Bass vibrated through the leather of my private booth, a heavy, aggressive pulse that matched the rhythm of my own blood.
Kisses was packed tonight, a sea of sweaty bodies and expensive perfume churning beneath the flashing lights.
From my second-story perch, I watched them all like ants in a glass cage.
This was my kingdom.
Every bottle of champagne popped, every dollar exchanged, every dark secret whispered in the booths belonged to me.
But maintaining an empire meant never letting your guard down.
---
Smoke curled from the VIP booths below, thick with the scent of cherry vapor and expensive bourbon.
People paid thousands of dollars just to breathe the same air as my high-end clientele.
Corrupt politicians and ruthless cartel bosses rubbed shoulders in the dark corners of my establishment.
Believing the heavy oak doors and the armed guards at the entrance could protect them from the harsh realities of the city, they drank without care.
Fools, all of them.
Safety was an illusion I sold to the highest bidder.
---
My fingers tightened around the crystal tumbler of scotch, the amber liquid swirling against the ice.
Control was a drug, far more addictive than anything my dealers sold on the street corners.
Without it, a man in my position was as good as dead.
Syndicate operatives were waiting for a single slip-up, a single crack in the armor of my territory.
Lately, their movements had grown bolder, their influence stretching closer to the borders of my streets.
I could feel their eyes on me, searching for a vulnerability.
Years had been spent erasing my weaknesses, hardening my heart until it was nothing but a block of ice.
There was no room for error.
Mercy was a luxury I couldn't afford.
Memories of the past always crept up on me when the music got too loud.
I could still hear the echoes of sirens from the night my father was taken from me, the smell of burning rubber and cheap asphalt.
That was the night I learned that weakness was a death sentence.
Since then, I had built walls so high that no one could climb them.
Control extended to every variable.
Every bartender, every bouncer, and every debt was cataloged in my mind.
Except for her.
Selena was an anomaly, a wild card I hadn't fully accounted for.
She had showed up three weeks ago, demanding a job, refusing to show her real identification, yet dancing with a desperation that told me she had nowhere else to go.
I had let her stay because she brought in crowds, but I kept my eyes on her.
A woman with nothing to lose was a dangerous thing.
---
Down on the main stage, the lights shifted from deep purple to a violent, bloody crimson.
A collective breath seemed to escape the crowd as she walked out.
Selena.
She didn't look like the other girls who danced for tips and hollow promises.
Her posture was straight, her shoulders back, carrying herself with the quiet arrogance of a queen entering her court.
When she reached the center pole, she didn't hesitate.
Gravity seemed to lose its grip on her the moment her hands wrapped around the polished steel.
She hoisted herself up with effortless grace, her muscles flexing under the red lights.
Every movement was deliberate, sharp, and utterly mesmerizing.
Performers usually begged for attention, but she commanded the room.
Men at the edge of the stage stared up at her with slack-jawed hunger, but she didn't look at them.
She looked past them, as if they were nothing more than ghosts.
I leaned forward, my drink forgotten on the small table.
Watching her was like watching a predator mark its territory.
She didn't smile for the crowd; she stared through them, her expression a mask of cold indifference.
Upward she climbed, spinning upside down with a reckless abandon that made my chest tighten.
It was a display of pure, unadulterated strength.
Most people in this room saw a beautiful woman.
I saw a weapon.
There was a fire in her, a raw, untamed energy that didn't belong in a place like this.
She danced as if she were fighting for her life, each spin a strike, each drop a leap of faith.
Her dark hair whipped around her face, a wild frame for eyes that burned with a quiet, dangerous light.
I had seen hundreds of dancers come and go through the doors of Kisses.
They were fragile things, easily broken by the cruelty of this world.
But Selena was different.
She was made of iron and glass.
Her presence alone suggested she could break a man's ribs with those long, powerful legs.
My gaze followed the curve of her spine as she arched her back, hanging suspended by nothing but the grip of her thighs.
Crowds erupted into cheers, throwing crumpled bills onto the stage, but she ignored the paper rain.
Her focus was absolute.
Bass dropped suddenly, a low, guttural vibration that shook the glasses on the tables.
