Miceli charged a yearly fee just for the privilege of being a member. He charged an exorbitant amount for drinks and food. There was an astronomical price for the use of private rooms with tools. Not private meaning that others couldn’t see in. You could put your woman on display any way you wanted to. You could have others join in. You just had the use of the room and the toys and furniture in it. The charges piled up from there, but it didn’t matter because only the wealthy played in the dungeon. They played rough and dirty and any way they wanted. There were no restrictions whatsoever.
Stefano and Emmanuelle disposed of the bartenders as Dario killed the one guard trying to draw a weapon against them. Marge was already out of her office and had planted herself on a barstool when she found herself staring at Emmanuelle instead of the bartender.
Emmanuelle dropped the dead man onto the floor and smiled at Marge. “I really suggest you don’t pull that silly little gun you keep hidden in the harness on your right thigh. I’d kill you before you ever got it out, and we have so much to talk about.”
“We do?” Marge deliberately looked over the bar at the dead man on the floor. “I didn’t even see how you got back there.”
Val watched through the mirror as Marge glanced across the room to the other bar and saw the very handsome man who stood behind the bar where her bartender had been. He looked like Stefano Ferraro, but the lighting was so dim, he knew it would be difficult to tell. Marge preened, sitting up, facing toward the bar and crossing her legs. She never looked in the mirror to see Val or Dario behind her. She’d just watched Emme kill a man, but already she was distracted by the thought of Stefano Ferraro in her dungeon club.
Marge had no regard for human life at all. Men, women or children. She was that selfish. Right now, ignoring Emmanuelle, she flashed a smile at Stefano and batted her fake eyelashes at him.
“Honey, get me a drink,” she ordered. “Coffee. Splash of whiskey. Top shelf.” She waved her hand toward a bottle without looking away from Stefano.
Val knew Marge was putting Emme in her place by showing her she didn’t matter, relegating her to the service of bartending. Waiting on her. Emmanuelle was already gone. She’d quietly removed the bartender’s weapons from Marge’s reach and slipped away.
Valentino’s men were in the room. They’d disarmed Miceli’s men. These were the men Miceli trusted with his merchandise. He reached around Marge, slid his hand up her skirt and removed the little revolver she liked to keep in the harness there. “Just making certain you don’t do anything rash, Marge. Not that I expect you to do that.”
Her eyes went wide when she realized he was there and he was that close. She looked around the room and saw her men surrounded by his. For one moment her thin lips quivered and then she lifted her chin and smiled at him.
“Aw, Valentino. Are you angry with your uncle?”
“Just a little bit, Marge. Everyone upstairs is already dead, but they couldn’t tell me anything I wanted to know. The women in those cages, downstairs, they can’t tell me anything, either. I suspect you might be able to, but you’re going to hold out for a little while.”
She smirked. “You’re not the kind of man who likes to see a woman in pain, Val. I’m not too worried. You can threaten me all you want, but I know you’d never really hurt me. You might kill me, but you wouldn’t hurt me.”
One of the men on the floor let out a scream, and Val and Marge turned their heads just as the guard’s intestines slithered across the floor toward them. The gun he had in his hand dropped from nerveless fingers. Dario smiled at Marge, his eyes dark and scary. There was no humor in his smile. No compassion. No humanity.
“I’m not going to take you to our interrogation room, Marge,” Valentino said softly. “Dario asked to take you. I’m afraid he likes inflicting pain, and it doesn’t bother him in the least if it happens to be on a woman.”
Marge’s gaze jumped past him to Dario, and then she swallowed hard and looked away, lifting her chin.
“I will ask the question again, gentlemen. Where are the teenage girls that are being sold at auction being held? All the little virgins?” Val didn’t raise his voice. He kept it low. Gentle, even.
He paced away from Marge to walk in front of the four remaining soldiers. He studied their faces. They all looked defiant, still not believing he meant business, or that he could possibly defeat their powerful boss.