Chapter 5 Recognition

JEREMY

The whisky burned going down, but not enough.

Nothing was enough tonight.

I poured another three fingers—eighteen-year-old Macallan, $300 a bottle—and watched the amber liquid catch the low light. My father's favorite. The kind he kept in his office for "important occasions."

This qualified. Sort of.

The meeting earlier had been a disaster.

My uncle Antonio had stood in my father's study, that condescending smirk on his face, and lied through his teeth.

"Dominic, I'm worried about Jeremy." Every word dripped with concern, like poison. "During the Volkov situation three days ago, he hesitated. When their soldier was begging for his life, Jeremy couldn't pull the trigger. That's weakness. Dangerous weakness."

It was complete bullshit.

I'd pulled the trigger just fine. Put two in the bastard's chest after he'd shot Mikhail. But Antonio had been elsewhere during the firefight—conveniently—and my father hadn't been there at all.

No witnesses. Just Antonio's word against mine.

"Is this true?" My father had asked in a cold voice.

"No. I handled it."

My dad was not convinced. Then he started, "Antonio says—"

"Antonio wasn't there." I'd kept my voice level, respectful. Even though I wanted to throw Antonio through the wall, I refrained. "Ask Mikhail. Ask Luca. Ask anyone who was actually present."

But the seed was planted. I could see it in my father's eyes. Doubt.

Antonio did this every few months. Whispered poison in my father's ear, questioned my capability, and suggested I wasn't ready to lead. He pretended to be the concerned uncle looking out for family interests.

Really, he just wanted to keep his own power. Wanted to be the one running things when my father eventually stepped down.

"You need to prove yourself, Jeremy," he'd said, that smirk never wavering. "A real Santoro doesn't flinch when blood needs to be spilt."

I'd flinched, all right. But not after killing the Volkov soldier.

It was from seeing the blind girl standing in the middle of the crossfire, shaking, unable to see where to run.

Flashback:

Three days ago. The Volkov ambush.

"They're moving product through our territory," Antonio had told me that morning. "Disrespecting the Family. You're coming with us to send a message."

Six of us against twelve of them. The odds were stacked against us, but our weapons were more effective.

I'd put three down before I saw her.

A girl. A young girl. She stood against a wall with her hands out, clearly blind, clearly lost, and clearly about to die in the crossfire.

"Santoro!" Luca had shouted. "We need you here!"

But I was already moving. I grabbed her, pulled her to safety, and managed to get her out of the kill zone.

When I came back, the fight was over. Three Volkovs down. Mikhail was bleeding from his shoulder but alive.

And Antonio was watching me with calculating eyes.

Later, he'd approached me: "Interesting choice. Saving the civilian instead of finishing the job."

"The job was finished."

"Was it?" That fucking smirk. "Or were you too busy playing hero?"

I'd grabbed him by his expensive suit jacket and slammed him against the wall. "You questioning me, Uncle?"

"Just making observations, nephew." Unfazed. Always unfazed. "Your father will be interested to hear about them."

I'd released him. Walked away before I did something I'd regret.

Two hours later, the Volkov soldier we'd captured started talking under interrogation. Names, routes, suppliers. Everything we needed.

I'd been the one to put him down after. Clean shot to the head. No hesitation.

But Antonio hadn't mentioned that part to my father.

I drained my glass and poured another.

Maybe that was why I'd come to Crimson tonight. Neutral territory where I could drink without Antonio's poisonous presence or my father's increasingly cold assessment.

Marco knew me. He knew when to leave me alone if I needed space.

The door opened.

"Your entertainment for the evening," Marco's voice said from the hallway. "Special, like you requested."

I hadn't requested anything. But Marco always assumed.

"Fine," I muttered without looking up.

Then I heard soft footsteps. The sound of heels clicking against hardwood was loud.

"Good evening, sir." Female. Young. Uncertain. "My name is Amelia. I'll be—"

"Come closer." The alcohol made my words slur slightly. "I want to get a better look at you."

She moved forward. Too carefully. She appeared to be navigating solely by sound.

