Page 23 of Dirty Game

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."

Paulie's hand squeezes my thigh, and I can't breathe.

I can't move.

I'm frozen like I used to freeze when Marco would come into my room drunk, when Uncle Enzo would let his creditors get too close.

"Maybe we should test that," Luigi suggests. "See how well-trained she really is. Bane's been gone for five minutes. We could?—"

The sound of impact cuts him off.

Varrick's hand is on the back of Luigi's head, having slammed his face into his dinner plate with enough force to shatter the porcelain.

Blood pours from his nose, mixing with the pasta sauce in a grotesque painting.

The man tries to rise, but Varrick's hand keeps him pinned, grinding his broken face into the mess.

"Say another word about her," Varrick's voice is soft, pleasant even. "Please. Give me an excuse."

Paulie's hand disappears from my thigh so fast he knocks over his wine.

The red spreads across the white tablecloth like blood.

The restaurant has gone silent.

Even the waiters have frozen, recognizing the moment before violence truly erupts.

"It was just talk," Paulie says carefully, hands raised in surrender. "We didn't mean?—"

"You meanteveryword." Varrick releases Luigi, who collapses back in his chair, clutching his destroyed nose. "And you touched her."

"I didn't?—"

Varrick's hand shoots out, grabs Paulie's wrist—the hand that was on my thigh.

The crack of breaking bone is loud in the silence.

Paulie screams.