Page 4 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

Chapter Three

EDIE

Luka toys with his glass, fingers moving with the sort of graceful precision that could turn to lethal strength at any moment. Faded scars crisscross the knuckles of his rough, weathered hands, and veins run along the backs like raw power.

He is another species from the college boys I’m used to with their pampered hands and recycled hot takes on Marvel movies and craft beer.

He wears a bracelet of wooden beads on his left wrist, and a tattoo peeks out from beneath the shirt cuff on his right; I can see a bird’s wing, some roses, and part of a sword.

It’s most likely a two-headed eagle. I know from my medieval studies that the Albanians love the two-headed eagle. It’s on their flag, their products, and a lot of their clothes.

The chat moves on. I take my mental notes, trying not to look too hard at Luka or his hands.

Sometime later he takes off his jacket and turns up his shirtsleeves, revealing a few extra inches of his muscular forearms, and that’s when I see it—the full tattoo.

It’s not the two-headed eagle I expected from an Albanian mob guy. No, Luka has a one-headed eagle with an extra talon .

I blink, stunned. I know that symbol from my medieval symbology class. It’s Prince Arianiti’s eagle.

Arianiti was a 15th-century badass who led uprisings against overwhelming odds. He was underappreciated and never given his due but kept fighting anyway.

He was all about resilience and resistance, which resonated with me during one of my hardest semesters. I was constantly choosing between books and food and dealing with my mom’s drinking and criticism about “wasting money on school.” That defiant eagle carried me through.

I look away, unfolding my napkin and folding it up again.

Arianiti’s eagle. So weird.

But what of it? So the asshole has a cool tattoo. He probably doesn’t even know what it means.

I force myself to tune back into the conversation.

Dardan is arguing with the man named Cyrus about what date Wednesday was, and suddenly, everybody’s arguing.

I want to blurt out the right answer or tell them to look at their phones, for fuck’s sake, but I’m not supposed to draw attention to myself.

Luka observes, though, silent as a sphinx. Does he know the date? Of course, he knows the date, but he doesn’t say it for whatever reason.

Never mind. Just over two more hours to go, and then I’m gone.

Luka and the guys start talking about the Knicks while the women stay quiet. I’m staring down at the table, listening, willing myself to be invisible and trying to ignore Dardan’s leg, which is suddenly pressing more against mine.

I check the time. Is the clock even moving?

Luka shows a slight interest in the problems of somebody named Zedd, and now everybody is falling all over themselves to tell him what they know about Zedd’s corner guy getting robbed, desperate for Luka’s approval. The theory seems to be that a rival gang was behind the robbery .

Criminals stealing from criminals.

I amuse myself by imagining the great Luka in an orange jumpsuit. That’s what he should be wearing. Not whatever cashmere Italian suit he has on, sitting there all larger than life like a runway model fresh from a designer’s evil fashion show.

With a tattoo that he doesn’t even understand the coolness of.

Sometimes, I think I feel the intensity of his gaze turned back on me, but then I think I imagine it. Either way, I try not to look at him. I’m barely even here—that’s how intensely I’m willing myself to be invisible.

And so what if he does see through me a little bit? So what if he’s somehow figured out that I’m not actually an experienced hooker? I doubt I’m the first impoverished woman to try her hand at sex work.

They’re still on the thing with Zedd. Luka has questions. He wants the corner guy brought to him, and no, he doesn’t care that the corner guy turns out to be fourteen and it’s the middle of the night.

Luka takes one of the guys’ phones and puts something in, and then he takes Dardan’s phone and does the same. I don’t look at the numbers he’s punching in. Some protective instinct is telling me I don’t want to know.

My own phone is at the ready, and in two hours and fifteen minutes, Bender will call with a supposed family emergency to get me out.

And I’ll never have to be near these hateful criminals again.