SAOIRSE.

“You're working in a fucking night club?”

Heaven knows there's nothing more I hate than the acrid stench of cigarettes and the sour bite of alcohol seeping into my bones, but who would have thought I'd end up here, in the heart of a notorious club, offering cigarettes to these drunken cigarette-addicted men.

To top everything off, like a punch to the gut, who would have thought I’d be standing in front of Lorenzo. My boyfriend of two years, brows furrowing in shock, sprawled in the room, a half-naked girl perched on his lap like a trophy. His arm draped possessively around her waist, fingers tracing lazy circles on her exposed skin.

My stomach twisted, a knot of ice forming deep inside. I froze, the tray trembling in my grip. 

“Saoirse. What the fuck?”

He shoved the girl aside roughly, her giggle turning into a pout as she slid off him. He stood, weaving slightly from the alcohol, his friends' chuckles rippling through the air like a wave.

“I said, what the hell are you doing here?” Lorenzo spat, his voice cutting through the club. He stalked toward me, the crowd parting instinctively. “You told me you work for a fucking company, Saoirse.”

My throat tightened, words lodging like stones. I wanted to scream. How about you? What are you doing here with another girl on your lap?

But the question died on my tongue. Tears pricked my eyes, hot and unwelcome. I bit my lip hard, as every eye in the room turned to me, to the cigarette girl caught in the spotlight.

“Fuck.” Lorenzo sneered, his breath reeking of whiskey.

He loomed over me, close enough that I could see the veins bulging in his neck. His hand shot out, yanking some cigars and a lighter, slamming them onto the nearest table with a clatter.

“It's–It’s not what you think,” I stammered, my voice barely whispering. My cheeks burned, as whispers erupted around us. Snickers from his friends, curious stares from strangers. “I'm just a…a—"

“A what?” He laughed, a harsh bark that echoed off the walls. “A cigarette girl? You hand out cigars to these drunks, and then what? Satisfy their lust too? Fuck, look at you, dressed like this, smiling at every asshole who looks your way.”

“No!” My hands shook, the tray rattling. I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, his nails digging into my skin. “Lorenzo, please...I can explain. Can we talk? Just us. Alone?”

“Alone? Why? Are you embarrassed?” He glanced back at his friends, who grinned like wolves, one of them whistling low.

“Valerie, you come here.” He told the girl which she delightfully obeyed. His free hand cupped the girl's chin, tilting her face up for a kiss that lingered too long, right in front of me.

Lorenzo never took his eyes off me while sucking and slurping other girls' tongues and saliva in front of his girlfriend, and all I could do was watch.

The crowd murmured, some laughing openly now, their phones flickering as they captured the scene.

“You tricked me for two fucking years! Acting all saint and innocent, but secretly a fucking whore? You disgust me. How many of these guys have you fucked for tips? Or is it free for the right price?”

“L–Lorenzo, please...” I reached out with my free hand, desperate to touch him, to bridge the chasm.

But he yanked his arm away as if my fingers carried poison, then shoved me back a step, my heel catching on the floor. I stumbled, the tray slipping from my grasp and crashing to the ground, cigars scattering at my feet.

“Oh, fuck no! Don't you fucking touch me, you disgusting whore!” He spat the words.

“Don’t be too mean, look at her, crying like a little bitch.” The girl giggled again. “Pathetic. You think you're better than this? Working here, letting these pigs ogle you? Uegh, you're nothing but trash.”

I was trembling from embarrassment, humiliation, fear. All of my emotions are playing in my head, and the only thing I could do was to clench my fist and swallow them.

Because bills don't pay themselves, and the dreams I have for my little brother demanded sacrifices I never imagined.

“So, this is what happens when your parents die early, huh? The child becomes a whore—”

My hand flew before I could think, the slap echoing like a gunshot. My palm stung from the impact, but the pain was nothing compared to the fire in my chest.

