Page 30 of Velvet Cruelty

Bobby’s jaw tightens.

“She is fairly whiny,” Doc concedes.

Adriano wipes his face with the back of his hand. “She’ll make a terrible wife, a useless stripper, and a worse prisoner.”

“So we kill her?” I ask. “How is that helpful?”

“It’s helpful because it’s practical. We only took the girl to break Parker. And all your bullshit ideas—having her strip, keeping her as a whore, getting her pregnant—you think any of that will have the same effect as me cutting out her heart and sending it to him?”

No one answers because no one can. All of us return to our food. When I’m finished, I look around the table. Bobby is moodily spooning up ramen and letting it splash into the container. Doc has his head down, clearly scheming, and there’s a hard glint in Adriano’s eyes. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration. Instead, we sit here, entirely divided. It’s my fault. I didn’t intend to take the girl for myself. I’m no stranger to pampered princesses and rarely in the mood to play the dutiful prince. Yet I can’t let the others have her. I know from watching fallen bosses that to assume a prize wanted by everyone in your inner circle is to invite distrust. I will make her mine, but it has to look democratic.

The solution comes to me, bright as a bulb. “We should speak to her about this.”

Everyone looks up.

“You mean tell January what each of us wants for her?” Bobby asks.

“Yes.”

Adriano scowls. “You’ll let the girl choose?”

“We’re in a gridlock and it would be useful to understand what she wants.” And January almost came on my dress shoes. There’s no way she won’t choose me.

“I like it,” Doc says.

I look to Bobby and he nods.

“So, we’re in agreement? Tonight, we drink, tomorrow we talk to January.”

Doc smirks. “How’s Adriano gonna pitch her on getting murdered?”

“He doesn’t have to talk to her.”

“I want to,” Adriano says.

“You will not kill her without my permission.”

His green eyes look poisonous and for a second, I think he’s going to tell me to go fuck myself, but then he inclines his head. “Fine.”

I’m far from reassured but I turn to the others. “I’ll talk to her first.”

“Why?” Doc demands.

I point to the Velluto crest on the wall.

“Fine. But I’m second.”

“Third,” Bobby says, a flush working its way down his neck.

“Then we have a consensus.” I pour out more grappa. “Cards?”

We call downstairs for cigars and brandy. Doc takes over the sound system playing the kind of jolting acid house that sets your teeth on edge. We talk, tell jokes, go over the interesting parts of the abduction and speculate on whether Parker is slitting his own wrists. Doc robs us blind, as he does whenever we play cards. The tension between us melts away and we laugh together, the way we did when we were boys.

And yet there’s another figure hovering by our table, watching silently in her wedding lingerie. I glimpse her in the moments between beats, between hands, between swigs of brandy and puffs of smoke. I feel her there and wonder if she’s sleeping or crying in her cage beneath Velvet House.

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