Boston Avant-Garde 4: Encore (25 page)

The politician and three of his friends were seated at a low-slung trestle table on benches that looked as if they’d been rescued from the church’s original days in the old colonial times. The floor was scattered with woven mats, and candles flickered on every available surface.

The room itself was stone. Stone floors, stone walls, and only one yellowed window covered in iron bars that didn’t show a smidge of outside light. There was air moving through from somewhere, because they hadn’t suffocated yet. Not that Suri would have minded if the men suffocated. In fact, the world might have been a better place had they all died in one way or another.

“Where did you find this one, Eagan? She’s got a great ass and pretty tits.” The shortest one with the bald spot and a flat nose groped her backside for the millionth time that night.

Suri told herself she didn’t care. She was trying desperately to think of a way to make sure Flaherty kept his word. She was playing his game because she wanted the prize. Her lovers’ lives were on the line. Surely that was worth a few ass grabs?

“Enough dancing for now. Get us more ale, whore!” Flaherty lifted his mug.

She poured Flaherty’s drink, which smelled awful, and maneuvered out of Shorty’s groping range. Trying to dodge one set of hands, she opened herself to another. The third man, a decent-looking guy who spent way too much time discussing cruel methods of having sex, pulled her into his lap.

“I’ve been waiting all night to feel your ass against my cock,” he purred in her ear. “Tell me you like it.”

Bile rose in Suri’s mouth. She swallowed it back and prayed Flaherty was feeling possessive. “I belong to him for the evening. So I suppose that’s his call.”

Flaherty’s laugh did not improve her feelings about the situation. “As long as I get to watch, I think it sounds reasonable.”

Suri’s captor raked her skirts up above her knees. His fingers dug into her thighs. Panic began to swell, and she wondered why she’d ever put herself in such a fundamentally stupid situation. “This wasn’t part of the bargain, Flaherty.”

“Oh, I see.” Cruel Guy reached for his wallet and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. When he tossed it on the table, Suri knew it was over. “You want compensation? I think that’ll cover the cost of inflation from the sixteenth century to now. Although I hear you sell yourself pretty cheaply anyway.”

Shorty and Flaherty laughed. The noise echoed around the room, and Suri’s ears began to ring. Her heart thumped wildly. She couldn’t let them rape her. What was with her lately? It seemed like she was constantly sticking herself in awkward situations where someone was determined to force her into having sex. She was done being a victim.

“Spread her legs. I want to see her pussy.” Shorty started rubbing his crotch. Since they were dressed in period costumes like hers, his thin, homespun pants gave him an uncomfortable amount of easy access to his genitals.

Suri struggled to master her fear. “So you’re already changing the deal,
Congressman
. Obviously, your word is worthless.” She tried to put more steel than desperation in her tone. “I guess I can assume you never intended to keep your part of our bargain.”

Flaherty’s look of self-satisfaction sent a wave of cold fear through her system. “I suppose I didn’t.”

“Then I don’t suppose I need to keep my part of the bargain either, you piece of crap.” Fury made her brave. “Can’t wait to tell every voter in this city what you’re really like. I’m pretty sure I can get every blonde inside Asylum to pitch in for the YouTube video.”

The hatred on his face was the first clue she’d gone too far. “I’ll sell Dante’s identity to every Islamic hate group in Iran. He’ll be dead in forty-eight hours.”

“Better we take our chances with them than your lying carcass.”

Flaherty nodded to the man holding Suri. “She’s all yours. Make her scream.”

Suri struggled against Cruel Guy’s arms, but he held her tight against his chest. Shorty wrenched her legs apart. Adrenaline spiked in her blood, and she tried again. Shorty shoved her skirts out of the way to probe between her legs. She stretched her arm, trying to reach anything that might give her an edge. Years of playing cello had made her muscles far stronger and suppler than the average woman’s.

Her fingers brushed against something hard on the table. She put everything she had into one last effort, fingers closing around the handle of a mug. Slinging it upward, she clocked her captor on the side of the head.

It was a glancing blow but enough to knock him out of action for a moment. Suri didn’t waste time. Leaping up, she grabbed the pitcher and slammed it down on Shorty’s head. He hit the floor with a thud and didn’t get back up.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Flaherty stumbled out of his chair.

