But in the end, she turned on her heel, her heels clicking furiously as she stormed from the room without another word.
The door slammed behind her, rattling the frame.
I leaned back in my chair, the echo fading into silence. The fire snapped, filling the stillness, but it didn't soothe the tension thrumming under my skin. My fingers tapped once against the armrest, then stilled.
Vera's face. Her words.
You saved me.
The memory slipped in before I could block it out, sharp as glass.
Five years ago.
The bass shook the walls, neon lights flickering over bodies pressed too close on the dance floor. The club was alive in that hollow, desperate way only places like it could be—men with money drowning themselves in liquor, women painted in glitter and shadows, all of them pretending.
I hadn't come for pleasure. I rarely did. Russo—the owner—was late with his payments, and I don't tolerate late. He'd insisted on meeting in his club, claimed it was "neutral ground."
Neutral ground didn't exist in my world.
Marco walked at my side as we pushed through the crowd. He was taller than me by an inch, broad-shouldered, his dark suit immaculate despite the filth pressing in on us. His eyes scanned the room the way mine did, always calculating.
"I don't like this," he muttered, his voice just low enough to be heard under the music.
"I'm not asking you to like it," I said.
Marco's gaze caught on the women draped over men in booths, the ones who smiled with red lips and dead eyes. His jaw tightened. "Russo's into dirt. Real dirt. You should've made him come to us."
"He thinks this place makes him powerful." I smirked faintly. "Let him think it."
The smell hit next—cheap perfume layered over sweat, smoke, and desperation. It was the kind of place that chewed people up and spit them out in pieces.
And then I saw her.
She was weaving between tables with a tray of champagne flutes, black dress hugging her body, heels too high to be practical. On the surface, she was like the rest—just another pretty distraction. But when her eyes flicked up, meeting mine for a second, I knew.
They weren't dead.
Not yet.
Tired, yes. Frightened, maybe. But there was fire buried deep in them, flickering against the dark.
Marco noticed my pause. "Don't," he said flatly.
I kept moving. "Don't what?"
"She's one of his girls. You know what that means."
I didn't answer.
Russo was waiting in a VIP booth, cigar in one hand, glass of whiskey in the other. His stomach strained against his shirt buttons, and sweat glistened under the flashing lights.
"Adrian!" he boomed, spreading his arms like I was his long-lost brother. "Come, come. Sit. Drink!"
I sat. I didn't drink. Marco stood just behind me, a wall of silence at my back.
"You're late," I said.
Russo chuckled, puffing smoke in my direction. "Late, yes, but you know me—I deliver. Business is good. Money's flowing. I just need a little more time."
"You had time." My voice was flat steel. "You don't get extensions."
He laughed too loudly, pretending not to hear the edge in my tone. He waved toward the crowded floor below. "Come on, relax. You work too much. Look around—best girls in the city, best clients too. Pick one. On the house. Call it a peace offering."
Marco shifted behind me, his disapproval like a weight.
I didn't usually indulge. I wasn't here for that. But my gaze slid across the room again—drawn without my permission.
She was at the bar now, pouring a drink for a man who leaned too close, whispering something that made her force a smile. Her hand trembled slightly as she set the glass down, though she hid it well.
Something about it scraped at me.
"Her," I said.
Russo blinked, then followed my gaze. His laugh was thick and ugly. "Vera? Pretty little thing, isn't she? She owes me, though. Debt. The kind that doesn't vanish overnight."
"Is she available tonight?"
His eyes gleamed. He knew better than to say no to me. "For you? Of course. She'll be waiting upstairs when you're done here."
Behind me, Marco exhaled sharply through his nose. He didn't speak, but I could feel his glare drilling into the back of my head.
Hours later, she stood in my hotel room like a shadow that didn't belong.
She clutched her purse like a weapon, her stance rigid, her gaze darting to the exits. Not trembling, not pleading—but ready. Like she'd fight if she had to.
I poured myself a drink. She didn't touch hers.
"What's your name?" I asked.
She hesitated before answering. "Vera."
The lie was smooth. Practiced.
The rest of the night passed the way I expected—rehearsed, mechanical. She moved like someone who had learned how to survive by giving just enough and nothing more.
When it was over, she dressed quickly, not meeting my eyes. She muttered the polite line they must've taught her. "Thank you, sir."
I let her go.
The next time business dragged me back to Russo's club, I didn't plan to see her again. But I asked for her.
And again the time after that.
Marco noticed, of course.
"She's dangerous," he said once, when we left the club after another late night. The city air was cool, cutting through the stench of smoke clinging to my suit.
"Dangerous?" I asked, lighting a cigarette.
"Not because of what she'll do. Because of what she'll make you do. You're not the kind of man who keeps women. Not like that."
I blew smoke into the night. "You think I don't know that?"
Marco didn't answer, but the silence said enough.
I didn't know why I kept going back. She wasn't the most beautiful. She wasn't the most skilled.
But every time, I saw it—the flicker of fire behind her mask.
And intrigue, in my world, was dangerous.
The fire in my study snapped, dragging me back to the present.
That was how it began. How Vera slipped into my life without me realizing. First as a distraction. Then as a habit. And eventually… something I couldn't ignore.
But the full story hadn't even begun yet.