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Chapter 8 - Chapter 8

Restlessness has become a background condition, like a constant noise I can no longer shut off. At home, things pile up on top of each other: my mother is fading away between alcohol and drugs, my father shows up, makes a scene, and disappears with whatever he can find of value in the house, and Elena needs money for a school trip—a small amount for others, impossible for me right now. I dream of Duca at night and, when I wake up, I feel like holding my breath. I want to see him and at the same time the idea of seeing him terrifies me.

I try to push him out of my mind, but the thoughts creep back, insistent, like water carving into the same edge again and again. I tell myself it doesn't matter, that there's nothing beyond that dangerous pull, that I can't afford confusion. I don't listen.

In the club, the air is as oppressive and degrading as always. The light falls crookedly over tired faces, the music swallows voices, and the smell of old alcohol clings to skin. I do my job mechanically, with the right smile, with the distance I've learned. Then something happens that I feel before I see it.

Duca enters the club accompanied by bodyguards. Imposing, self-assured, as if the space had been built especially for his steps, and the noise in the room thins out without the need for a single gesture. His presence weighs on the air; the VIP area empties almost instantly, tables are moved, bodies retreat. No one asks why. No one resists.

Asan appears immediately, as if summoned by an invisible force. He straightens his back, adjusts his smile, and approaches with humble haste, with that imperfect bow of a man who knows exactly where he stands. He speaks softly—too softly for me—nodding often, approvingly, making himself small around Duca. He leads him toward the VIP area with broad, exaggeratedly respectful gestures, promising things no one has even asked for yet.

I watch him and my stomach tightens. I haven't seen Duca up close since then, and the shock is physical. My heart misses a beat, then takes off running. My palms are damp and my mouth dry, as if I'd been caught doing something forbidden. He's more real than in my dreams and far more dangerous than I ever allowed myself to remember.

He's the kind of man around whom rules don't break—they bend on their own, with an almost natural docility. He wears a dark suit, perfectly tailored to a body accustomed to fighting and control, his shirt slightly open at the neck, no tie, as if nothing could ever tighten or restrain him. He walks slowly, confidently, every step measured, as though the floor belongs to him. His blue eyes shine under the club's dirty light, cold and attentive, yet alive in a way that unsettles me. His gaze doesn't seek approval; it receives it. People like Asan bow without blinking, without feeling they've lost anything of themselves. And I am caught exactly at the center of this gravity, pulled in without having taken a single conscious step toward him, as if the space between us had decided in my place.

An older man joins him at the table, and the way he approaches says everything: respect, seniority, maybe fear. They speak little and close, their heads inclined toward each other in a language of understandings that doesn't need witnesses. I watch them from a distance and I know that heavy things are being discussed there—fresh deals or old alliances brought back to life. When the man leaves, the air shifts again. The group rearranges itself naturally, like an organism that knows exactly what it has to do.

Women appear. Many of them. So many that it feels as if every prostitute in the club has gathered and begun to swarm around him, as though summoned by the same invisible signal. They approach in wide, deliberate circles, with slow steps and smiles that promise more than they can carry.

They're drawn by his force, by money, by the implicit promise of proximity to someone around whom everything seems possible and nothing forbidden. And he receives them without haste, with a studied indifference, like background noise he knows too well. He doesn't seek them out and he doesn't push them away; he lets them exist around him, come closer, offer themselves, without changing anything in his assured posture—shoulders straight, gaze forward. He smiles rarely, briefly, a gesture that doesn't invite but confirms power.

One of them, a new girl, pretty but washed-out, leans toward him with ostentatious confidence. She speaks into his ear, touches his hand and his chest slowly, shamelessly, right there in public, with the cold certainty of someone who knows she won't be stopped. Duca doesn't flinch. He lets her believe she has access, that she's seen, but his eyes remain cold, absent, fixed beyond her, as if her presence were nothing more than a formality. Her gestures are slow, calculated, almost ceremonial; his reaction is minimal, controlled—a tolerance that offers nothing in return.

From time to time, he shifts his weight against the back of the chair, lifts his chin slightly, and his blue gaze glints under the club's dirty light with a dangerous boredom. He's used to this sea of women. He knows it, anticipates it, consumes it without letting it touch him. For him, it isn't seduction—it's routine.

The man from earlier returns and leans in toward Duca again, picking up the conversation as if nothing happening around them exists. They speak close, in low tones, about money, routes, things not meant to be heard by others. Duca remains focused, his head slightly turned toward him, calm, in control, as if he can handle several things at once without losing his grip.

The girl sinks lower. She lowers herself to his feet without haste, confident. She places her hands on his thighs and strokes them slowly, then moves higher, without hiding it, touching him where there should have been a boundary. She does it in full view of everyone, without shame, without fear.

