Selina's POV
The alluring snake girl on the pole drew almost every eye to her.
Under my mini-skirt, my G-string glowed red in the dim club light when my legs ascended high above my head and I twirled around the pole like a ballerina in mid-dance. My grip was firm enough to keep me from falling and breaking my spine. I had done this for twenty-two years, so I knew how to own the stage.
My parents had disowned me when I was fifteen because they didn't want me to become a stripper. Now I am thirty-seven, twenty-two years in the industry.
I remember Mom always said, "Anything that makes you happy, go for it!". But yet they weren't ready to support the career I chose for myself.
On the pole, I twirled like a ribbon unfurling. My eyes landed on a strong-chested, handsome young man who had just walked in and could not take his eyes off my show—a talent honed over years of sweat and consistency.
I let my black hair fall behind me, almost touching my ankle, when I threw my head back. The decorated ceiling glared at me. The steps almost had me losing it, like they always did whenever I had a target.
The gentleman leaned back in his chair, a hint of satisfaction spreading across his face as he watched my movements closely. I wasn't sure of the color of his eyes—usually the first thing I looked for in a man—but I knew he was soaking in the audacity of my skills, and maybe even reading the intelligence in the way I moved.
I walked forward, rolling my shoulders in a Shakira-like step, hands stretched as though beckoning him to come. It was one of my many ways of giving the green light. Luckily, he noticed my body language but remained seated, eyes narrowed, as if waiting for more conviction.
I licked the silver pole, my breast brushing against it, stirring the craving of the men who stared. The transparent crop top I wore draped over my chest, hanging by my erect nipples, the underside of my breasts flashing as I danced. No bra—just my bare skin beneath.
My straight legs carried me through each professional step. My hazel eyes drifted back to him; this time he returned a warm smile. My face stayed cold, a speck of seduction lingering in my eyes.
In case you haven't heard of Roup-De-Conti, a Frenchman now residing in Los Angeles, he is the acting president of Roup-De-Conti, a fierce group of underground assassins who masterminded the death of my parents, Racheal and James Korr. I had been watching him and his group for months, and he didn't know I was the one behind the text that lured him here tonight.
In that message, I pretended to be a business partner eager to strike a deal at the Strippers' Club. I knew Roup loved money and business, so that was the best bait I could set.
But he didn't remember me. He didn't remember the little girl whose parents he murdered years ago.
My mind flashed back to that unforgettable night—the night after my parents disowned me, I'd gotten my first paycheck as a stripper—the very thing they hated. I rushed home, eager to prove them wrong and clutching gifts I'd bought with my own money.
Outside the house, a black Camry was parked waiting. I thought my elder sister, Claire, was home, and my excitement doubled.
But when I slightly pushed the door open, I froze. My mother, Racheal, was kneeling and pleading with two men in black suits—one tall with a snake tattoo on his neck, the other short and built. My father, James, lay in a pool of blood beside her.
My heart shattered in an instant. Tears gathered in my eyes, blurring my vision as I hid behind the door. The tattooed man pointed his gun at my mom and I found my heartbeat doubling in speed.
"He thought we wouldn't find out that he tried to expose us, huh? Now the god damn family will pay for his sins… till we meet again, mama." These were Roup's last words to my mother.
Just as he pulled the trigger, my mom's eyes found me. She tried to signal for me to run, but the shot silenced her. Her hand hung mid-air, lifeless.
Hot tears spilled from my eyes. My chest heaved and my lungs burned with air I couldn't breathe. From that moment, my world fell apart.
I left the stage for years, mourning, training, and sharpening myself into the weapon I needed to be. Behind the mask of a stripper, I prepared to become a fierce killer.
And now Roup—the man who destroyed my life—was right in front of me, being seduced by the girl who had now grown into a woman.
He had aged; gray strands streaked his hair, each one counting the years of bloodshed he'd overseen. He took a heavy gulp of liquor, and I could almost hear it thud into his belly. The memories of twenty-two years ago crushed me like a storm as I watched him from the stage.
He slammed the glass on the table after taking a second sip, stood up, and walked toward me. He threw dollar bills at my feet, spanked my ass, and sneered.
"Name your price for the night."
"Five thousand bucks," I replied quickly, keeping my face straight with a trace of hatred edging in my voice. This might be the only chance I'd ever get. My hands caressed his torso, drifting lower, brushing the stiffness beneath his belt.
He smacked my breast to test its firmness.
"F**k, come learn some lessons, you bitch!" he growled, yanking my hair as he dragged me off the stage. Another stripper slid in behind me.
I followed him into one of the VIP rooms. He hurled me onto the bed when his patience wore out. He loosened his belt in a hurry, but I raised my body to meet him.
"You're going to be my slave," I whispered close to his ear.
He froze and then nodded, erection bulging. His strong hands seized my neck, slamming me back onto the bed. My crop top slipped above my breasts, baring me. The next minute, he crawled over me, but I flipped him and pinned him beneath.
My trained fingers worked smartly in unbuttoning his shirt. His bare skin glared back at me as I kissed his neck and felt him ease beneath me.
My blood boiled with the hunger for revenge. I grabbed a belt from the bedside table and bound his hands. He tried to grab mine, but I overpowered him.
"What do you think you're doing, Selina?"
My stomach dropped. How the hell did he know my name? I was still.
"Just relax and watch me ride you like a horse."
He smiled.
I tied his hands above his head and gagged him with another belt. Now he was defenseless.
My fingers traced his muscles, searching for the lethal spots I had trained to exploit.
Just as he moaned with pleasure under my touch, I shifted higher, pressing into his rib and neck. His eyes flared while his veins bulged. His muffled cry died in his throat.
Swiftly, I twisted his neck. His body went slack, eyes frozen wide. I closed them with my fingers and whispered a farewell.
Pacing the room and rifling through his clothes, I found nothing but gambling slips. Just then my gaze snapped upward.
A camera lens winked from the corner.
The air left my chest. My heartbeat pounded in my ears.
They had been watching me.
My blood burned.