Vicious Promise by M. James
Sofia
Every part of me wants to run back up the stairs and flag down a cab, taking it straight back to the apartment.
Hell, which is apparently the name of the club—a bit too on the nose, in my opinion—is comprised of a huge dance floor, in which latex and leather-clad men and women are writhing against each other all across it, in boots that could crush someone’s head or put their eye out, and more spikes than an entire Hot Topic. It’s a change from the sleek bars and predatory businessmen, at least, but I don’t think these guys are any safer. I hadn’t realized it was possible to feel more out of my element than I do right now.
Ana, on the other hand, looks perfect. With her dress and lips and nails, all crimson and bathed in the red glow coming down from the lights, she looks like the hottest demon I’ve ever seen—like something in a music video. I can see heads turning as she strides towards the black lacquered bar, and I hurry to keep up with her, tottering in my heels.
“You make a perfect pair.”
I nearly leap out of my skin, spinning around to see a tall man in black leather pants and a tight white shirt beneath a leather jacket standing there, his hands shoved casually in his pockets. His hair is very short on top and buzzed at the sides, white blond, and his eyes are startlingly blue.
“What?” I stare at him dumbly. I have to almost shout to be heard above the music.
He nods at Ana. “One dark, one blonde. One in red, one in black. Both beautiful.” I hear the hint of an accent in his voice, something rough, but I’m not sure what it is. German? Dutch? Maybe Russian, but it’s not clear. Even Ana’s accent is thicker than that, and she’s spent most of her life here in the States.
“Thank you,” I say unsteadily. “But I’m not looking for a date—”
He grins. “Who said anything about a date? But let me buy you a drink.”
“No, that’s okay.” I back up, wanting to be closer to Ana. “I’ve got it.”
“I’ll buy you both a drink.” There’s a gleam in his eyes. “Two such beautiful women shouldn’t pay for their own night out.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I’m sure we’re okay.”
“I insist.” He reaches out to lay his credit card on the bar, and the sleeve of his jacket rides up just above his wrist, revealing the edge of a tattoo. I can’t quite see what it is, but it looks like the beginning of an eagle’s head.
Ana glances over at him, and I can see that she’s annoyed. “We don’t need—”
The words die on her lips as she catches a glimpse of his wrist.
Her face goes very pale. “Come on, Sofia,” she says, grabbing my hand.
Before I can say anything, she’s pulling me into the teeming mass of people on the dance floor, moving through them towards the bar on the far side of the club. I glance back once, catching a glimpse of the man’s white-blond hair through the crowd, but I lose sight of him almost immediately as they close around us.
“What’s wrong?” I gasp as we finally make it to the other side of the dance floor. “I thought you liked guys like that. Dominant, kind of pushy—”
“Sure.” Ana’s voice is shaking a little. She turns towards the bar. “Gin and tonic, please, and a double shot of vodka. Top-shelf.”
“Ana, what is it?”
“Stay away from him,” she says, her voice very low. “If you see him again, go the other way. And anyone else that you see with that tattoo.”
I blink at her, confused and scared all at once. “Why?”
“He’s Bratva.” Ana scans the crowd. “Russian mafia.” Her gaze flicks back towards me, and I can see that she’s really, truly frightened. “You don’t want to be noticed by them.”
My stomach flips over. “Shouldn’t we just leave, then?”
“No. He noticed you, for some reason. If we leave, they might follow us. Just act normally, and hopefully they’ll look for some other prey.” Ana smiles brightly, handing me my drink as she tosses back her double shot. “Another, please,” she tells the bartender.
She pulls me back out onto the dance floor, moving in time with the beat as she takes the second shot and drops the glass onto a passing tray. I clutch my own drink in one hand, trying not to spill it on anyone as I attempt to carve out my own space amidst the teeming, sweaty bodies. One man in a Matrix-style trench coat and a spiked collar starts moving in my direction, hips gyrating, and I automatically glance towards his wrists. They’re both bare, but that doesn’t mean I want to let him touch me.
It’s impossible not to be touched by someone out here, though. The club is packed to the max, and I look around, trying to keep an eye out for the tall blond man. But all I can see are dancing bodies, couples pressed up against walls and pillars making out and grinding against one another, and a few professional dancers gyrating against x-shaped crosses leaning against one wall. There’s a black winding stairwell leading up to a second floor, and just off of it, suspended above us, a cage with two barely-dressed female dancers writhing within it. I’m not entirely sure that there’s not more than just dancing going on in there.
I can feel the anxious pit in my stomach growing. If we can’t leave yet, I at least need to get out of the crowd for a minute. “I’m going to the bathroom!” I yell above the music, leaning close to Ana’s ear.
She frowns. “I’ll come with you,” she says, scanning the crowd for an easy path towards the staircase that leads up to the second floor, and the women’s restrooms.
“That’s okay! I’ll just be a minute—”
“We shouldn’t split up.” Ana grabs my hand. “Come on.”
