Madam Lee
The old shipping yard smelled like rust and salt water and things that had been left to rot.
Jack pulled up in the black sedan, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that looked almost apocalyptic. He cut the engine and sat for a moment, letting the silence settle over him.
Then he opened the door and stepped out.
Bones was waiting for him by the entrance to the main warehouse, his massive frame silhouetted against the dying light. He didn't smile. Didn't acknowledge Jack with anything more than a slight nod.
There was tension there. Had been for months now. Something unspoken that hung between them like a blade.
Jack didn't have time to think about it.
He walked past Bones and into the warehouse.
The investor was tied to a metal chair in the center of the empty space. His hands were bound behind his back. A black blindfold covered his eyes. His breathing was rapid, panicked—the sound of a man who'd realized he'd made a terrible mistake.
Jack removed his jacket and hung it on a rusted hook near the wall. He rolled up his sleeves methodically, revealing the tattoo sleeve on the pale skin of his forearms. Then he pulled a knife from his belt—not a large one, just practical—and walked toward the chair.
The man's head snapped up at the sound of footsteps.
"Who—who's there?" His voice cracked. "Please, I don't know what this is about. I have money. I can pay—"
"You don't know me," Jack said quietly, stopping in front of him. "But I know you, Lorack Otez. I know you live in a house on Ashford Drive. I know you have two kids—Emma and David. I know Emma takes piano lessons on Thursdays at the Riverside Academy. I know David plays soccer on Saturday mornings at Westfield Park."
The man's breathing became more frantic.
"I know your wife's name is Patricia. I know she likes to have lunch at the Botanical Gardens on Tuesdays. I know all of this because I've made it my business to know."
Jack crouched down, bringing his face level with the blindfolded man's.
"And I know you're one of Rider's private investors. That you've been funneling money into his operations for the past year. That you've been helping him expand his reach into territories that don't belong to him."
"I—I don't—"
"You need to stop," Jack said, his voice still quiet but carrying an edge that cut through the warehouse like a blade. "You need to stop supporting him. You need to withdraw your investment. You need to walk away."
"I can't," the man whispered.
Jack stood and grabbed the man's left hand, pulling it forward. He positioned the knife against the palm.
"Afraid? Then I'll give you something worse to worry about."
The blade went in smoothly, sliding between the bones of his hand. The man screamed—a raw, primal sound that echoed off the metal walls of the warehouse.
Jack twisted the knife slightly, then pulled it out.
Blood poured from the wound, dripping onto the concrete floor.
"That's a warning," Jack said, his voice steady. "If you don't stop supporting Rider, the next thing I stab won't be your hand. It'll be something you can't live without. Do you understand?"
The man was sobbing now, his whole body shaking.
"Nod if you understand," Jack said.
The man nodded frantically, his blindfolded head bobbing up and down.
Jack handed the knife to Bones without looking at him.
Their eyes met for just a moment—a flash of something dark and complicated passing between them. Bones took the knife, his jaw clenching slightly. He didn't say anything. He never did anymore.
Jack grabbed his jacket from the hook and pulled it on, buttoning it with deliberate slowness.
"Take him home," Jack said to Bones. "Make sure he gets medical attention."
Bones nodded once.
Jack walked out of the warehouse without looking back.
***
The mansion was all marble and floor-to-ceiling windows and the kind of wealth that made Leena's skin crawl.
She was on top of him, her hips moving in a rhythm that was practiced and precise. Her moans were perfectly timed—breathy and urgent, designed to push him toward climax as quickly as possible. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in just enough to leave marks but not enough to hurt.
The old man beneath her was helpless. His hands gripped her waist, his breathing ragged. His eyes were half-closed, lost in the fantasy of her.
"God, you're incredible," he gasped. "So fucking incredible—"
Leena increased her pace, her movements becoming more aggressive. She could feel him getting close. The tension in his body, the way his hips were starting to thrust upward to meet her.
She was an expert at this now. Eighteen months of practice had honed her into something lethal. She knew exactly what men wanted. Knew how to make herself irresistible. Knew how to make them believe they were the only thing that mattered in the world.
Her confidence had reached its peak. She was a goddess in this room, and every man who touched her knew it.
"Come for me," she whispered against his ear, her voice dripping with false desire. "I want to feel you come inside me."
That was all it took.
He groaned and thrust upward, his body going rigid as he finished. Leena continued to move, milking the sensation, making it last just long enough to seem genuine.
When he finally collapsed back against the pillows, she stayed on top of him for a moment longer, her breathing deliberately heavy, her body glistening with sweat.