Lorenzo's head snapped back, a red mark blooming on his cheek. The crowd gasped, then erupted in louder laughter, some cheering as if it were entertainment.

“I’m not what you think I am. My job here is decent. I only offer them cigarettes, nothing else.” I clapped back. “How dare that disgusting mouth of yours trample on my parents' name?!”

He scoffed, rubbing his jaw, his eyes darkening with rage. He grabbed my collar, pulling me close until our noses almost touched, his breath hot and foul on my face.

“That's why you probably can't get the justice you've been seeking for them because you're busy with your so-called job! Making these men all satisfied and happy!”

He shoved me again, harder this time, sending me sprawling onto the floor amid the scattered cigars. “Get up, you worthless slut. Or are you used to being on your knees?”

I scrambled to my feet, tears streaming now, my uniform stained and disheveled. The humiliation burned through me, every stare a brand, every laugh a lash. I clutched at my shirt, trying to cover myself, but it was futile. The crowd's eyes devoured me like vultures.

Before I could respond, Lorenzo’s fingers dug into my wrist, dragging me through the club. Whispers followed, eyes boring into my back.

“Since you like entertaining men so much.” He hissed in my ear, his breath hot and venomous, “You might as well have some real fun, right?”

He took another tray of cigars and gold-plated lighters, he aggressively put the strap around my neck as he pulled me out of the room. The tray grew heavier with every step I took, the polished metal cool and slick against my palms as I wove through the swirling haze.

Men sprawled in booths, their laughter booming like distant thunder, eyes glazed from too much whiskey. I hated this. The way my uniform clung tightly to my curves, accentuating every movement, the way the stench seeped into my fabric.

I hate this place. All of it.

The bass from the club below throbbed through the walls, but up here, everything was muted and contained. The VIP floor was a sanctuary of sin and silence, carved in shadows and smoke.

We stumbled down a dim hallway, the bass from the dance floor vibrating through the walls. At the end stood a massive black door, engraved with black snakes coiling in eternal struggle. Above it, red letters spelled the word: “TROJAN.”

“N—No! Stop! Please, Lorenzo! Let me go!”

Lorenzo shoved me forward, the door swinging open with eerie ease, as if it had been waiting.

“Have fun with the devil, you fucking whore,” he growled, slamming it shut behind me. The lock clicked, sealing me in.

The room swallowed me whole. The club's throb faded into a complete silence, replaced by the hiss of a fireplace and the faint crackle of flames. Shadows danced on black marble floors, the air heavy with cigar ash, whiskey, and something primal I couldn't name.

I hesitated at the door, clutching the tray of cigars and gold-plated lighters against my chest.

There was a rumor circulating in this town, it was said that this floor, these rooms are owned by the highest level of the VIPs: The Outstand. A forbidden place and was off-limits unless summoned, that the exclusive members who owned it didn’t like uninvited company.

As I walked towards the fireplace, my feet became heavy with every step. And as I held my gaze up, just like that my feet froze in their place. A pair of eyes looking straight right at me.

There it is.

A figure sat in a leather armchair by the huge window, city lights framing him like a king in his throne. One leg crossed over the other, his hands relaxed on the armrests.

The darkness was too harsh, it was too dark and the lack of light failed to reveal his face, only his commanding eyes glinting in the subtle dark.

But that alone, the sharp shadow of his posture spoke volumes.

Power. Control. Precision.

The faint flicker of the fireplace revealed the glint of a ring, the edge of a cufflink, the line of a smirk.

He didn’t speak right away. Just watched.

His gaze followed my every step as I crossed the room. It was steady and sharp but it was enough to make my pulse stumble.

There is no doubt that this is the man who ruled the underground from thrones and luxury. The one whose name was spoken in whispers and whose gaze could dismantle you before he even spoke.

His gaze pinned me, steady and piercing, as I approached. Smoke trailed from his fingers, curling upward in lazy spirals. He tilted his head, exhaling slowly, the plume catching the light before vanishing.