I poured more whisky, not bothering with precision. Some splashed on the table.

"Marco said you were special," I heard myself say. "Said you were perfect for clients like me. Clients who value discretion."

"Yes, sir."

Close enough now that I could smell her perfume—light, floral, innocent. Too innocent for this place.

"Look at me," I said, finally glancing up.

Beautiful. Dark hair pinned up. The black dress hugged curves that made my drunk mind wander. But her eyes—unfocused. Staring past me.

"I... I can't," she said quietly.

"Why not?"

"I'm blind, sir."

The word hit me like a fist.

Blind.

Memory crashed through the whisky fog.

"Because I'm blind."

The alley. Three days ago. The girl I'd saved.

I stared at her, my brain making connections too slowly.

The voice. The careful movements. The way she held herself, vulnerable yet trying to hide it, was striking.

Cristo.

It was her.

The girl from the firefight was here. In Crimson. Working in Marco's private rooms.

"Blind," I repeated, the word heavy on my tongue.

She nodded.

My mind spun. She was homeless three days ago. Lost and terrified. And now she was here, serving drinks to made men and God knows what else.

I had left her in that alley. Told her to find somewhere safe and walked away.

This was what "safe" had led to.

"Marco said you were perfect," I said again, but the words tasted wrong now. Bitter.

She was standing so close. She was close enough for me to feel her.

My hand moved before I thought about it. Fingers trailing along her jaw.

Soft. Warm. Trembling slightly.

"This is going to be—"

I stopped. Because suddenly all I could think about was the alley. The way she'd felt pressed against me. The way she'd said "thank you" in that small, brave voice.

And now she was here. In this dress. She was present in this room with me.

With me.

The alcohol made everything feel too close and too far away at the same time. Made my control slip.

I should stop. I should admit to Marco that I made a mistake.

Instead, I leaned in.

She smelt like fear and determination. Like survival.

My lips found hers.

She froze. She froze for just a heartbeat.

Then—

The slap cracked across my face hard enough to snap my head sideways.

I stumbled back a step, more from surprise than force.

She'd hit me.

This tiny blind girl had just slapped me across the face.

I should have been angry. In my world, people didn't put hands on a Santoro unless they wanted to lose them.

But all I could do was stare at her.

Her chest heaving. Jaw set. Hands clenched into fists.

Defiant. Terrified. Furious.

'Forte', I thought distantly. Strong.

The kind of strength that came from surviving things that should have broken her.

My face throbbed where she'd hit me.

The room tilted slightly.

I reached for the whisky bottle. Missed. Tried again.

She was saying something. Her lips were moving. But the words slid past me, muffled by the alcohol singing in my veins.

The blind girl from the alley.

I'd kissed her.

She'd slapped me.

At that moment, I was too drunk to take any action regarding either situation.

I should apologize. Should explain. Should—

The leather chair caught me as I sat. Or collapsed. Hard to tell.

"Sir?" Her voice. Concerned now. "Are you—"

The words blurred together.

I closed my eyes.

Just for a moment.

Just to make the room stop spinning.

AMELIA

He'd kissed me.

This drunk stranger in room three had pulled me close and kissed me, and I'd reacted on pure instinct—my hand connecting with his face before I even realised what I was doing.

He passed out.

Relief flooded through me so intensely my knees nearly buckled. I stood there, listening to his steady breathing, trying to calm my own racing pulse.

He was asleep. Drunk and asleep.

I'd slapped a customer on my first night, and he was too drunk to react.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Carefully, I backed toward where I thought the door was, my hands out. I found it and gripped the handle.

I should leave. Should get Nina, tell her what happened, and face whatever consequences were coming.

But as I stood there, my hand on the door, something nagged at me.

His voice.

Even drunk and slurred, there'd been something familiar about it. Something I couldn't quite place.

And the way he'd said "blind"—like the word triggered a memory.

But that was impossible. I'd never met him before tonight.

Had I?

I slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind me.

My first night at Crimson, and I'd already made an enemy of a customer.

'She won't last a week,' Jade's voice echoed in my mind.

Maybe she was right.