Her clay pitcher had shattered. The handle was all she had left. Brandishing it like a weapon, she swung it at Cruel Guy. Still dazed from being clocked with the mug, he didn’t move fast enough.

Blood spurted from his cheek. He grabbed his face and shouted. In the confusion, Suri made a dash for the door. It was locked. Slamming her fists against the wood, she hoped there was someone to hear.

“I’m going to kill you, whore.” Flaherty’s voice shook with anger. “One piece at a time, after I let every one of my friends fuck you. Do you hear me?”

He was coming closer. The sound of his breathing filled the room. More determined than ever, Suri started yelling as she pounded on the door.

Waiting for Jericho was pure torture. But Dante knew his friend was right. Storming inside Club Triptych with nothing but his dick in his hand would have been pointless. Like Asylum, the place was a fortress. There was no doubt the owner took her responsibility of protecting client confidentiality seriously. Her staff would have strung him up as soon as he crossed the threshold into their territory.

Diplomacy wouldn’t do much good either. Seraphina de Medici owned Triptych. She had a dislike of men, and Dante in particular. The two were in agreement regarding the violation of their club rules. They and a handful of other owners along the Eastern Seaboard used that as the leverage to force their customers into compliance. The threat of being barred from any club offering their brand of entertainment was a strong motivator. Beyond that, Seraphina would have happily let any woman who held Dante’s interest rot in hell just to spite him.

Jericho’s truck rumbled to a halt beside Dante’s car. His partner didn’t waste time. He was out of the vehicle and halfway to the back entrance before Dante could move.

“Did you call ahead?” Dante asked when he drew even with Jericho’s long strides.

“This isn’t takeout. I didn’t want to give him a chance to say no.”

Dante distastefully eyed the man leaning arrogantly against the building. Malachi ranked in the top five people Dante would have liked to throw into Boston Harbor.

“Wondered when I’d see you tonight.” Malachi looked pointedly at Jericho. The blatant slight made Dante grind his teeth in agitation.

“Now why is that?” Jericho’s voice betrayed not one ounce of emotion. “You can’t possibly be insinuating that you would allow a woman into the Underground knowing she belonged to us.”

Malachi looked between them with renewed interest. “Us, is it? Interesting.”

“Cut the crap, Malachi,” Dante spat. “Let us in.”

“I don’t think Seraph would appreciate that, Dante. She’s real particular about who gets in. Especially to the Underground. The two of you aren’t exactly members of the BDSM scene.”

Dante was ready to leap in and ram the bastard’s sunglasses down his throat. With the barest shake of his head, Jericho asked him to stand down. He didn’t like it, but Dante let his partner take the lead.

“I can’t imagine Flaherty is a member of the community either. He must have some serious pull with Seraph. I didn’t think Triptych catered to rapists.”

“Define rape.” Malachi shifted on the wall. “She went willingly. I gave her more than one opportunity to back out. Sassy bit of goods, actually. I like her. Figured I might see if she was up for a quick fuck if she lives through Flaherty’s party.”

“Glad to know you’re getting faster with the chains and ball gags, but Suri’s not the submissive type.” Dante was ready to rip Malachi apart.

Jericho’s calm demeanor didn’t waver. “Why don’t we call Senator O’Callaghan and ask him what his definition of rape is.”

Malachi shoved his glasses up onto his head. “Why?”

“Because she’s his daughter.”

Dante knew Jericho had played their trump card. But it was still up to Malachi to decide how he’d handle it. The bouncer had been Seraph’s right-hand man since she’d bought Triptych—around the same time Dante had opened Asylum. In sharp contrast to the close relationship between Dante and Jericho, Malachi hated his boss. What nobody could figure out was what she had on him to anchor his loyalty to her so fiercely.

“Surely Seraph doesn’t want to piss off a senator who still has a strong chance at winning this week’s election.” Jericho’s argument was nothing if not reasonable.

Malachi started grumbling beneath his breath. When he finally went downstairs and pulled a key off the chain he wore around his neck, Dante knew they were in. In, but not to the end of the ordeal. Not yet.

“Come on in, gentleman. Let’s see if we can locate your little package.” Malachi stepped aside to let them by before locking the door behind them all.

