Page 16 of Dishonored

Yes, and a good reputation was everything to a Camorra woman. It was the only thing allowing her respect in their life, and giving her status. Should she lose that good reputation by doing something improper that might sully her name or family, then she would be nothing.

Worthless.

Unusable.

Dishonored.

Should she find herself in hot water because of her plans, no one would look at Aria and wonder why a woman of her name and status had done what she did—they would only care she that she had done it. That would be all that mattered.

“Then, give me another way,” Aria murmured. “Tell me another way to do this—to be free of him, and what he does to me. Tell me, Nico, and I will do it.”

Nico stayed silent.

Everything about her life—from her every day appearance to even her forced marriage because her father had been facing prison time—was about never breaking that perfect, unsullied image that Camorra demanded from a woman. A dishonored woman would be given nothing, and as it stood, Aria had already been made to give up everything for this person she now was.

She was going to have to take that risk.

Aria was not giving them more.

Not of her.

Aria nodded, and peered at him over her shoulder. “Exactly. There is no other way. This is how I get out—this is how I can be free. Now, help me put on my dress, and let me try out my new name with you before I go.”

Nico shook his head. “What did you choose to go with?”

“Take a guess.”

“Your mother’s name?”

Aria shrugged. “I’ve always loved the name Carina. I think it works.”

“You think a lot of things.”

She gave him a look.

“Watch it, Nico.”

“Yeah, yeah. The prized rose with her thorns.”

“My thorns cut like knives. Don’t you ever forget it.”

“But who sharpened those thorns, Aria?”

Raffe.

Jac.

This life.

“Me,” she settled on saying.

It was still true.

THREE

LUCIFER’S DEN WAS a favorite haunt of Caesar’s for a number of reasons; most being something people might find salacious or immoral. And that was just fine with him because that’s exactly why he frequented the club.

On the outside, Lucifer’s Den appeared the same as any other club except for the rooftop parking section for the uber-wealthy that patrons like Caesar were allowed to use by way of a glass elevator that would lift a vehicle up and down. The flat-gray bricks, and simple sign gave nothing away about the goings-on inside the joint.