Chapter 3 A Room

AMELIA

Marco's bar was in a part of the city that felt different even before I walked through the door.

The sounds were sharper here: music with heavy bass bleeding from multiple buildings; raised voices that carried threats, not just volume; cars that drove too fast, tires squealing around corners as if the drivers were running from something. Or chasing it.

This wasn't a neighbourhood where lovely families lived. This was predator territory.

The bar itself was called Crimson. I knew this because when I asked a man outside if this was Marco's place, he'd laughed—a sound with no humor in it.

"Depends who's asking," he'd said, his voice like gravel over broken glass.

"Sheila sent me. I'm looking for work."

The laughter stopped. "Sheila, huh?" I heard the click of a lighter and smelled cigarette smoke. "Wait here."

I stood on the sidewalk, my heart hammering. This was a mistake. I should leave. Find somewhere else, anywhere else.

But where? I'd tried everywhere else.

A door opened. Not the one I'd come to, but somewhere to my right. Heavy footsteps.

"Boss says come in." Different voice. Deeper. "This way."

A hand gripped my elbow—not rough, but not gentle either. Guiding me, or controlling me; it was hard to tell the difference.

We went through a door. The smell hit immediately—cigar smoke, expensive liquor, and underneath it all, something sharper: fear, maybe, or just the scent of bad decisions.

"Careful. Two steps down," he said, still guiding me.

I navigated them, my free hand reaching for a wall that wasn't there—or perhaps, that I couldn't find.

The music was different inside. Not the pounding bass from outside, but something slower. Jazz, maybe. The kind that played in movies about gangsters.

"Marco," the man called out. "Package from Sheila."

Package. Like I was a delivery.

Marco's footsteps approached—measured, unhurried. A man's voice spoke near me, accented. Italian, definitely.

"Sheila sent you?" Not a question. A test.

"Yes, sir."

"You looking for work?"

"Yes, sir."

"You ever worked a bar before?"

"No, but—"

"Look at me when I'm talking to you." The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

My stomach dropped with it. "I can't."

"Excuse me?" he said softly and dangerously.

"I can't look at you, sir. I'm blind."

There was a silence... The kind that preceded violence.

Then Marco laughed—a short bark of genuine surprise. "Blind. Porca miseria." He moved closer. I could smell his cologne and cigar smoke. "You're blind, and Sheila sent you here? To Crimson?"

"She said you were hiring."

"I'm always hiring. Question is whether you can do the work." A pause. "You know what kind of establishment this is?"

"A bar."

"A bar." He repeated it as if I'd said something amusing. "Yeah. Sure. A bar." His voice hardened."This is neutral territory, girl. Santoros drink here. Volkovs drink here. Castellanos, Moranos, and every Family in the city drink here because I don't take sides, and I don't ask questions. You understand what that means?"

Not really, but I nodded anyway.

"It means the men who come here—especially to the private rooms—they're not accountants. They're not lawyers. Well, some are lawyers, but not the kind you want to meet." He exhaled smoke. "They're dangerous men doing dangerous business, and they pay for privacy. Complete privacy."

"I understand."

"Do you?" He circled me. I could track him by sound. "You're blind. You can't see faces. Can't identify anyone who walks through that door. Can't describe them to cops or rivals or anyone else." He stopped in front of me. "That makes you valuable, sweetheart. Very valuable."

My disability as currency—the thought made me want to vomit.

"What would I have to do?" I asked.

"Serve drinks in private rooms. Listen if they want to talk. Keep your mouth shut about everything you hear. And I mean everything." His voice dropped. "You repeat one word of what you hear in those rooms, you won't have to worry about being blind. You'll be dead."

Not a threat. A fact.

"Some of them want more than drinks and conversation," Marco continued. "That's your call. I don't force my girls. But the ones who are... flexible... they make better money. A lot better."

"And if I say no?"

"Then you say no. They might get upset. They might complain. But that's my problem, not yours." He moved away. "You willing to work here? Knowing what you know?"

Was I? This was worse than I'd imagined. Serving criminals. Listening to God knows what. Possibly being propositioned for things I'd never even considered—

But what choice did I have?

"I need a place to stay," I said. "Do you provide that?"

Marco laughed again. "Smart girl. Yeah, I've got a room upstairs. Small, but it's yours. Rent comes out of your pay."

"How much?" I asked, already feeling a spark of excitement.

"Depends on how much you make. You do well; I take less. You don't; I take more. Incentive to keep the customers happy."

A room. Shelter. Safety, or the closest thing to it I was going to find.

"Okay," I whispered. "I'll do it."

"Good. What's your name?"

"Amelia."

"Amelia. Welcome to Crimson." He snapped his fingers. "Nina!"

A woman's voice, hard-edged and tired. "Yeah, boss?"

"Take her upstairs. Get her settled. She starts tonight."

"Tonight?" Nina sounded skeptical. "She's not ready—"

"She's ready enough. Show her the layout, get her presentable. I have a client coming at nine who specifically requested a discreet person."

"Fine." Nina's hand found my elbow. "Come on."

Nina led me through the bar without speaking. I could hear conversations—low, serious, occasionally punctuated by laughter that sounded forced. Glasses clinking. The slide of poker chips.

"Stairs," Nina said. "Twelve of them. Try not to fall."

I climbed carefully, counting. At the top, she pulled me along a hallway.

"Four doors. They include a storage room, a bathroom, and this room is yours. Don't go in the storage rooms. Marco doesn't like people poking around."

"What's in there?" I asked her.

"Things you don't want to see. Even if you could see."

She opened a door—the fourth one. Pushed me inside.

"Bed is to the left, the dresser is in the center, and the window is to the right. The bathroom's down the hall. Lock your door at night. Always."

"Why?" I asked, now feeling confused.

"Because some of the girls have light fingers. And some of the customers get confused about which room is which." She moved to the closet. "There's a dress in here. Black. You'll wear it tonight. I'll be back in two hours to do your makeup."

"Nina—"

"Save your questions. You'll figure it out fast enough." Her hand gripped my shoulder—hard enough to hurt. "And Amelia? Whatever you hear in those private rooms? Whatever they say? You didn't hear it. Understand?"

"Yes."

"I'm serious. The men who come here, they don't forgive loose lips. Marco might not force you to do anything, but he can't protect you if you make yourself a target."

"I understand."

"Good." She released me. "Get some rest. You're going to need it."

The door closed.

I stood in my new room—ten feet by ten feet of safety purchased with the promise of serving criminals—and wondered how I'd gotten here.

Four days ago, I'd been at St. Mary's: safe, bored, waiting to age out.

Now I was in a bar run by a man who casually mentioned death threats, about to serve drinks to mobsters who might want more than drinks.

I sat on the bed. The mattress was thin but better than concrete. The sheets smelled like industrial detergent.

This was survival. Not pretty, not noble, not the future Mrs Thomas had hoped for me.

But I was alive. I had a room. I had a job.

And maybe, if I was smart and careful and very, very lucky, I could keep it that way.

I lay back and stared at the ceiling I couldn't see.

Somewhere below, music played. Men talked. Deals were made.

And I was part of that world now.

Whether I wanted to be or not.