Dante hated the close quarters. Seraph’s club was gritty where Dante’s was elegant. Even Asylum’s holding cells weren’t this dank and disgusting. “Did your cleaning lady quit, Malachi? Or is her corpse what I’m smelling?”

“Oh, excuse me. Do you need me to shove an air freshener up your ass?” Malachi led the way through the maze. In three seconds, Dante was hopelessly lost. He had visions of finding Suri wounded and having to guess his way through the labyrinth to get help.

Jericho paced quietly behind Dante. His silence wasn’t hesitation. Dante knew when it was over and they needed out, Jericho would lead like a GPS tracker.

After travelling what felt like miles, they stopped dead in the middle of a corridor. Malachi’s confident demeanor shifted, his body going stiff as he began to walk in long, quick strides.

“What’s wrong?” Dante had to stretch his legs to keep up.

Malachi broke into a jog. “You don’t hear it?”

“I do.” Jericho left them both behind.

An open door became visible on the right side of the corridor. Malachi ducked inside. Dante’s stomach clenched when he saw one man unconscious on the floor and another rolling around, moaning and clutching his face. At least he’d been the one making the noise they’d heard down the hall.

Malachi slid his phone from his pocket. “Give me medical down in the Underground, now. Client down.”

Dante entered the room, taking in the table covered in somebody’s idea of a medieval feast. There was a ramshackle bed at the far end of the room. His stomach clenched in disgust, but he noted that the linens were still smooth and neatly tucked.

Clay shards from a pitcher littered the floor, and a broken mug leaked ale across the table. He knew deep down Suri had made the mess in her bid for freedom. If they could just find her!

He met Jericho’s hard gaze. There would be hell to pay when they found her.

“Just leave him alive.” Malachi didn’t look up from pressing a piece of cloth to the wounded man’s face. “Seraph will kill me if he dies. No matter what he’s done.”

“He’ll be breathing.” Jericho’s voice was grim. “That’s all I’ll promise.”

JERICHO COULDN’T AFFORD to think beyond the moment. If he did, he risked coming apart at the seams and destroying anything he came in contact with. Fury swept his system and narrowed his focus to one thing—finding Suri. Nothing else mattered.

Dante brought up the rear as Jericho stalked back down the hallway. He paused at the fork, going back the way they had come. He walked quickly, straining to catch the sound of Suri holding her own somewhere in Seraph’s underground hell.

He let instinct take over. He knew her, knew she was strong. She’d made a disastrous decision to meet Flaherty here at Triptych, but she hadn’t allowed herself to become a victim. She was going to fight that bastard until there was no breath in her body.

Jericho paused at a four-way junction. He squatted, looking at the floor. A large man dragging a smaller person would have disturbed the dirt more than he, Dante, and Malachi had. Following a trail of scuff marks in the filthy stone floor, he began striding purposefully into the deeper recesses of the club.

There was no one else down here with them. It made no sense. Though Seraph’s club ran a lucrative upstairs operation in the old cathedral, she gained a lot of revenue from her Underground. Where were the clients? Where were the parties? Had Flaherty rented the entire place out? That would make him one of Seraph’s high rollers and then some.

Jericho shoved that puzzle to the back of his mind. He caught a faint shout on the stale air. Breaking into a run, he was glad to have Dante at his back. They burst into an open room with a low stage along one wall. It should have been packed with people. Instead there were only two.

Delicate silver chains tethered Suri’s wrists to one of a dozen poles anchored in the stone floor. Her skirt had been pulled up to expose the backs of her legs. She might have been restrained, but she was far from cowed. She squirmed against her bonds, trying to keep her tormenter in sight. Flaherty held a flogger in one hand, the ends twitching as he flipped them back and forth.

Flaherty glanced up when Jericho and Dante entered the room. “How quaint. Your knights in shining armor have arrived.”

Something in his demeanor made Jericho distinctly uneasy. The congressman was entirely too confident. Jericho decided to start with words instead of an ass-beating. “Not even Seraph will condone you playing these games with an unwilling woman.”

“You think I care what Seraph thinks about this? Roulette is my favorite game.” Flaherty held up a five-shot pistol. “I think my little whore will like it too.”

Suri twisted around to give him a nasty glare. “I’d like the feel of the pistol better than I would your hands, you egotistical prick.”