Chapter 13 A New Weapon

Amelia

By afternoon, word had spread.

Apparently Jade was limping. Apparently she'd tried to complain to Marco that I'd attacked her with my cane, and he'd laughed in her face.

"How's a blind girl supposed to attack you?" he'd reportedly asked. "She probably just didn't know you were there."

Nina found me in my room and sat down on my bed, amusement clear in her voice.

"Did you really not see her standing there?"

I kept my expression neutral. "How could I? I'm blind."

"Uh-huh." Nina laughed. "Well, whatever happened, Jade's pissed. And half the girls think it's hilarious. The other half are terrified you're going to start swinging that cane around like a weapon."

"I would never," I said innocently.

"Sure you wouldn't." She patted my hand. "Just be careful. Jade holds grudges."

"So do I," I said quietly.

Nina laughed again. "Yeah, I'm starting to figure that out. You're tougher than you look, Amelia."

After she left, I lay back on my bed, satisfied.

It was a small victory. Petty, even.

But it felt good.

For the first time since arriving at Crimson, I felt like I had some power. Some control.

They could mock me. Trip me. Laugh at me.

But I could fight back.

And I would.

That evening, Marco assigned me to room five.

A different customer. 'A regular,' Nina said. The customer was an older gentleman, seeking companionship as he smoked cigars and voiced his grievances about his business partners.

Easy money.

I served him drinks, listened to him ramble, and collected a generous tip when he left after an hour.

No drama. No kissing. No waiting for someone who never showed up.

As I left room five, I heard Jade's voice from down the hall.

"—bet Santoro asked for someone else tonight. Someone better."

I walked past without reacting, my cane tapping confidently.

Let her wonder. Let her gossip.

I had more important things to worry about.

I wondered why a small, traitorous part of me continued to listen for Jeremy Santoro's voice in the bar below.

Kept hoping he'd show up despite everything.

I kept remembering the way his hands had felt on my face—gentle despite the alcohol and the violence he lived with every day.

'Stop it,' I told myself firmly.

He was a customer who didn't show up. That was all.

A mafia heir engaged to someone else. Dangerous. Complicated. Exactly the kind of person I needed to stay away from.

But that night, lying in bed, I couldn't help wondering why he hadn't come.

If he'd regretted requesting me.

If he was thinking about me at all.

Or if I was just another forgettable blind girl in a world full of people who saw right through me.

JEREMY

Three days.

I lasted three days before I broke.

Three days of throwing myself into work, meeting with my father and uncle, reviewing contracts and territory disputes, and all the boring administrative work of running a criminal empire.

Three days of dinners with Victoria where we pretended to be in love while both of us texted other people under the table.

Three days of telling myself I was doing the right thing by staying away from Crimson. From her.

On the fourth day, I broke down and texted Marco: Is she working tonight?

His response: Who?

I didn't dignify that with an answer. He knew exactly who I meant.

A minute later: Yes. Room three. 9pm. The rate remains unchanged from the previous visit.

I shouldn't go.

I should delete the message and forget about her.

But at eight-thirty, I was in my car, telling my driver to take me to Crimson.

Because apparently I was exactly the idiot Victoria had warned me not to be.

AMELIA

"Room three. Nine o'clock. Same customer."

Nina's words made my stomach clench.

He was coming back.

Jeremy Santoro. The heir. The man who'd saved me from the gang war. The man who'd drunkenly kissed me and then requested me specifically only to not show up.

And now he was coming back.

"You okay?" Nina asked, noting my silence.

"Fine," I managed.

"He paid double rate again. And Marco said he specifically wants you. No substitutes."

Great. No pressure.

By eight forty-five, I was dressed and standing in room three, my new cane resting against the wall within easy reach. The familiar scent of whisky lingered in the air, mixing with the jazz music playing softly through hidden speakers.

My palms were sweating.

What did he want? Why had he stayed away for three days only to come back? Was he going to expect me to just... forget about the kiss? Pretend it never happened?

Did he even remember it?

At exactly nine o'clock, the door opened.

I heard his footsteps—measured, deliberate. Different from last time when he'd been stumbling drunk.

The door closed.

Silence.

I could feel him looking at me. Could sense his presence filling the space between us.

"Good evening, sir," I said, keeping my voice professional. "What can I get you to drink?"

"You don't have to call me sir." His voice was clear tonight. Steady. He did not slur his words with alcohol. "Jeremy is fine."

I didn't respond. Didn't move toward the drink cart.

Another pause.

"I..." He seemed to struggle for words. "I owe you an apology."

"For which part?" The question came out sharper than I intended.

"For the last time. I was drunk. I shouldn't have—I had no right to kiss you without permission."

At least he remembered.

"No," I agreed quietly. "You didn't."

"I'm sorry."

I nodded, still not moving. I'm still standing there with my hands clasped in front of me, waiting.

More silence.

"I also apologise for not showing up," he continued. "A few nights ago. You were waiting and I... I should have canceled properly instead of just not coming."

I nod again.

I heard him shift his weight. Uncomfortable, maybe. Good.

"Are you going to say anything?" he asked finally.

"What would you like me to say?"

"I don't know. Something. Anything. You're just standing there."

"I'm working," I said simply. "You paid for my time. I'm here."

"That's not...." He stopped. Started again. "I don't want you to just stand there because you're being paid to."

"Then what do you want?" I say sharply.

The question hung in the air between us.

"I want to talk," he said finally. "Just... talk. Get to know you. If that's okay."

Know me. What did he mean by 'know me'?

Well, I'd been anticipating this moment for days, yet now that he stood before me, panic seized my chest. What had I been thinking? He was a mafia heir—powerful, dangerous, unpredictable. That slap I'd given him before... would he make me pay for it? Would he order someone to teach me a lesson, or worse, handle it himself?

My hands shot up instinctively, a desperate attempt at defence.

The impact was immediate, flesh meeting flesh.

No. No, no, no.

"I'm sorry!" The words tumbled out in a rush, my voice trembling. "I didn't know you were—I didn't mean—"

"Hush. It's fine." His voice was low and controlled.

But I couldn't stop. "I'm so sorry; I swear I didn't—"

Then, something cold and hard pressed against my forehead, silencing me mid-sentence.

Metal. It's unmistakable.

A gun.