The city pulsed with life, its heartbeat echoing through the vibrant streets. Yet, in the shadows cast by flickering streetlamps, some corners lingered in a heavy silence, cloaked in a velvet darkness that seemed to breathe and whisper secrets. The glow of neon signs painted the pavement, but the deeper alleys remained untouched, their mysteries waiting to be unearthed. In those hidden nooks, where light dared not tread, the city's soul revealed itself—an ever-watchful entity that thrived amidst the contrast of brilliance and obscurity.
Tonight, that darkness belonged to Victor Santoro.
He sat at the long end of a table in the back room of a strip club. In one hand, he held a sweating glass of whiskey; in the other, a cigarette burned down to the filter.
A half-dozen men stood around him, waiting with the patience of loyal dogs.
They were all big men, marked by old scars. Their loyalty came from necessity, not choice.
"Five f*cking kilos," Vic said, his voice low but as sharp as a blade. "That's what was promised. And yet, I get four and a half."
The man across from him was a trembling supplier who looked as if he had been starved for a week. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip. "It... It was the border, sir. They tightened security..."
Vic let out a dry, merciless laugh. There was something cold in his eyes. "Security? Do you think I care about that? Do you know what four and a half gets me?" He paused and leaned in, close enough to catch the scent of fear on the supplier. "It gets me cheated. And you don't cheat Victor."
In the blink of an eye, one of Victor's men slammed the supplier's head against the table, enough to make the glass rattle as blood smeared across the wood.
Victor didn't flinch. Instead, he took a deep drag from the cigarette and exhaled in the man's face. "You've got two options, Leo. Either you pay in cash by sunrise, or you pay in flesh right here, right now."
Leo whimpered. "Cash, I'll find the cash, I promise."
Victor leaned backward, smirking wickedly. "Good. Because I'd hate to explain to your wife why your dick's nailed to my wall."
The room erupted in nervous, filthy laughter from Victor's men. He allowed them their laugh. Fear was currency in his world, and tonight, business was moving.
A dancer walked in, wearing minimal clothing and balancing a tray on her hip. She set aside a glass of whiskey meant for him, and Victor's gaze lingered on her. The girl blushed under his stare; he didn't even need to say a word because women were always drawn to him.
They were moth stupid enough to burn themselves in his flame.
"Get out," he said, lazily waving her off.
She hurried out without a word. A sigh of relief escaped through her mouth as the door clicked softly shut behind her.
The incident seemed to break the spell of the backroom. In a dim, mirrored hallway, away from the immediate stench of blood and fear, three dancers huddled, taking a quick smoke break. Lisa, 23, with tired eyes and a heart-shaped tattoo on her wrist, blew out a stream of smoke. "Did you see him?" she whispered, her voice low. "In the back? Victor Santoro."
Chloe, 25, with fiery red hair and a knowing smirk, nodded. "Yeah, Maddy just came out of there looking like she'd seen a goddamn ghost. They say Silas put some poor bastard's head through the table again."
Mia, the oldest at 26, leaned against the peeling wallpaper, her gaze distant. "Better a ghost than what he does to you if he likes you." She took a drag from her cigarette, her eyes narrowing. "Lisa, darling, if he ever calls you back there, remember what I told you."
Lisa shivered, pulling her flimsy wrap tighter around her. "I heard… he's a monster. In bed."
Chloe gave a dark chuckle. "A beautiful monster, maybe. With eyes that burn right through you. But yeah. A monster. He doesn't stop. Not until you're practically unconscious. Like he's trying to own your last breath, to hollow you out completely."
Mia nodded, a haunted look in her eyes. "He leaves you feeling completely drained, as if you've been thoroughly emptied. But then… You still crave it. That's the worst part: the way he makes you feel like you're the only thing that matters, even as he's taking everything from you." She took another drag of her cigarette, exhaling slowly. "God, I hope he never calls me back there again. I was sore for almost a week."
"Just remember, girls," Chloe said as she stubbed out her cigarette. "With Victor Santoro, there's always a price beyond just the money. Always."
Back in the dim backroom, silence settled once more. Vic sipped his whiskey, the ice clinking softly against the glass, then tapped the rim with a deliberate rhythm. "Loyalty, gentlemen. That's what keeps you alive around me. Not luck. Not excuses. Loyalty is your only god here."
Everyone nodded, whispering "yes, boss" as if it were a prayer.