The Blood Debt

Chapter 6

Ayla

The sound of a saxophone floats upward as we head downstairs. It's something I've never heard before and it makes me wonder if the apartment is soundproofed. The melody is raw and sultry and it distracts me from the fact that I'm feeling so self-conscious in the dress Roman has me wearing.

"This is a jazz club?" I ask, sounding more surprised than I want to.

"Yeah," he says, as he pushes through the double doors of a commercial kitchen. There are people everywhere, working in a kind of synchronised chaos. They don't even stop to give us a second glance.

He weaves through the steady stream of staff with ease, but he's impossible to keep up with, even with the four extra inches I have on my usual five-feet-five. When he pushes through a second set of doors I stop momentarily making Roman turn back to look at me. My surprise is evident by the way my mouth drops as I take in the view.

"This is a jazz club?" I ask for the second time in so many minutes.

There's not an empty table in sight. All the wait staff are female, and they're wearing nothing from the waist up.

Roman turns around to face me, ignoring my question as he eyes me like I'm something he's going to eat for dinner.

"Stand up straight," he says, sounding irritated.

I'm not slouching.

"Shoulders back Vengeance."

Oh no! I'm not pushing my boobs out. There's way too much of them on display as it is.

"Hold your head up," he tells me, eyeing me with an interest that makes me all the more self conscious.

I take a deep breath and look him straight in the eye, doing my best impersonation of a woman who has the confidence to pull this dress off.

"That's better," he says, finally sounding satisfied.

"I have a meeting with Cosa Nostra tonight. Do you know who they are?" he asks, his eyes lingering on my face.

"A band?" I say, raising an eyebrow.

He actually thinks I'm serious for a moment, but then I smile and he knows I was trying to be funny. I've been out of my box for all but five minutes and I already feel alive again.

He makes me regret it instantly when he grabs my upper arm and pins me against the wall in full view of everyone.

"You think you're funny?" he asks, brushing the pad of his thumb across my jaw as his eyes move down my body.

I don't dare answer him, because his voice has taken on that low drawl, the one that tells me I've activated his psychotic mode.

His hand slides up my skirt and over my butt, brushing over my bare cheeks because Dallas said I needed to wear a thong and not my grammy panties under the dress.

"So you're a comedian now?" he asks, his voice tight with irritation.

His piercing gaze and wandering hands turn my bones to liquid. I'm frozen with fear and I don't dare move when his hand glides south. An involuntary squirm escapes me.

"Do you know what the Cosa Nostra is famous for? Huh Vengeance?" he asks, waiting, like I can actually answer him while I'm holding my breath.

I turn scarlet with embarrassment.

"It's prostitution Vengeance," he says, dropping his hand, "so maybe remember that and don't draw too much attention to yourself at the table tonight," he says, before readjusting my skirt.