8
I didn’t have Lelia’s number. Or Lucilla’s. I asked around, but none of the other girls had it either. Odd. Stranger still was the scream I heard shrill, slicing through the thick, smoky air of the club like shattered glass. Heads had turned when it happened. I know they did. The sound was too sharp, too real, too loud to ignore.
And yet, when I questioned them later, not a single soul remembered hearing a thing.
That silence disturbed me more than the scream itself. It festered inside me, whispering doubts and possibilities too dark to voice aloud. I tried to tell myself I was imagining things. That maybe my mind already a graveyard of half-buried memories and instincts I never asked for was playing tricks again. I would have believed the lie, too, if only I could have spoken to Lelia. But she was gone. Unreachable.
Sleep didn’t come that night. I lay still beneath the sheets, eyes trained on the ceiling as my heartbeat thudded like a trapped bird against the bars of my ribs. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe Lelia and Lucilla were fine, and I’d see them Friday like we were all scheduled. Maybe I’d laugh at myself for being so paranoid.
But I’d never been “normal.” Not really.
After my parents died, I was dumped into a stone-cold orphanage run by nuns who mistook silence for sanctity. That’s where the visions began. Wisps of the future came to me vague, sometimes sharp, always unwelcome. Like the time I warned a boy not to eat his pork chop. He did. Ended up in the hospital. The meat was rotten. They called it coincidence.
Then came the fire.
I woke up in the middle of the night, heart racing, sure something was burning. I ran to the attic. Flames were already licking the rafters. I raised the alarm and got everyone out. They called me a hero. A miracle.
Then they called me a liar.
The very next day, I was dragged into a police station and accused of setting the fire myself. I was nine. Crying. Begging them to believe me. No one did not even the nun who took me there. Only lack of evidence saved me. No gasoline on my clothes. But that didn’t stop the whispers. I was sent to a new home. Labeled cursed.
After that, I stopped listening to my instincts.
Until now.
Because this wasn’t a hunch. This was certainty. The scream had been laced with something that tasted like metal and cold earth like death.
By Friday, I was a wreck. Sleepless. Starving. Shaking. Walking into Velluto Nero felt like stepping into a lion’s den wrapped in silk. I scanned the club, praying to see Ermes. He wasn’t there.
Instead, two of the other managers Pacifico and Ireneo sat like smug vultures at the bar. I ducked past them, ignoring their gaze, and fled to the staff room. Some girls were already changing. No sign of Lelia or Lucilla.
They still had time. But my anxiety had begun to scratch its nails along my insides. By the time I slipped into my dress and applied my makeup, panic had climbed into my throat.
I approached one of the waitresses the one who was always glued to the twins. "Um… do you know if Lelia or Lucilla are coming in tonight?" I asked, twisting a strand of my hair.
She raised a brow, mid-mascara swipe. "Didn’t anyone tell you? They quit."
My breath stalled. "Quit? What do you mean quit?"
"Resigned. Something about a family emergency." She shrugged like it was just another Tuesday.
"Who told you that? Did you hear it from them directly?"
"Nope. The managers told us earlier."
"Pacifico and Ireneo?"
She nodded, casually as if that sealed it. My chest constricted.
"And you just… believed them?"
"Why not? It’s just a job, sweetheart. People come and go."
Maybe I was being irrational. Maybe they really had left. They didn’t owe me anything we were never close.
But my gut screamed they were lying.
I rushed to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, trying to cool down without smudging my makeup. “You’re here to work, Domitilla. Not fall apart.”
Still, the dread wouldn’t leave. I forced a neutral expression and walked out toward the bar, praying I could bury my unease in the rhythm of serving drinks.
The illusion lasted all of an hour.
“Domitilla. Come here.”
Pacifico’s voice sliced through me like ice.
I turned. His pale blue eyes glittered with something that made my skin crawl. “Do me a favor,” he said, tone syrupy. “We have VIPs tonight. I want you to serve them.”
My breath caught. “I… I don’t think I’m the right person. I’m not ”
“You’re perfect,” he cut in, smiling like a wolf.
I tried again. “I’d rather stay ”
He stepped closer. “You’re a waitress, Domitilla. I give orders. You follow them.”
He snapped his fingers. The bartender handed me a tray with champagne chilling in a crystal bucket. My pulse thundered.
Pacifico leaned in. “Room seven. You serve drinks, smile, and make sure they’re having a good time. Nothing more. And if you don’t like it…” He straightened, smirking. “You’re free to quit. But remember, you’ll owe us fifteen thousand dollars. Club investment.”
Bastard.
Was that why Lelia left? To pay off her debt? My jaw clenched so tightly it ached. But I said nothing. I took the tray and walked away right into the pit of hell.
I climbed the stairs, barely breathing. The hallway felt darker tonight. I passed the railing where Gosto had once stood, staring down at me. A strange emptiness churned in my gut.
Room seven.
I knocked.
“Come in,” a voice said.
I opened the door.
And froze.
Five men lounged in crescent booths. Five waitresses sat beside them, still and wide-eyed. The sixth man shut the door behind me. The click was final.
“Leaving so soon?” one of them teased.
He stepped closer, inhaling. His eyes electric blue. His hand reached out, tilting my chin.
“Look at me, Domitilla.”
My name. How did he know it?
"You’re exquisite," he purred. "I can’t wait to taste you."
The words. The exact words from my dream. No. No. No.
I tried to run. I couldn’t move.
He took the tray from me. My arms dropped.
“Tell me you're willing,” he whispered.
“No,” I barely breathed.
He didn’t stop. His cold hands found my waist. I trembled, paralyzed.
“This will hurt only a little.”
He turned for his drink and that’s when I saw it. The others. Fangs gleaming. Blood dripping from parted lips as they drank from the women seated beside them.
My scream rose from somewhere deep inside, ripping through my throat like a jagged blade.
“No!”