“D—Do you smoke, sir?” The words tumbled out, stupid and obvious, but I couldn't stop them.

He leaned back, the cigar's end glowing faintly. Smoke wove through the air, thick with clove and danger. He crushed the ember with his bare hand against the table without flinching.

The scent of singed skin mingled with his cologne, smoke, whiskey, and something dangerously clean.

I approached, my heart beating out my chest and my shoes clicking as if it was a countdown. When I stopped across the table from him, his veiny hand reached out for the tray.

“Light it.” He commanded as he placed the cigar between his lips, leaning a little forward.

My fingers fumbled with the lighter, the flame flickering to life. It illuminated his face for a split second: sharp jaw, his eyes now that were illuminated with light weren’t just brown, they were like honey, glowing when light touched them.

A beauty that promised ruin. He was beautiful in the way a weapon was cold, precise, and meant to destroy.

I touched the flame to the cigar, my hand shaking. He inhaled, exhaling a stream of smoke that wrapped around me like a caress.

The door burst open then, shattering the silence. I flinched from all the tension my body endured until now, scooping up my tray and hugging it tight, but I immediately stopped on my tracks when I saw who came in.

Good heavens. Great. Just great.

A man. A petite young man wearing a ridiculously sexy bunny lace outfit welcomed my sight, who was as shocked as I am.

“Oh dear...” he awkwardly mumbled.

I slightly lowered my head and hurried to the door but could still feel the man's gaze in the back of my nape, following me like a shadow.

I didn't want any part of this, to whatever storm was brewing.

—࿐—

Once the door clicked shut, sealing the man back in his domain, the newcomer turned to the figure in the armchair, a smirk playing on his lips.

“What a…surprise. I thought you hated those cigarette girls invading your territory?”

The man exhaled a slow plume of smoke, his eyes narrowing to slits, the city lights glinting off the ring on his finger, a serpent coiled in eternal vigilance. He puffed again, savoring the burn.

“Name.”

“Pardon?” The newcomer blinked, a flicker of reluctance crossing his features. “Oh, well, I can't quite discuss such private matters with you. Especially with my employee—”

“I said the name.”

“Right.” The newcomer said, sighing, yielding under the weight of that gaze. “Her name's Saoirse. Saoirse Vincenzo.”

“A Vincenzo?” The man's brow arched upon hearing it. “Fate sure has a cruel sense of humor, don't you think?”

The man laughed to himself, his mind already spinning webs of intrigue. “Saoirse…”

His eyes narrowed further, his voice savoring the name. He leaned forward, the city lights glinting off his ring, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Pretty name.”

SAOIRSE.

Serve. Slip away. Survive.

Those are always the same three words that get me through the night. Smile. Offer them cigars, the good kinds, and exit the scene to lit more.

I moved through the crowd with the practiced grace of someone who'd learned to vanish into the shadows long ago. My soft pink uniform clung to my curves, the fabric against my skin as I balanced a tray of cigarettes and lighters, the tang of regret in every cigarette I lit flame.

The air was thick with cigar smoke and cologne, a haze that masked the hunger in men's eyes. I felt it, the way their gazes lingered on me like fingers tracing forbidden lines. But I ignored it, as I always did.

Tonight though, was different. Something shifted. I felt it. From across the bar, a man in a tailored suit, his face obscured by the dim lighting, was staring at me from now and then.

He wasn't shouting like the others, wasn't groping the air or leering openly. He just watched, his gaze a steady burn that made my skin prickle. When I approached his table to offer him a cigar, he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear.

“Are you new here?” His voice was low, smooth, like velvet over steel. “I haven't seen an angel like you in this hellhole for ages.”

“Not quite but thank you.” I forced a smile, the kind that didn't reach my eyes. “What can I get you, sir?”

He slid a card across the table, black with a single word embossed in silver. My heart skipped. The code. Outwit. The lowest level of the VIP, but still a world apart from the chaos of the main floor. I'd never been summoned before, and never like this.

