The room smelled of smoke and whiskey, the air still heavy from the late-night meeting I'd just endured. Deals had been made, hands shaken, masks worn. But even as the city pulsed outside, my thoughts weren't on business. They were on her.
Vera.
I had gone back to Russo's club again, not because I needed to, not because business demanded it, but because something about her kept tugging at me. Every other woman in that place was painted in the same colors—empty smiles, hollow eyes, rehearsed laughter. But her… she was fire disguised as glass, fragile yet sharp enough to cut.
The first night, I'd told myself it was nothing. Just a whim. I'd taken her back to my hotel, used her, sent her away. But I'd gone back again. And again. Each time I told myself it was the last. Each time I found myself looking for her face in the haze of smoke and neon.
Tonight, though, I couldn't ignore it anymore. I wanted answers.
She sat on the edge of the hotel bed now, silent, her hair falling in messy waves around her face. The sheets pooled around her waist, her shoulders bare. She wasn't smiling. She never smiled.
"Who sold you that smile, Vera?" I asked finally, my voice low, almost careless—but not really.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide. She hadn't expected me to ask.
"What?"
I leaned back against the dresser, lighting a cigarette, letting the silence between us stretch. "You wear it like it doesn't belong to you. Like it's rented. I want to know why."
Her lips parted, but no words came out. I saw the conflict ripple through her, the way her fingers twisted the sheets like she was holding on to something too heavy.
"You don't want to know," she whispered finally.
"Yes," I said, exhaling smoke slowly, "I do."
She looked away then, her gaze fixed on the window, on the city lights bleeding through the curtains. For a long moment, I thought she'd stay silent. But then, almost in a rush, the words came.
"I didn't choose this." Her voice cracked, raw in a way I hadn't heard before. "I wasn't… I wasn't working off some family debt. I didn't run out of choices and end up here by mistake."
I stilled, the cigarette burning forgotten between my fingers.
"I was taken." Her voice shook now, each word scraping like broken glass. "Kidnapped. Sold. Russo bought me like I was a piece of furniture. He said I had a debt, that if I worked, maybe I'd earn my freedom. But it was a lie. Every day, the debt grew. Every day, he reminded me I belonged to him. That there was no out."
Her eyes flicked to mine, sharp and wet at the same time. "So don't look at me like I'm some temptress who chose this. I didn't. He owns me."
The room went silent. Only the faint hum of the city outside remained.
For a long moment, I didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Then I ground the cigarette out hard in the ashtray, the ember dying in a hiss.
That son of a bitch.
When I spoke, my voice was colder than the night air seeping through the window. "Russo owns nothing."
Later, I found Marco in the suite's lounge, sitting back on the leather couch with a glass of bourbon in hand. He glanced up as I entered, one brow arched.
"You've got that look again," he said.
"What look?" I muttered, pouring myself a drink.
"The one you get before you burn something down." He leaned forward, studying me like only he could. Marco wasn't just my right hand—he was my oldest friend. The one man who'd seen me at my lowest and hadn't walked away.
"She told me everything," I said finally. "She was sold. Kidnapped. Russo's been keeping her as one of his possessions."
Marco's jaw tightened. "I figured it was something like that."
I shot him a look. "And you didn't tell me?"
"It wasn't my place," he said evenly. "You weren't ready to hear it. But now you are. So what's the plan?"
I downed half the bourbon, the liquid burning a path to my gut. "The plan is simple. She's done there. I'm taking her out."
Marco set his glass down slowly. "Adrian, think about this. Once you pull her, Russo won't take it lying down. You'll be starting a war over one girl."
"Not a girl," I snapped. "A human being. A woman he thinks he owns. I won't let that stand."
Marco studied me in silence, his eyes narrowing. Finally, he shook his head with a bitter smile. "You're not just taking her because you feel sorry for her. I've known you too long, brother. You're looking at her different."
I didn't answer. Because he was right.
The next night, Russo came to me. Not by choice—I sent for him.
We met in a quiet backroom of the club, away from the neon lights and laughter, the air heavy with tension. Marco stood at my side, arms crossed, a silent wall of loyalty.
Russo swaggered in with that fake confidence of his, slick suit, greasy smile. "Adrian," he greeted, spreading his arms like we were old friends. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Cut the shit," I said, my tone flat.
His grin faltered, just a little. "Alright. Straight to business. What's on your mind?"
"Vera," I said. Just the name. It hung in the air like a blade.
Russo's smile froze. Then, slowly, it curled back, sharper this time. "Ah. So that's what this is about. She's a good one, isn't she? One of my finest. Expensive, but worth it."
I felt Marco stiffen beside me.
"She's not yours," I said quietly.
Russo laughed, a sound that grated like broken glass. "Not mine? Adrian, come on. She's mine in every way that counts. Bought and paid for. You can borrow her, sure. You've got the money. But she'll always come back to me."
I leaned forward then, resting my hands on the table between us, my eyes locked on his. "Listen carefully, Russo. You don't own her. You don't own anyone. You release her, tonight. Or I'll make sure every deal you've made, every dollar you've stacked, every inch of territory you think you control—burns to ash."
His smirk faltered. He looked at me, searching for a bluff. But he found none.
"You'd risk that," he said slowly, "over a girl?"
I didn't blink. "Try me."
For a long, taut moment, the room held its breath. Russo's jaw worked, his eyes darting between me and Marco, who hadn't moved, his stare cold as steel.
Finally, Russo chuckled weakly, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Alright. Fine. Consider it… a gesture of goodwill. I'll settle my debt to you with her. No harm done, eh?"
"No," I said, standing. "Plenty of harm done. But this is where it ends."
That night, when I walked out of Russo's club with Vera beside me, she didn't speak. She didn't thank me. She didn't even look at me.
She just sat in the car, her hands folded in her lap, staring out the window as the city lights streaked past.
But every so often, I caught her glancing at me from the corner of her eye. Like she couldn't quite believe I'd done it. Like she didn't know whether to hate me, fear me, or cling to me.
And maybe, even then, I knew she'd never really leave.