Page 5 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

CHAPTER THREE

Rosalynn

The dress feels like wearing someone else's skin.

Silk the color of midnight pools against my body in ways my clothes never have, clinging to curves I've spent years hiding under shapeless cardigans and loose fabric.

The neckline dips low enough to make me constantly want to tug it up, but not low enough to be indecent.

It's elegant. Expensive.

Nothing like the ugly, practical things Uncle Enzo made me wear to "avoid drawing attention."

"Stop fidgeting," Varrick says without looking at me.

We're in the back of his car, Jensen driving us through Vancouver's glittering downtown.

I force my hands to still in my lap, but I can't stop being aware of the dress, of how different I look in the tinted window's reflection.

My hair is pinned up, exposing my neck.

Maria spent an hour on my makeup, transforming me into someone I don't recognize.

"I look like?—"

"You look like you belong to me," he cuts me off, finally turning to assess his investment.

His eyes track from my heels to my face with clinical precision. "Which is the point."

The car stops outside The Broken Crown, a restaurant that doesn't advertise, doesn't take reservations unless you're somebody, and definitely doesn't let people like me through its doors.

Unless you're owned by someone like Varrick Bane.

"Business dinner," he'd told me this morning. "You'll sit, you'll smile, you'll say nothing unless directly asked. Can you do that?"

I'd nodded. I've been practicing silence my whole life.

Jensen opens the door, and Varrick exits first, then offers me his hand.

The gesture looks gentlemanly to anyone watching, but his grip tells me this isn't a request.

I take his hand, let him help me from the car, and try not to think about how his fingers feel against mine.

The Broken Crown's interior is all dark wood and candlelight, intimate booths designed for conversations that shape the city's underworld.

Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across tables where men decide who lives and dies over dessert.

The ma?tre d' doesn't ask for Varrick's name, just leads us deeper into the restaurant's belly.

Our table is in a private section, behind a curtain of black velvet that muffles sound.

I recognize the faces already seated.

The Corsini brothers—Paulie with his perfectly groomed beard and dead shark eyes, his younger brother Luigi, who keeps licking his lips when he looks at me.

The Petrova syndicate's leadership—Viktor and his son Alexei, both built like mountains and twice as cold.

Two men I don't know directly but whose scarred knuckles and flat gazes mark them as killers.

And they all look at me like they know exactly what I am.

"Bane." Paulie Corsini rises, extends a hand that Varrick doesn't take. The insult hangs in the air like smoke. "And this must be the Lombardi payment."

Payment.

Not girl, not woman. Payment.

I keep my eyes down, the way I learned when Uncle Enzo would parade me in front of his creditors.

Don't make eye contact.

Don't speak.

Don't exist except as proof of the debt being paid.

"Rosalynn," Varrick says, pulling out my chair. "Sit."

I sit.

The conversation begins with territories and shipments, but I feel their attention sliding to me like oil.

One of the unnamed men—scarred face, Russian accent—keeps staring at my chest.

Luigi Corsini is watching my hands, probably imagining them doing things I don't even have words for.

"The Irish are pushing again on the south side," Viktor says, his thick accent making the words sound like threats. "They think because you've been distracted lately, territory is up for grabs."

"Distracted?" Varrick's voice is mild, dangerous.

"Well." Paulie gestures to me with his wine glass. "You did spend six million on a piece of ass. That's the kind of expense that makes people wonder about your priorities."

The other men chuckle.

Under the table, I dig my nails into my palms.

"Though I understand the appeal," Paulie continues, his eyes crawling over me like hands. "Virgin pussy always costs more. Supply and demand."

"Is she though?" This from the scarred Russian. "Virgin, I mean. Enzo could have lied. Wouldn't be the first time a Lombardi dealt in false goods."

"Should we check?" Luigi suggests with a laugh that makes bile rise in my throat. "Could bend her over the table right now, see if she bleeds."

I stare at my plate—duck confit I haven't touched, sauce congealing into something that looks like blood.

This is familiar.

Uncle Enzo's poker games where they'd discuss my virginity like a stock price.

My brother Marco describing in graphic detail what he thought would happen when I was finally sold.

I've been reduced to parts before—mouth, breasts, the space between my legs that supposedly holds all my value.

"Heard the Lombardi debt was substantial," Viktor says, swirling his vodka. "Six million is a lot to pay for an untouched cunt."

