Demetrio's POV
I smelled the VIP room before I opened the door.
Vodka and whiskey and the specific chemical sweetness of cocaine, which was a combination that produced a particular quality of chaos that I had encountered enough times to know what I was walking into before I walked into it.
I opened the door anyway.
Five women. Two on the floor actively fighting, pulling hair with the focused fury of people who had been building toward this for a while and had finally arrived at it. Two more on the couch watching with the specific quality of intoxicated spectators who found this entertaining. Valentina on top of the situation, literally, straddling the other woman's back and saying the same three words on a loop with the rhythmic intensity of someone who had lost the thread of the argument but was committed to the position.
"He's mine, he's mine, he's mine."