“Room 7,” he said. “Just you. Bring a cigar. Cuban. The good shit.”

I nodded, pocketing the card. It was easy money, I told myself. No more, no less. The club had rules, strict ones. Especially for the girls. But the VIPs? They bent them like cheap straws. They held nothing sacred.

Within time, I was up the elevator, I passed the bouncers using the card with ease, who nodded me through without a word. Room 7 was at the center of the hallway, the door looked heavy and soundproofed.

I knocked once, entered with the cigar on a silver tray. The room was lavish, all dark wood and crimson velvet, a king-sized bed dominating the space.

The man was already there, lounging on the edge, his suit jacket discarded, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal his hairy chest.

“Close the door.”

I did, my fingers trembling slightly on the knob. “Your cigarette, sir. Is there anything else you’d like?”

“My name’s Giovan,” he introduces. “Yours?”

He took the cigarette in my hand, lighting it with a flick of his lighter. Smoke curled up, bitter and acrid. “Come here and talk.”

“I’m afraid I'm not supposed to—”

“Sit with me.” It wasn't a request. Giovan hand shot out, grabbing my wrist, pulling me down beside him. The cigar's ember glowed like a warning. “I can pay you. Just tell me.”

My pulse raced. This wasn't right. The club allowed flirting, maybe a touch, but nothing more. I tried to stand, but he yanked me back, his grip iron.

“Please, sir, I need to go—”

His laugh was low, guttural. “You think I paid for conversation? Look at you, all that young meat, all for myself.”

He shoved me onto the bed, his weight pinning me down. The mattress dipped under us, the sheets cool against my back. Panic surged through my veins like ice water.

“No, please!” I thrashed, my nails raking his arms, drawing thin lines of marks. “Please, stop! Let me go!”

He laughed again, his breath hot and sour, hands tearing at my uniform. Fabric ripped, exposing skin to the chill air. “Scream all you want. No one hears a damn thing in here.”

My mind screamed for escape, for survival. I twisted, my hand flailing toward the night table. Fingers brushed cold porcelain, until my hand trails against a cold vase, heavy and ornate.

I grabbed it, swung with all my strength. It connected with his temple, a sickening crack echoing in the room. Blood sprayed, warm and sticky, splattering my face. He grunted, eyes widening in shock, but he didn't let go. Not yet.

I swung again, harder. The vase didn't shatter, but the impact was there. Blood poured from the gash, soaking his hair, dripping onto the sheets. He slumped, dazed, his grip loosening. I shoved him off, scrambling to my feet. My heart hammered, breath ragged.

My mind screamed in panic. All I could think of was to run. To get out. To escape.

I bolted for the door, hand on the knob, twisting. But then I stopped in my tracks. My eyes grew from what I saw in the reflection from the glossy door.

A shadow in the corner, a figure lounging in a chair I hadn't noticed before.

He was smoking, the tip of his cigarette glowing red in the darkness, exhaling a plume that obscured his features. His eyes locked onto mine, piercing, unblinking.

He raised a finger to his lips, telling me to shush.

Before I could react, the door burst open. Two men in black hoodies stormed in, their faces hidden, movements silent and precise. They flanked me, one grabbing my arm, not hard, but firm enough to hold me in place.

Memories crashed over me like a hard wave, the intoxicating taste of fear: me hiding inside a dark closet on a stormy night, hands covering my brother's mouth to prevent him from making a sound, as we watched how the hooded man murder our parents.

My legs buckled, knees hitting the floor. Paralyzed. Helpless.

The man beside me leaned down, his voice a whisper, almost gentle. “We are not going to hurt you, only if you keep quiet. You can do that, right?”

I quickly nodded, mute, tears stinging my eyes. The figure in the chair stood then, unfolding like a predator from its lair. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his suit impeccable. Then, he pulled something from his suit. A gun, a silenced gun, the barrel gleaming under the low light.