"Jesus," he muttered, his hand stroking her back. "You almost gave me a heart attack. That was—God, that was incredible."
Leena smiled and rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow. She entertained his idle chatter—compliments about her body, questions about her background, vague promises about future encounters. She laughed at his jokes. She touched his chest affectionately. She played the role perfectly.
After twenty minutes, she excused herself to shower.
The water was hot and scalding, and she stood under it for longer than necessary, washing away the feel of his hands on her skin. She looked down at her body in the mirror afterward—at the marks on her hips, the slight redness on her breasts. Nothing that wouldn't fade by tomorrow.
When she returned to the bedroom, he was sitting up in bed, his robe tied loosely around his waist. His laptop was open on his lap, and he was already back in business mode—emails, spreadsheets, the machinery of wealth and power.
There was an envelope on the nightstand.
"Your tip," he said without looking up from the screen. "Tell Rider he'll get his investment. Same amount as last time."
Leena got dressed slowly, making sure every piece was perfect. She adjusted her hair. She applied fresh lipstick. And then she reached for the choker—the one Rider had given her months ago, the one that marked her as his property—and fastened it around her neck.
The weight of it was familiar now. Comforting, even.
She grabbed the envelope and tucked it into her purse.
"Pleasure doing business," she said, her voice smooth and professional.
He didn't respond. He was already lost in his work.
Leena walked out of the bedroom and down the marble staircase. Sienna was waiting by the front entrance, leaning against the doorframe with a bored expression. Twenty-eight years old, five-foot-eight, with sharp angles and careful reconstruction. Her skin was a rich brown, her hair natural and styled short on the sides and fuller on top. A thin scar ran across her left collarbone—deliberate, a reminder of survival. She wore a tailored blazer, black jeans, and expensive boots that clicked purposefully. Her dark brown eyes held an almost predatory awareness. She moved economically, wasted no words, and had a smile that was genuinely rare.
"You good?" Sienna asked as they walked toward the car. "Need any pain meds this time?"
"No," Leena said, a slight smile playing at her lips. "Sex with him wasn't that rough. The old bastard finished before he could do any real damage."
They got into the car. Sienna slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.
"Where to?" she asked, pulling out of the driveway.
"Southside," Leena said, settling back into the leather seat. "One of the whorehouses isn't making quota. Rider wants me to figure out why."
The drive took thirty minutes. The neighborhood deteriorated as they got closer—the buildings becoming smaller, the streets becoming narrower, the air taking on a different quality. This was where Rider's less glamorous operations existed. Where the money was made in smaller, dirtier increments.
The whorehouse was decent-sized—not grand, but not rundown either. Rider had invested a decent amount of money into it. The exterior was clean. The windows were tinted. There was a bouncer at the door who recognized Leena immediately and stepped aside without a word.
But as soon as they stepped inside, Leena could see the problem.
The place was empty.
Not completely empty—there were a few men scattered throughout, nursing drinks at the bar—but it was nowhere near capacity. The lounge areas were sparse. The private rooms upstairs were quiet.
Two women approached them almost immediately, their movements desperate and practiced.
"Hey, beautiful," one of them said, her smile too wide. "You and your friend looking for some fun? We could do a threesome. Whatever you want."
Leena's face contorted with disgust.
"Do you know who I am?" she asked, her voice sharp.
The women exchanged confused glances.
Then the Madame appeared at the top of the stairs, her face going pale as she recognized Leena. She rushed down, her movements frantic.
"Madam Lee," she said breathlessly, her voice trembling. "I—I didn't know you were coming. I'm so sorry. These girls, they didn't—"
The two women's eyes widened as realization dawned.
The Big Madam. Rider's ace in the hole. The woman who controlled everything.
"Why is business so slow?" Leena asked, her gaze sweeping across the empty space.
The Madame's hands twisted together nervously.
"There's a new gang," she said quietly. "They call themselves the Kingsmen. They've established a rival whorehouse on the other side of Southside. It's drawing customers away from us. And there's another place—King's Paradise. It's been stealing some of our women. Offering them better pay, better conditions."
"What's King's Paradise?" Leena asked.
The Madame hesitated.
"I don't know much about it," she admitted. "Only that it's a place where elites go. High-end. Exclusive. The women who work there make triple what they make here."
Leena's jaw tightened.
She'd heard rumors about King's Paradise. Whispers in certain circles. But she'd never paid much attention.
Now, standing in this empty whorehouse, watching the Madame's fear, she realized she should have.