Melody had not known rest ever since what the woman who later introduced herself as Mrs. Harris told her. When Nicola had asked if she got the job, she said she did but left out the "special guests" part. The fact that the workers at the casino had declined the offer to serve these guests — and that some had even resigned in fear of facing them — should have scared her for her life.
Regardless, she resumed work as instructed. The uniform was the same she had seen on those girls: a black waistcoat over a white shirt, a mid-length mini skirt over net leggings, and black heels about six inches high.
Of course, she was not comfortable in the outfit. Multiple times she pulled the skirt down and adjusted the white shirt so it wouldn't show cleavage. For the most part, the guests were not invasive or out of line.
But that wasn't her concern. She still thought about the special guests as she got off work at 12 midnight and returned at 6 p.m.
After two days of not seeing the special guests, she relaxed, believing they had cancelled their plans. However, on the third day the relief was once again replaced by anxiety.
While she was dressing that evening, ready for her shift, she saw a convoy of Rolls-Royces rolling through a wide gate at the back of the building through the window of the dressing room. They were all sleek, glossy black. She watched closely as about eight of them formed a long line. The doors of the cars swung open and men clad in perfectly tailored suits filed out, positioning themselves before the car in the middle. A bulky man stepped out of the car in the center and ran around to open the back-seat door.
She tried to focus on them as a figure climbed out of the car — his aura filled the atmosphere; even Melody, staring from afar upstairs, could almost smell it. The other men who had emerged from the other Rolls-Royces bowed to him. His back was turned to her; his hair was jet black, a pleasant sight. Melody focused, her hand flattening on the windowsill as she watched closely. Just as he began to turn, a hand closed around her shoulder and pulled her back, closing the window.
"Have you lost your mind?!" Mrs. Harris bellowed.
Melody hurriedly grabbed her phone and typed, "Are those the special guests?"
"Yes. And you shouldn't be spying on them like that; those men have what it takes to end your life in seconds."
Melody breathed, anxiety turning her stomach. She hadn't thought they'd be this notorious — the Rolls-Royce, the aura. These men were more than notorious as it stood.
"You are to attend to them for three days. You should pray they decide to end their tour today. If they extend it, it means things didn't work out — and everyone will be walking on eggshells."
Tour? What was she even talking about?
Melody now understood why those girls had quit.
"Your job is to serve them their drinks and attend to their gamble. Make no sound when you are around them. Act as if you are invisible — like a doll."
Melody's lips quivered.
"Pretend to be deaf to their conversations. Slip away from their midst like the wind." Mrs. Harris grabbed Melody's arm, drawing her closer. "You can do this."
Melody nodded, a tear sliding down her cheek. What had she gotten herself into? Maybe a hundred thousand dollars wasn't worth all this after all.
"They'll be informed that you're mute, so they might want to test you to confirm. Brace yourself."
All that was not enough to calm her nerves—not even a quarter of what she said was enough—because Melody still had her legs trembling as she stood in the elevator that carried her to the VIP lounge, a tray of chips balanced in her sweaty palms. All kinds of imaginations flooded her head. What if she slipped? What if she was asked something she couldn't respond to? Worse, what if they really tried to test if she was truly mute?
She turned slowly, catching her reflection on the wall of the elevator. She looked different, almost captivating. The mini skirt fit perfectly, and her shirt stretched over her burst. She swallowed. Anything could go wrong up there. And whatever happened, no one would ever know. Maybe Nicola—but even she would never know who it was, because Melody had never told her about the special guests Mr. Van received.
So all she could do was whisper silent prayers as the elevator dinged open, ushering her into a large room. The room was dimly lit with blue light, like a club. A poker table stood in the middle, surrounded by eight chairs. Beside it was an L-shaped couch, and at the far end of the room stretched a huge bar stocked with a variety of alcohol.
The room was empty, so she walked up to the table and placed the chips carefully on it. As soon as she was done, she slipped out.
A breath of relief escaped her lips as she stepped back into the elevator that carried her to her station. She whispered a prayer of thanks to God for sparing her from facing the men.
A proud smile spread across her face when she finally made it back to the dressing room, ready to clock out for the day.
Just as she was taking off her waistcoat, the door to the dressing room swung open and Mr. Van walked in, looking disheveled.
"You. Come with me," he commanded.
She frowned and looked around. Not finding her phone, she grabbed her jotter and pen and scribbled quickly before holding it up to him:
"Why? My shift is done."
"The worker who was supposed to serve drinks to the guests called in sick. You'll be taking her place."
Her eyes widened. She scribbled again, the pen scratching harshly on the paper:
"What? Why? I don't know how to serve drinks."
"That is not an issue. Just give them what they ask for and leave. Simple."
Before she could write another word, Mr. Van grabbed her arm and pulled her along, leading her out of the dressing room and back into the elevator that carried them once more to the VIP lounge.
Her legs trembled as the elevator ascended. When the door dinged open again and Mr. Van ushered her out—while staying put in the elevator—her breath hitched.
She was about to voice her suspicion when she realized she didn't have her phone, nor was she holding her notepad.
She signed to him, "Am I going in there alone?!"
His eyebrow arched. "Unfortunately, I can't translate that. I have somewhere to be. Attend to them accordingly."
And then, the elevator door closed.
She could hear muffled conversations behind the door as her hand closed around the handle. Swallowing hard, she blew out a shaky breath before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
Rich cologne. She couldn't place the particular scent, but the air smelled overwhelmingly rich and commanding. She gulped down the bile rising in her throat as she approached the men. None of them acknowledged her presence; they were too focused on the bets they were playing.
As she drew closer, one of them slapped the table, making her halt mid-step.
"Nonsense!" the voice bellowed. "H-how is this even possible when I was in the lead?!"
"Mr. Marino, you have lost again," another voice affirmed softly.
"No! No, I will not take this! I will not—" Mr. Marino's voice trembled, but he was abruptly cut off.
Melody froze at the center of the room, her head bowed low, unable to see what was happening
Groans echoed. Against her better judgment, she glanced toward the source—and her lips parted in horror. A man had pinned a terrified Mr. Marino to the poker table.
Though his back was to her, she recognized the man instantly. He was the one from the Rolls-Royce convoy earlier—the same man the others had bowed to.
"P-please! Please, help me!" Mr. Marino pleaded, his terrified gaze fixed on his captor.
The man leaned in and whispered, "Anata wa beddo o totonoete, soko ni yokotawarimasu."
Translation: You made your bed; you lie on it.
Before Melody could draw another shaky breath, the man reached for an empty glass, smashed it against the poker table, and drove the jagged shard violently into Mr. Marino's eye.
A bloodcurdling scream ripped through the room. Still, the attacker continued stabbing, pressing the shard deeper until he finally plucked the eye free.
Melody's own eyes widened in terror as the man ripped out the second one. Moments later, Mr. Marino collapsed lifelessly onto the table.
Her legs buckled, and she crumpled to the floor, too weak from the horror she had just witnessed.
That was it. The other two men slowly turned their attention to her.
Her gaze locked on the one who had just mutilated Mr. Marino. And then—they made eye contact.
Her world stopped spinning.
Sparkling hazel eyes, as if crafted to blind whoever dared look at them. A perfect face smeared with blood. A cigarette dangling from full lips—those lips still dripping with the blood of the man he had just tortured. Long lashes framed his gaze, inhumanly beautiful.
The perfect, terrifying vision of a Greek god.