My breath got caught. Those eyes. I knew them. It was the man from last night.

And without breaking our eye contact, he aimed at the man on the bed — who was half-awake, groaning, struggling himself to sit up. Then, he fired the gun without any emotion readable on his face.

Three shots.

They silently rang out, muffled pops that barely disturbed the air.

The first tore through his chest, a spray of red misting the air. The second punched into his throat, gurgling wetly. The third ended it, a clean hole in his forehead. The body jerked once, then stilled. The white carpet bloomed crimson, soaking through, dripping onto the floor slowly.

The shooter holstered the gun without a word, stepping over the corpse like it was nothing. He approached me, his boots leaving faint prints of blood on the carpet.

Up close, he smelled of danger, the kind I should not touch. His thumb brushed my cheek, wiping away a speck of blood. His touch was surprisingly gentle, lingering.

His gaze flicked to the hooded men, a silent command in his eyes and a subtle tilt of his head. They obeyed. Instantly. Dragging the body away with efficient brutality, limbs flopping, blood trailing in smeared arcs.

I stared up at the man in front of me, the room spinning, the metallic scent of blood choking me. The hooded men dragged the body away, efficient, and silent.

“Fierce help, little fox.” He murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine.

He held my gaze, a faint, cold grin twisting his lips, and I knew.

I knew with that chilling, predatory grin of his that the night was far from over, it was just the beginning.

Who was this man who'd just saved my life from one monster and why did it feel like I traded one danger for another?

SAOIRSE.

“So, you’re quitting?”

You gotta be kidding me.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I stood in my head manager’s office, the air thick with the scent of aged leather and something different, the lingering shadow of secrets.

It was the first time I'd laid eyes on my manager in the years I'd slaved away at Nexus, lighting cigarettes and pretending the club's glittering facade was all there was.

But now, face-to-face, it was a hard wind knocking the sane out of me. He was the man from the other night, the one who entered the room in an absurd, provocative laced bunny outfit.

My fingers fidgeted relentlessly, twisting together in a desperate attempt to steady myself. I couldn't force myself to meet his piercing gaze, staring instead at the polished mahogany desk that separated us like a barrier.

“The incident from last night must have been very traumatizing for you,” he said, his voice a low rumble that echoed in the dimly lit room.

I swallowed hard, the words catching in my throat. The blood splattered across the floor, the way that stranger had torn through the chaos like a storm, it all replayed in my mind, vivid and unrelenting.

“It is my duty to make my people safe in this club, but I have failed you, miserably. I deeply apologize.”

“I know that none of us wanted that to happen,” I muttered, forcing a smile that felt brittle and false. “Only if I had just been more careful and more aware, sir. So, part of it was my fault.”

The man leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, the intensity in them making my skin prickle. “Oh, sweetheart. Please! Drop the ‘sir’. Just call me Azriel.”

I finally dared a glance up, catching the sharp lines of his face, the way his lips curled with that effortless authority. Though he looks very feminine, I can tell he was no ordinary club owner; there was something about him, something that made the room feel smaller, the walls closing in.

His suit was impeccable, tailored to perfection, but beneath it lurked the same dangerous energy I'd sensed in the bunny outfit. He exuded control, the kind that could crush a person without breaking a sweat.

Curiosity burned through my fear, reckless and insistent. “That man,” I said, my voice trembling despite myself. “Who is he? The one from last night. The one who...who saved me?”

“Ah, yes.” Azriel's smile widened, slow and deliberate, as if he'd been expecting me to ask that very question. “You just can't keep that curiousity within yourself, huh? Are you sure you really want to know?”

Is that supposed to be a threat?

“Zeus Trojan. Head of the Trojan Covenant.” he responded, “That son of a gun. I'm telling you he's a dangerous man, he doesn't just run this city. He owns it, body, soul, name it. Destruction and sin are his currency, Saoirse. Every corner bends to his command, every soul kneels in fear and desire.”

