Doc points his drink at Adriano. “You’ll get fucked by climate change before you get fucked by January Whitehall. She’s terrified of you.”

Adriano’s smile gets a little wider.

“He thinks that’ll help,” Bobby says shrewdly. “Don’t you?”

“Maybe…” Adriano says. “Wouldn’t be the first girl to try to fuck her way out of dying.”

“Do we want to put money on it?” I ask the table.

Doc narrows his eyes. “What kind of money?”

“What you said. Ten grand. Unless you think you won’t win?”

Doc scowls. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Bobby says.

Adriano grunts which I take as a yes.

“Then it’s a deal. We give her Orchard and the first one to fuck her virgin pussy, wins.”

Everyone nods and relief pulses through me like novocaine. We’ll have a night of debauchery that Miss Whitehall will enjoy as much as we will, and then we’ll send her off on an Italian adventure. She’ll be married to some wealthy, well-connected man and it will be everything she was promised by her stepmother with the added benefit of not having to fuck Zachery Parker.

An image comes to me, January, barefoot in the water at Mappatella beach, her belly heavy with another man’s child. My chest pangs but I ignore it and return my attention to my brothers. “About tonight, we need some ground rules.”

Doc rolls his eyes. “You take the fun out of everything.”

“What rules?” Bobby asks.

“Rule one,” I say holding up a finger. “No one is allowed to touch her before she touches them.”

“That’s fair,” Doc admits.

“The second is no fighting. Any of you throw hands and you’ll get locked in the basement while I take Miss Whitehall upstairs and fuck her until she moans.”

“Also fair,” Doc says. “Anything else or can I go make Orchard now?”

“One second.” I raise my glass and wait for the others to do the same. When they’ve all followed suit, I smile. “To a problem solved.”

We drink as beneath us January Whitehall sings. Oblivious, in her little white dress.

Chapter Eleven

January Whitehall

I fall silent as I hear someone on the stairs. I ate and washed hours ago and I usually sleep before I see Mr. Gretzky again. But here he is. “What’s going on, Sir?”

“Get up, Miss Whitehall,” he says, unlocking the cage.

I stand. “Am I going to see Mr. Morelli and the others?”

Mr. Gretzky beckons me forward.

I must be seeing them. Maybe they’re bringing me upstairs to find out who I’ve chosen? Unless I’m out of time and they’re going to kill me and that’s why Mr. Gretzky hasn’t put the bag over my head. The idea should scare me, but aside from a souring in my mouth, I’m a little excited. After days that bleed together at least this is something new.

The bright downlights hurt my eyes as I walk into a wide hallway with walls that are half polished wood, half cream.