaming at me to pull away. But Nina's words echoed: These men respect strength.
"What would you like me to do, sir?" I kept my voice steady.
"I want—" He stopped. Swayed slightly. "I want you to just... stand there. Let me look at you."
He was very drunk. I could hear it now in the way his words ran together and the way his breathing was slightly uneven.
"Are you all right, sir?"
"All right?" He laughed bitterly. "No, bella. I'm not all right. My uncle is giving me a lecture about being too soft. Told I'm not fit to lead because I hesitated when—" He stopped abruptly. "Never mind."
Lead, Uncle. The pieces clicked together.
This was someone important. Family hierarchy. He could be an heir, maybe.
"Would you like to sit down, sir?"
"I would like—" His hand moved from my jaw to the back of my neck. Not gentle. Not rough. Controlled. "I would like to forget who I am for a few hours."
He pulled me closer.
"Sir—"
"Don't call me sir. Not here. Not now."
His other hand found my waist. I could feel the heat from him, the barely controlled violence in the way he held me.
"I don't even know your name," I whispered.
"Good."
Then his mouth was on mine.
The kiss was possessive and demanding, tasting of whisky and anger and something desperate underneath. His hand tightened on the back of my neck, holding me in place.
Every nerve in my body screamed.
I reacted on instinct.
My hand cracked across his face—hard.
The sound echoed in the small room.
He released me immediately, stumbling back a step.
I stood there, breathing hard, my hand stinging.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then he laughed—soft, almost surprised.
"You hit me."
"You kissed me without permission," I said, anger lacing my voice.
"I did." He sounded almost... impressed? "You've got fire, bella. Good. That's good."
He swayed again. This time, his swaying was more pronounced.
"You should sit down," I said.
"I should—" He stopped. "Yeah, maybe."
I heard him move toward what I assumed was a chair. A heavy thud as he sat—or maybe collapsed.
Then silence.
"Sir?"
There was no response from him.
"Sir, are you—"
Then a soft snore.
He'd passed out.
I stood in the middle of room three, my lips still tingling from an unwanted kiss, my hand still stinging from the slap, and a drunk, dangerous man unconscious in the chair behind me.
And I had absolutely no idea what to do next.