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as if savoring the moment, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and menace.

“And saved you? Oh, sweetheart. That man is no hero. He's a force of nature. Zeus doesn't save lives. He claims them, plays with them.” A grin spread to his lip. “Last night, he didn't rescue you out of kindness. He did it maybe because you caught his eye, and in his world, that's a death sentence or a twisted gift, depending on his mood.”

His words hung heavy, each one dripping with menace, painting Zeus as something monstrous, untouchable. My pulse quickened, a chill creeping up my spine.

Azriel continued, his voice smooth but laced with warning. “This city, Castello, isn't the playground you think it is. It's ruled by the mafia, layers of power that crush anyone who dares to look too closely.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, his gaze never leaving mine.

“At the very top sits the Obsidian, the Head, who pulls strings from the abyss, untouchable and unseen, a ghost that commands empires from the void. Beneath them, is the Trojan Covenant, the first rank, enforces the will, handling the bloodiest deals, the alliances forged in fire and betrayal. They deal in lives, in fortunes, in the kind of sins that stain your soul forever.”

“What—what do you mean?” I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. “Why are you telling me this? I don't want any part of—”

Azriel cut me off with a wave of his hand, his tone sharpening. “Because you need to understand, Saoirse.”

He paused, his gaze boring into me, making me feel exposed, vulnerable. “All those killings you've heard whispers about, the messy and forbidden business that stains the underbelly of this place? It's all part of it. Nexus isn't just a club, it's a front. A glittering mask for the Trojan Covenant. We launder fortunes, broker pacts with devils, and when things get...unruly, we clean up the mess. Last night was a taste of that reality.”

My mind reeled, the pieces clicking into a horrifying picture. "Why me?" I demanded, my voice rising with a mix of anger and terror. “Why drag me into this? I didn't ask for any of this!”

“Because you already are. You dove right in it, sweetheart. You witnessed too much, and I bet you wouldn't even dare keep what you just witnessed to yourself.” Azriel's expression hardened, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

Panic surged through me, hot and blinding, a tidal wave that crashed over my senses. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. “I—I’m sorry…but I quit.”

I spun on my heel, lunging for the door, my hand slamming against the knob with a desperate thud. Freedom was just a twist away, quit, run, disappear into the night, leave this hell behind.

My vision blurred, the room spinning as the weight of it all pressed down. This was a nightmare I needed to escape, a trap I had to break free from.

“You wouldn't want your choice to kill that little brother of yours, right?”

That sentence made me stop running and from twisting the knob. The revelation hit me, so sudden and shattering, leaving me reeling as if the ground had been yanked from my feet. 

I hadn't seen it coming, not the depth of their knowledge, not the way they'd weaponized my brother against me.

He rose slowly from his chair, his presence filling the room like a shadow that blotted out the light, towering over me even from across the desk. “You will work for him in exchange for your brother’s life.”

“H—How…” I whirled back, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

“I know everything about those who work under me, Saoirse. Your whole life, laid out like an open book. That ill little brother of yours, fighting for every breath in that rundown hospital, his tiny body hooked up to machines that beep like a ticking clock.”

“You’re…using my brother against me?” I mumbled, fists turning white. “Don't you dare lay your fingers on him!”

“One word, Saoirse. One word from him, and your brother's life vanishes, your world crumbles into thin dust.” Azriel threatened. “Zeus is your only salvation. He'll pull strings, make deals with the devil himself to keep that boy breathing.”

“No, please! Stop! Leave my brother out of this! He’s sick! How could you use him like this?!”

These monsters are sick rotten to the core. Tears stung my eyes as the weight of his blackmail crushed me. There was no escape, no choice. The bargain was sealed.

I was trapped, another tool in their sick game, and Zeus Trojan's presence was too much to ignore, a monster waiting to devour me.

“Then the choice is yours, Saoirse.”