Selena gripped the pole with both hands, her body extending horizontally in a perfect human flag.
It was a feat of sheer strength that left the rowdy crowd momentarily speechless.
Her skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat, catching the red and blue neon lights that sliced through the darkness.
Bruises left on the skin meant nothing to her.
She made it look easy, but I knew the pain it took to hold that position.
She didn't care about the pain.
Her face was a mask of cold determination, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line.
She was fighting something, some unseen demon, and the pole was her only outlet.
I watched the ripple of muscles in her back, the elegant curve of her spine as she transitioned into a slow, mesmerizing spin.
She was a storm in a bottle, and I was fascinated by the tempest.
---
Movement near the VIP entrance caught my eye, breaking the spell she had cast over the room.
Gray-jacketed, the intruder took another step forward, his boots leaving muddy streaks on my clean hardwood floors.
He didn't belong here.
His boots were dirty, his hair greasy, and his eyes darted around with a frantic, desperate energy.
Scanning the private booths, his posture was tense and hunched over.
Sweat poured down his face, reflecting the neon glare.
His hand was deep inside his jacket pocket, his knuckles white.
My instincts, honed by years of surviving in the dark, screamed of danger.
This wasn't a drunk patron looking for a good time.
Perhaps a hitman, or a desperate junkie sent by my rivals to make a statement.
Syndicate operatives were getting sloppy, or they were getting desperate.
Either way, I wasn't about to let them stain my floors with blood.
"Marcus," I murmured, my voice barely a whisper but carrying the weight of a command.
My head of security stepped out of the shadows behind my booth instantly.
"Boss?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"Southwest entrance. Gray jacket. He's carrying," I said, my tone flat and dangerous.
Marcus gripped his holster and began to move, but the crowd was too thick.
This intruder was already moving toward the VIP booths, his gaze locked on the private tables.
I reached inside my own jacket, my fingers brushing the cold steel of my customized Beretta.
If Marcus couldn't reach him in time, I would take the shot myself.
Desperate junkies were the worst kind of threat, because they didn't care about their own survival.
They only cared about the fix waiting for them when the job was done.
And then, Selena intervened.
---
She didn't just step off the stage; she leaped, landing lightly on her feet like a cat.
Without a second's hesitation, she targeted the threat.
While everyone else was lost in the music and the alcohol, her sharp eyes had spotted the threat.
She moved with a quiet, lethal grace that made my chest tighten.
Approaching him from his blind spot, her hips swayed to the rhythm of the music.
This bastard didn't see her coming until her arm was already wrapped around his neck.
Her touch was light, almost intimate, but I saw the sudden, violent tension in her shoulders.
She pressed her body against his back, leaning in close as if whispering a secret in his ear.
"Looking for someone, sweetheart?" her voice drifted upward, barely audible over the thumping bass.
Shock froze him, startled by the sudden warmth of her skin.
"Get off me," he hissed, trying to shove her away.
His hand began to pull the heavy object from his pocket.
Silver metal flashed in the strobe lights, wicked and serrated.
He was going to drive it into the back of my primary lieutenant, who was sitting just a few feet away.
Before he could raise the weapon, Selena acted.
Her hand clamped down on his wrist with a grip that must have been forged from years on that steel pole.
She twisted his arm behind his back with a sickening pop.
A quiet gasp of pain escaped the man's lips, drowned out by the roaring music.
With her free hand, she swept his legs out from under him.
Down on his knees he went, his face twisted in agony.
She didn't let go of his wrist.
Applying pressure to the joint, she forced his fingers to splay open.
Metal clattered to the floor.
She kicked it under a nearby sofa before anyone else could notice the weapon.
No one in the crowd noticed.
Marcus and two other bouncers finally arrived, throwing themselves onto the struggling man.
They grabbed the intruder, dragging him away through the back exit.
Only then did Selena stand up straight, smoothing down her outfit.
Fear didn't touch her face.
As the bouncer drags the patron away, Selena's eyes, flecked with defiance and a stark, unyielding resolve, lock with Jaxon's across the crowded club, a silent challenge passing between them that promises chaos.