I can smell the perfume and sweat from the dancers in the cage as we hurry up the staircase, heels clicking against the black lacquered floor as we walk quickly towards the bathrooms. The moment we step inside, I feel my heart rate slow a little. The music is muted in here, the air cool, and I sink down onto one of the black velvet benches, breathing in the scent of clove hand soap and cleaner air.
“You don’t actually have to pee, do you?” Ana asks, chewing on her lower lip. “I know it’s overwhelming. I’m sorry, I thought it would be fun.”
“I know.” I lean my head back against the wall. “It’s okay.”
“Well, I really do have to pee. Just wait here, okay?” She slips into one of the stalls, and I close my eyes briefly. Maybe Ana will come back out, and agree to go home. She can be insistent when she wants to do something, but she’s a good friend, and she knows I’m uncomfortable. Maybe enough time has passed since we saw the blond man that—
A heavy pressure descends over my mouth, and the scent of cologne and a man’s skin fill my nose.
My eyes fly open. The tall blond man is standing over me, his hand pressed against my lips, and as I try to open it to scream, he smiles coldly and wags his finger in my face. “Don’t make a sound,” he says in a hushed voice, and now I can hear his accent plainly.
Russian. Bratva, I hear Ana’s voice say in my head, and a chill runs down my spine. Mafia.
“You’re going to come with me,” he continues, leaning down so that his mouth is very close to my ear. “Quickly. Because if you don’t, and your friend steps out of that stall and sees me, I won’t have any choice but to shoot her.”
My gaze flicks down to his waist. I can see the bulge of a gun beneath his jacket, ruining the lines of it. How did I not see it before?
“Now,” he hisses. He grabs my wrist with his other hand, yanking me to my feet and pushing me towards the door, bending my arm behind my back as he keeps his other hand planted firmly over my mouth. “When we walk outside, I’m going to take my hand off of your mouth. You’re going to be very silent, or it will be much worse for you.”
My heart is pounding in my chest as he pushes me out into the hallway, so hard that it hurts. My throat feels closed off, choked, and I’m not even sure that I could scream. But as soon as his hand leaves my mouth, every instinct in my body tells me that’s absolutely what I should do.
The music is loud again, pumping through every inch of the club, drowning everything else out. The man sees my face, and leans close again. “No one will hear you. If they do, they’ll ignore it, if they don’t, I’ll kill them and go back and shoot your friend too. Now go.”
He shoves me towards the exit. I stumble forward, even more clumsy in the heels. “Hurry,” he hisses, and I feel the poke of something in my back. It feels round, like the muzzle of a gun, and my blood runs cold.
The man pushes the exit door open, shoving me out onto the landing at the top of the stairs that lead down to an alley behind the club. The spring air smacks me in the face, warm and fresh and as clean as New York City air ever is, but I can barely breathe. I’m on the verge of tears, but so terrified that I can’t even cry. I feel paralyzed with it.
“Let me take my shoes off. I can’t go down the stairs—”
“You’ll manage. Now go.” The man pushes me forward again, and I cling to the railing as I stumble down, the fear of twisting or breaking my ankle adding to the churning terror in my stomach. If I hurt myself, I won’t even be able to run if I get a chance. My head swims with the gin and tonics I drank tonight, and I wish fervently that I’d stayed home. That I’d turned Ana down like usual.
If I had, would she be the one where I am now? Or did they seek me out, specifically?
I don’t know why anyone would want to kidnap me. Years ago, when I was Giovanni Ferretti’s daughter, maybe, but now I’m just a orphan violinist. I only know a little about what my father did, the kind of people that he worked for, but I can’t see what that has to do with me now.
The money. I think of the zeroes in my bank account, the deposit that shows up every month. Do they know about that, somehow? Are they kidnapping me so that they can force me to pay my own ransom?
There’s a sleek black car idling at the curb. The door opens as we reach it, and the man shoves me towards the car. “Get in,” he says coldly, and I balk. Every woman knows that if you get in the car, your chances of rescue drop dramatically.
I feel the weight of the gun at my back again.
“Get in.”
I don’t want to die. But if they truly want something from me, they’re not going to shoot me until they get it. So I turn around, swallowing back the fear as I feel the gun poke into my belly.
“If you want the money, you can have it,” I say bravely, looking up into the man’s cold blue eyes. “But I’m not getting in the car.”
He curses under his breath in Russian. “Get in the fucking car.”
“No. I won’t—”
“Get in the car, or I go back inside and shoot your friend.”
“No. If you turn around, I’ll run.”
The man lets out a long sigh, and looks over my shoulder. I start to turn my head, to see what he’s looking at, but before I can I feel a burning sensation in my neck.
“What the—”
It takes only seconds before the world starts to blur. The blond man pushes me backwards into the car, and I fall onto the leather seat next to another man dressed all in black, with the same buzzed hair and blue eyes.
The last thing I see before the world goes black is the needle in his hand, and I know exactly what’s happened.
I’ve been drugged.