Duca doesn't move. He doesn't stop her. He keeps talking, his voice low and steady, as if her hands were nothing more than background noise. Only his jaw tightens slightly, for a moment—a sign that he feels everything, but refuses to let it show.

No one makes her stop. No one intervenes. No one blinks. Around them, the world keeps moving, drinking, laughing, as if the scene were part of the décor, as if this were how things have always been.

Inside me, though, something breaks. A wave of reactions hits me—uninvited, unwanted: jealousy that bites sharply, desire burning underneath, confusion fogging my judgment. I see exactly what kind of man he is—the kind women are drawn to like flame, the kind who accepts it without asking, without giving anything in return. And that very clarity, instead of extinguishing something in me, ignites it. I'm shaken, arguing with myself, trying to put my boundaries back in place. You're not allowed. He's not for you. There's nothing here. I repeat the words like a prayer, but they can't drown out the noise in my chest.

When I feel like I can't breathe anymore, I ask for a break. I retreat backstage with hurried steps, as if running from my own gaze. I rest my forehead against the wall and draw air into my lungs, deep, several times. My hands are shaking, and I don't know whether it's anger, desire, or fear. I try to gather my thoughts, to line them up, when I feel him before I hear him—that heavy, familiar presence that changes the temperature of the air.

Asan.

Asan is visibly happy. It shows on his face, in his walk, in the way he rubs his palms together and surveys the room like prey. The man everyone wants as an ally is in his club, and that makes him feel big, untouchable. He sees me and, before he even reaches me, he scolds me.

"Where's your post?" he hisses. "What do you think you're doing?"

I feel the moment. He's in a good mood—rare, almost dangerous. I gather courage from a place that has no reserves left and tell him quickly about Elena's trip. About the money. About the deadline.

He laughs. A short, thick, satisfied laugh that has nothing to do with amusement and everything to do with the pleasure of knowing he's in control. I hear it and feel my stomach tighten, because I know that laugh—it always comes before something ugly.

"Trips," he says, making a vague gesture with his hand. "Kids. Always money."

The words land heavy, like coins tossed onto a dirty table. Then he falls silent. His silence is more dangerous than the laugh. I see his gaze change, gather into a fixed point, see the idea arrive all at once—clear and filthy, like a solution that leaves no trace on his hands. He steps closer, and the air between us shrinks.

"You know what?" he says softly, almost confidentially. "You could bring me some very nice money tonight."

He takes his time. Savors the words.

"Good money," he repeats. "For me. And for you."

My heart jumps into my throat and stays there, pounding too hard. I know what's coming before he says it.

"Get on stage."

The words fall flat, dry, like a sentence.

I swallow. I beg him not to send me up there. I speak fast—too fast—my voice breaking, sentences tangling, promises spilling over one another. I tell him I can't, that it isn't right, that we had an understanding. I'm scared and desperate, and instead of softening him, it visibly irritates him.

His expression changes. The smile disappears, his face hardens, and the earlier goodwill evaporates completely, leaving behind a cold, calculated anger.

"You think you're too good?" he asks, jaw tightening.

My refusal enrages him even more, as if the audacity of saying no were a personal insult. He steps toward me—too close, close enough that I feel my space being invaded.

"Listen carefully," he says slowly, in a voice that doesn't rise but promises consequences. "You have a choice."

He pauses, just to make sure I'm looking at him.

"Either you get on stage and make good money tonight, or you take your rags and get out of my trailer."

He leans in even closer, so close I can feel his breath.

"You and your beggar family."

The tears start before I can stop them. They aren't pretty. They aren't quiet. They spill out between short, broken breaths, from a deep place I've kept locked for too long. I raise my hand to my mouth, but it doesn't help. Asan sees. And the fact that he sees makes him angry.

"Don't cry," he says harshly. "Not here."

His voice is low but sharp, and that's what makes it dangerous. I take a step back on instinct, but there's nowhere to go. His hand comes suddenly, without warning—not hard enough to knock me down, just hard enough to make me understand. My head snaps to the side, my ears ring, and the metallic taste of fear rises in my mouth.

"Never forget," he continues, moving closer. "You're here because I allowed it."

He grips my chin between his fingers and forces me to look at him.

"You belong to me," he says slowly, deliberately. "And you don't get to oppose me. Not me. Not here."

His words aren't a threat thrown in anger. They're a rule. An old one. Well established.

He pushes me forward, toward the corridor, toward the rising lights, toward the music beginning to howl. I wipe my tears with the back of my hand—not because they're gone, but because I can't afford for them to be seen anymore. My steps are heavy, as if the floor itself is trying to hold me back.

"Get up," he says again.

I get up.

Under threat, under foreign eyes, with my stomach knotted and my chest bare. Asan's control reassembles itself into applause that doesn't belong to me.

I stand upright on the stage, while my soul kneels inside me.

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