Page 10 of Wicked Mafia Beast
I slide out of the booth, my legs steadier than I expected them to be. "Where's the room? The one with the box."
"Now that I’ve had a rethink, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe a wish isn’t the right thing here. Onyx?—"
"Sloane. In five days, I'm standing on an auction block while men bid on my virginity like I'm a prize to be bought and used." I hold her gaze, letting her see every ounce of the determination that's been building in my chest since I heard my father sayfine. "I don't have time to be careful. Careful is a luxury for people who aren't being hunted. Now, where's the room?"
She hesitates, chewing on her bottom lip in a way that tells me she's fighting with herself. Then she sighs and points toward a black curtain at the far end of the lounge, barely visible in the shadows beyond the dance floor.
"Through there. That's the VIP area. The wish room is somewhere past it, behind a red door. I've never been back there myself, but that's what I've heard."
I squeeze her shoulder as I pass, trying to put everything I can't say into the touch. "Thank you. For everything tonight. For believing me."
I grab my laptop bag and swing the strap over my shoulder.
"Just... be smart about what you wish for." Her voice follows me as I step away from the booth. "They take their deals seriously around here. Whatever you offer, you better be ready to deliver."
I weave through the crowd, dodging wandering hands and avoiding eye contact with men who look at me like I'm something to be sampled. The black curtain looms ahead, heavy velvet that swallows light, and I pause at the threshold with my pulse hammering against my ribs.
Beyond this curtain requires a membership. I know this from my research. The Scarlet Thorn has layers, and the deeper you go, the more exclusive and expensive it becomes.
But I don't have time for rules. I don't have time for anything except survival.
I slip through the curtain before anyone can stop me.
The corridor beyond is quieter, the bass fading to a dull throb that I feel more than hear. The lighting shifts from red to something softer, almost amber, like candlelight trapped in glass. Doors line the hallway, all of them closed, all of them hiding secrets I don't have time to uncover.
And at the end, just like Sloane said, is a red door.
I push through it and step into a room that steals my breath.
Candles line the perimeter, their flames dancing against walls painted the deepest black I've ever seen. But swirling through that darkness are streaks of scarlet red that twist and curl across the surface like blood flowing through midnight veins. It's beautiful and terrifying and exactly the kind of place where desperate women come to trade pieces of their souls for a chance at salvation.
At the center of the room, on a pedestal draped in black velvet, sits a box made of dark wood and gold filigree. The wish box gleams in the candlelight like something sacred, something that has witnessed countless desperate prayers and impossible hopes.
A small table beside the box holds a stack of red envelopes and a fountain pen, the materials provided for those who have come to beg for miracles, I assume.
This is it.
I pick up the pen with trembling fingers, and for a moment I just stand there, staring at the blank paper, trying to figure out howto condense my entire desperate situation into words that might make someone want to help me.
What do I have to offer? I think about my research, my files, six months of painstaking evidence gathering that I had to leave behind at my father's house when I went out that window. But I still have information. I still have secrets locked in my head, names and dates and details that could bring the Malone empire crashing down if the right people got hold of them.
And I have one thing my uncle was planning to sell.
I see only one option that will take away all leverage my uncle has on me and give me protection. My virginity for their protection. My secrets for their help. It's a two-fold transaction that holds value even if it is cold and calculating. I learned at my father's knee even if he never meant to teach me. I've been trading pieces of myself to survive my family my whole life. At least this time, I'm the one setting the terms. I'm the one who decides what I'm worth.
I write carefully, my hand steadying with each word as they take shape on the paper:
Take my virginity and grant me protection from my uncle, Seamus Malone. In exchange, I will give you one secret about the Malones for every day you keep me alive.
I fold the paper and slip it into a red envelope from the stack. The slot in the top of the wish box accepts my wish with a whisper of paper against wood, and I watch it disappear into the darkness inside.
Gone. Irrevocable. No taking it back now.
I press my palm flat against the cool surface of the box, feeling the smooth wood and the ridges of gold filigree bite into my skin. My eyes fall closed, and I let myself do something I haven't done in years.
I pray.
Please. Whoever reads these wishes, please let them feel something. Please let them help me. I need someone on my side for once in my miserable life.