"Unless she's got a golden one," the second unnamed man adds. "Or maybe Bane just likes them scared. Virgins always cry the first time."

"The crying is the best part," Luigi agrees. "That moment when they realize it's going to hurt no matter how gentle you pretend to be."

My stomach churns.

The smell of duck fat is making me nauseous.

"Though I suppose you're getting your money's worth nightly," Paulie adds, leaning back in his chair. "Italian women are always eager once you break them in properly. All that Catholic guilt makes them wild once you get past the virgin act."

"How many nights did it take?" Alexei Petrov asks Varrick directly. "To break her in? My father had a virgin once, took him a week before she stopped crying every time."

"Maybe he's taking his time," the scarred Russian suggests. "Some men like to draw it out. A finger one night, two the next. Make them beg for it by the end."

They're all watching me now, waiting to see if I'll react.

If I'll cry or beg or do something that confirms what they think I am.

But I've had years of practice at this—going somewhere else in my mind while men discuss using my body like I'm not sitting right here.

"My nephew had his eye on her, you know," Paulie says, and I know he means Tommy Fitzgerald even though Tommy wasn't really his nephew, just someone who worked for them.

"Before the uncle offered her up. Said she was pretty enough once you got past the frigid act.

Shame about his heart attack. Would have loved to see who she would have picked—Tommy or Bane. "

"There wouldn't have been a choice." Viktor laughs. "Enzo would have sold her to whoever paid more. That's what Lombardis do—sell anything, including family."

"Speaking of family," Luigi leans forward, eyes glittering with malice, "how's your brother, sweetheart? Marco, right? Heard he's got interesting tastes. Did he ever sample the goods before Uncle Enzo put you on the market?"

I flinch.

I can't help it.

The cigarette burns on my wrist throb with phantom pain.

"Oh, he did something." Paulie notices my reaction. "Look at that. The little mouse has secrets."

Little mouse… only Varrick calls me that.

"Bet Marco taught her things," the scarred Russian says. "Brothers always teach their sisters things in families like that. How to keep quiet. How to be still. How to take it without complaining."

"Is that what you're good at?" Luigi asks me directly. "Taking it without complaining? Is that why Bane paid so much?"

Varrick still hasn't said anything.

He's drinking his whiskey, watching them circle me like vultures, and I don't understand why he's letting this happen.

Unless this is part of it—part of showing them what I am, what he owns.

"Maybe when you're done with her—" Paulie starts.

"I need to make a call." Varrick stands abruptly.

He looks down at me, and something in his expression makes my stomach flip.

It's not indifference.

It's something else, something controlled and calculating. "Don't move."

He walks away, phone already at his ear, leaving me alone with the wolves.

The moment he's out of sight, they close in.

Paulie actually moves to Varrick's empty chair, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and cloying that makes me want to gag.

"So tell me, sweetness," he says, wine sour on his breath. "Does he make you call him daddy when he fucks you? Or does he prefer you crying about your uncle's debt while he collects interest between your legs?"

I stare at my hands folded in my lap.

My nails are painted red—Maria's choice.

They look like drops of blood against the midnight silk.

"Bet she doesn't even participate," Luigi says from my other side, boxing me in. "Probably just lies there like a corpse. Virgins never know what to do."

"That's what mouths are for," Viktor suggests. "Train them with that first. Though from how quiet she is, I doubt she's good at that either."

"The quiet ones are always surprising," the scarred Russian disagrees. "It's the ones who never talk who scream the loudest when you hurt them just right."

"Is that true, little mouse?" Paulie reaches out like he's going to touch my face, and I lean back as far as I can without getting up. "Do you scream for him?"

"Bet she bleeds pretty," Alexei says. "Pale girls like this, you can see every bruise. Like a canvas."

"Bane certainly paid enough for the privilege of painting her," Viktor adds. "Six million to pop a cherry. Must be made of gold."

They laugh.

The sound echoes in my skull, mixing with every other time men have laughed at me, about me, over me.

"Maybe he'll share once the novelty wears off," Paulie suggests, his hand dropping to my thigh over the dress. I go rigid. "I'd pay good money for a turn. Always wanted to fuck the fight out of a Lombardi woman."

"From what I hear, there's no fight left in this one." This from the second unnamed man. "Enzo said she was properly trained. Knows her place. Quiet as a mouse, but would spread her legs on command, and he doubted she would complain no matter what you do to her."