Scarlett's hands trembled as she crushed another pill into Marco's applesauce. Her seventeen-year-old brother looked more like a skeleton than a young man these days, his skin stretched paper-thin over bones that jutted at wrong angles. Each breath he took sounded wet and painful.
"There you go." She stirred the powder until it disappeared, then held the spoon toward him. "Just a little more."
Marco managed three bites before turning his head away. "Tastes like shit."
"I know." She set the bowl aside and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. It came away in her fingers, soft brown strands that used to be so thick. She hid them in her palm. "But it helps with the pain."
He nodded, his eyes already glazing from the medication. "When's Mom coming back?"
The question hit like a fist to the gut. Their mother had been dead for six months, but the drugs made Marco forget sometimes.
"Soon, sweetheart." The lie tasted like ash.
"Liar." But his voice was soft. He knew. The medication just made him ask anyway. "She's dead, isn't she?"
Scarlett's throat closed. "Yeah. She is."
"Everything hurts less when I pretend though."
Within seconds, his breathing evened out. She watched the slight rise and fall of his chest, convincing herself he was still alive.
The doorbell rang.
The mailman didn't meet her eyes as he handed over another stack of envelopes. Most were white, but three had turned red. Final notices before the hospital stopped Marco's treatment entirely.
She opened the first red envelope. Eighty-three thousand dollars. Just for this month.
"Scarlett?"
Marco was sitting up in bed, his eyes clearer than they should be. He was staring at her face.
"How bad is it?"
"Nothing." She forced a smile, crumpling the letters behind her back. "Just some junk mail."
"You're a terrible liar." He lay back down, turning his face to the wall. "I know we're fucked."
She waited until his breathing deepened again before she let herself cry.
---
By evening, Scarlett Benedetti no longer existed.
She stood in front of the cracked mirror in the club's dressing room and became Tentatrice instead. Red lipstick painted on like armor. Black liner that made her eyes look dangerous instead of desperate. Hair teased into wild waves that men would fantasize about pulling.
Her mother's voice echoed in her head as she adjusted the barely-there costume.
Never let any man completely possess your body, Scarlett. Once a man owns you completely, he owns your soul.
Promise me.
I promise, Mama.
She'd kept that promise so far. Danced for them, talked to them, made them spend fortunes just to be close. But she'd never given them everything.
The rules were simple. Stay untouchable. Stay alive. Keep Marco breathing.
---
Club Desiderio looked like heaven designed by the devil himself.
Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto marble floors. Velvet curtains the color of blood hung from twenty-foot ceilings. Everything was gold and black and expensive.
But underneath all that beauty, the club smelled like sweat and desperation and something darker.
She arrived early tonight. The main floor was mostly empty except for staff setting up. A few other dancers lounged near the bar.
Then Scarlett noticed the guards.
There were always security guys around, but tonight there were twice as many, moving with purpose. Ushering someone through the back hallways. Someone important enough to make even the manager look nervous.
"Girls." Antonio's voice cut through the room. The manager stood near the restricted area, his usual smile replaced with something that looked almost like fear. "We have a very special guest tonight. You stay on the main floor. Nobody goes near the private rooms. Understood?"
The other dancers nodded, barely paying attention.
But Scarlett felt ice slide down her spine at the tone in Antonio's voice. He wasn't being careful. He was being terrified.
An hour passed. She danced her first set, smiled at the men who threw money. Everything was normal.
Then she heard the screaming.
Faint, muffled by thick walls. But there. A woman's voice, high and desperate.
Scarlett's feet moved before her brain could stop them. She slipped down the restricted hallway. The screaming was louder now. Coming from the last door on the left.
Every instinct told her to run. But her body kept moving forward.
She stopped at the door. It was slightly ajar, just a crack of space. Enough to see inside.
Enough to see everything.
Maria hung from chains bolted to the ceiling, her arms stretched above her head. Blood ran down her bare skin in dark rivers, pooling on the floor. Her face was pale, eyes wide with terror.
And in front of her stood a man.
Broad shoulders covered in a black suit. Dark hair that fell just past his collar. He stood perfectly still, watching Maria with the patience of a predator.
"Please." Maria's voice was barely a whisper. "My daughter. She's only five. Please, I have to get back to her."
The man tilted his head. When he spoke, his voice was silk wrapped around razors.
"Your daughter will learn to survive without you. They all do."
He moved faster than Scarlett's eyes could follow. One moment standing three feet away. The next his mouth was at Maria's throat, and Maria's scream cut off into a wet gurgle.
Scarlett's hand flew to her mouth. She watched in frozen horror as the man fed, slow and deliberate. Like someone savoring expensive wine.
Maria's struggles grew weaker. Her eyes went glassy. Her body went slack.
Then she went completely still.
The man pulled back. Blood stained his mouth. When he turned, his eyes found Scarlett's through the crack in the door. Dark and ancient and completely empty of anything human. When he smiled, she saw the fangs.
"Enjoying the show, Tentatrice?"
Terror flooded her veins like ice water. She stumbled backward, her heel catching on the carpet. His laughter followed her as she ran, rich and amused and utterly cold.
She didn't stop running until she burst out the club's back exit into the alley. Didn't stop until her lungs burned and her legs shook.
The night air was cold against her sweat-soaked skin. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed. Music thumped from inside the club, business as usual.
She knew three things with certainty.
The monster knew her stage name. He'd let her live for a reason. And that reason terrified her more than death itself.