Chapter 29 Under his protection
Nina stood. "Get some rest. You've been through hell today. Tomorrow we'll figure out next steps."
"Am I supposed to work here again?"
"I don't know. Marco didn't say. But I don't think Santoro sent you here to serve drinks to mobsters." She moved toward the door. "Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone except me or Marco. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Good. There are water bottles in the mini-fridge by the dresser. Some snacks too. The bathroom's stocked with toiletries." She paused at the door. "You're safe here, Amelia. I know it doesn't feel like it. But you are."
The door closed. I heard her footsteps fade.
I sat alone in my new room. My private room. My new room features a queen bed, a dresser, an ensuite bathroom, and clothes that I hadn't bought.
All because Jeremy Santoro had made a phone call.
I should have felt grateful. Should have felt relieved.
Instead, I felt like a prisoner in a gilded cage.
I didn't sleep well that night.
Every sound made me jump. Every creak of the old building settles, every voice from the bar below, every footstep in the hallway.
I kept expecting someone to try the door. Kept expecting Jade or one of the others to burst in, despite Nina's warnings.
But no one came.
Around 2am, the bar finally quieted. The music stopped. The voices faded.
I lay in the dark—which was the same as lying in the light for me—and tried to make sense of everything that had happened.
Four days ago, I'd been on the streets. Homeless. Desperate.
Elena had saved me. Elena had provided me with a secure place to stay. A chance to rebuild.
And Miguel had tried to destroy it all.
Now I was back at Crimson. Back in the world of dangerous men and dangerous business.
But this time was different.
This time, I had protection.
Jeremy Santoro's protection.
I didn't know what that meant. Didn't know what he wanted from me. I didn't know if I should be grateful or terrified.
Maybe both.
I finally drifted off sometime before dawn.
I woke to knocking.
"Amelia? It's Nina. Can I come in?"
I sat up, disoriented. "Yes."
The key turned. Nina entered.
"How'd you sleep?"
"Not well."
"I figured that out." She set something down on the dresser. "Brought you breakfast. Coffee, eggs, toast. Nothing fancy, but it's hot."
My stomach growled despite everything. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten.
"Thank you."
"Come on. Let's get you up and presentable. Marco wants to talk to you."
Anxiety spiked through me. "About what?" I asked nervously.
"About the rules. About what happens next." Nina helped me to my feet. "Don't worry. He's not going to hurt you. But there are things you need to understand about being under Santoro protection."
Twenty minutes later, I was dressed in clean clothes—jeans and a soft sweater that fit surprisingly well—and following Nina downstairs.
The bar was quieter during the day. No music. Just the sound of cleaning—someone wiping down tables, the clink of glasses being washed.
"Amelia." Marco's voice. From his office, I thought.
Nina guided me to a door, knocked once, and led me inside.
"Sit," Marco said.
I found the chair across from what I assumed was his desk. Sat carefully.
"How's the room?" Marco asked.
"It's—it's very nice. Thank you."
"Don't thank me. You should thank Santoro. He's the one paying for it." Papers rustled. "Let's talk about why you're here."
"Okay."
"You're here because Jeremy Santoro called me and told me you needed protection. Said you had information that could put you in danger if the wrong people found you."
Information from the private rooms. Names. Faces I couldn't see, but voices I'd heard.
"I don't want to—I'm not going to tell anyone anything," I said quickly.
"I know. That's why you're valuable. That's why you're still breathing." Marco's voice was matter-of-fact. Not cruel, just honest. "But here's the thing, Amelia. You being here puts me in a difficult position. The other girls are already talking. Asking questions. Wondering why some blind girl gets special treatment."
"I didn't ask for special treatment."
"Doesn't matter. You have it. Which means you need to understand the rules." He shifted in his chair. "Rule one: you don't leave this building without permission. Not until Santoro says it's safe."
"I'm a prisoner?"
"You're protected. There's a difference."
Was there?
"Rule two: you stay away from the private rooms. You're not working here anymore. You're just... staying here. Temporarily."
"What am I supposed to do all day?"
"Whatever you want. Read, rest, whatever. Just stay in your room or the kitchen. Don't go into the main bar area when customers are around."
"And rule three?"
"Rule three: if anyone bothers you—and I mean anyone, customers or girls—you tell me immediately. Santoro made it very clear what happens to people who hurt you." A pause. "He broke Miguel's finger as an example. Just one finger. Before having him taken to a warehouse for the rest."
My stomach turned. "Is Miguel—"
"Dead by now? Probably. Santoro doesn't make empty threats."
A man was dead. Because of me.
"Don't," Marco said, as if reading my mind. "Don't blame yourself. Miguel made his choices. He tried to assault you and tried to sell you out to the Volkovs. He earned what he got."
"The Volkovs?"
"Miguel had gambling debts. Volkov family. They'd offered to clear his debts in exchange for information about Santoro operations. He thought you were his ticket to freedom." Marco's voice hardened. "Instead, you were his death sentence."
I sat there, processing. Miguel hadn't just been trying to hurt me. He'd been trying to betray an entire crime family.
"So now the Volkovs know someone was trying to get information from me," I said slowly.
"Now the Volkovs know someone tried and failed. And that you're under Santoro protection. Which means they'll leave you alone."
"Will they?"
Marco was quiet for a moment. "Probably. The Volkovs and Santoros have an understanding. Mostly. But that's not your problem. Your problem is staying safe until Santoro figures out something more permanent."
"More permanent than this?"
"This is temporary, kid. Santoro can't keep you here forever. Eventually, he'll need to move you somewhere better. Somewhere you can actually have a life." Marco stood. "But for now? This is home. Make the best of it."
Nina guided me back to my room.
As we climbed the stairs, I heard whispers again. The other girls, watching.
"That's her."
"She's got her own room. With a bathroom."
"Santoro's favorite."
"Better not cross her. Marco said—"
"I heard he killed Elena's boyfriend for touching her."
"Santoro or Marco?"
"Does it matter?" a voice said.
The whispers faded as Nina closed my door behind us.
"They're going to hate me," I said quietly.
"They already do. But they're also terrified of you. Or rather, of what happens if they hurt you." Nina squeezed my shoulder. "It's better than the alternative."
Better than being thrown out. Better than being on the streets. Better than being dead.
But still not good.
I was back at Crimson. Protected but trapped. Safe but isolated.
And somewhere in this city, Jeremy Santoro was dealing with the fallout of whatever he'd done to protect me.
I didn't ask for this.
But I had it anyway.
And I had no idea what came next.