CHAPTER 5

RAVEN'S POV:

The black SUV arrives at 9:45 p.m. on the dot, headlights off, engine a low, predatory rumble in the quiet Brooklyn street.

I emerge from the alley shadow, hood pulled low until the last moment, then open the rear door and slide inside.

The leather seat is cool against my bare thighs.

The driver, clean shaved head, thick neck, glances once in the rearview, gives a single curt nod, and pulls away.

No words, no pleasantries, just the faint scent of a new car and the city lights streaking past tinted glass like bleeding neon.

Tonight marks my first official night working for Damien Blackwood.

I adjust the lace mask in the dim cabin glow.

Black filigree clings from nose bridge to hairline, leaving only my mouth and chin exposed enough to tease, not enough to betray.

The wig is long, glossy raven waves that spill past my shoulders in deliberate disarray.

Hazel contacts mute the gray eyes that could undo everything.

Corset laced bone-tight, ribs compressed, breathing shallow and controlled.

Skirt high on the thigh, concealing twin sheaths; one slim throwing blade balanced for a quick flick, one mini-taser humming faintly against my skin.

Heels pointed enough to puncture if someone forgets their manners.

I look like every dark fantasy they pay to chase but never quite catch. Perfect for the role.

The ride downtown is silent except for the bass bleeding through the speakers, slow, deep, syncing with my pulse. I stare out at the passing streets, running contingencies like a mental checklist.

If Damien enters the room unannounced, play the tease, keep him at arm's length, gather intel.

Ten years of planning. One night won't unravel me.

Velvet reservoir appears at the end of the narrow cobbled lane in the Meatpacking District, black brick facade, no sign, only a single red velvet rope guarded by two bouncers who look like they bench-press cars for fun.

They scan the code on my burner phone without comment, then open the unmarked STAFF door with a soft pneumatic hiss.

The shift is immediate. Air thick with expensive perfume, Cuban cigar smoke, and the sharp metallic tang of arousal.

Purple-red lighting pulses in time with the bass deep enough to vibrate through my sternum.

Crystal chandeliers drip fractured light across leather booths and mirrored stages.

Three circular platforms dominate the main floor, poles gleaming like wet obsidian under spotlights.

Girls already move on two of them oiled skin catching every beam, eyes distant or predatory.

Up on the mezzanine, heavy velvet curtains hide private rooms.

The energy is electric, hungry, moneyed.

The stage manager mid-thirties, sharp black bob, intercepts me at the talent entrance.

"Raven Noir. First night. You're on the main rotation starting at 10.

Private bookings if they request you.

Mr Blackwood wants you visible; he said you're the new draw.

Locker 14. Change fast. Set in twenty."

She hands me a black keycard. "Your cut wires offshore the second the client leaves. Make it worth his while."

I nod once. No questions. I already know the game.

The locker room is controlled chaos.

Girls laughing, spraying glitter on collarbones, adjusting garters, stretching like felines in heat.

I claimed locker 14, slipped out of my clothes and changed into the red lingerie.

Mask in place. Wig perfect. Contacts sharp. I look in the mirror once, porcelain skin under heavy makeup, smoky eyes, lips blood-red. Dangerous, desirable, good.

I step onto the main floor at 10 sharp.

Spotlight hits center stage. I grip the pole. Music drops slow, dark bassline laced with sultry strings that curl like smoke. I start.

Slow roll of hips. Drop low, thighs parting just enough to tease my audience.

Rise slower, back arched until my hair brushes the floor. Wig cascading. I don't smile.

Men in tailored suits and open collars circle the platforms like sharks scenting blood. Bills flutter onto the stage.

Hundreds, fifties, twenties, like confetti at a funeral. I spin once, legs opening wide on the descent, enough to flash the perfect shape of my pussy. Gasps ripple through the crowd.

Halfway through the set I feel eyes that aren't just hungry, possessive, calculating.

Damien.

He's in the dark alcove above the mezzanine, black suit blending with shadows, bourbon glass dangling from long fingers.

Watching, observing.

I let my gaze flick up once. Our eyes lock for two heartbeats. His mouth curves small, satisfied, almost proud.

The set ends. Applause and more bills splatter on the stage.

The manager appears at the edge of the platform.

"Room 3. VIP booked you for thirty. Double rate. He paid for two services."

I step down.

Heels click across the floor. Curtain parts.

Inside, dim red light, low chaise, small stage with pole. And waiting there Clarissa Voss.

Platinum hair loose, red lipstick fresh, black lace lingerie that leaves almost nothing to imagination. The same woman I watched Damien fuck over his desk bent over, moaning, taking him hard while he gripped her hair like reins.

She looks up, recognizes me instantly, and her eyes narrow into venomous slits.

She doesn't speak, just stands, walks to the center, drops to her knees in front of the client, an older man in charcoal suit, Rolex glinting, already loosening his belt, cock out and hard.

The manager whispers behind me, "He booked both of you.

Double rate. He wants a show. Blowjob competition. Winner gets the bigger tip."

The client grins, lazy and entitled. "Ladies. Let's see who earns it."

Clarissa shoots me a look, pure territorial hate, then leans in and takes him into her mouth.

No hesitation, deep, loud, wet, sloppy sounds fill the room.

She moans around him deliberately, eyes flicking to me like a challenge.

Hand pumping the base in fast, twisting strokes.

Cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling visibly. Gagging slightly for effect performance art.

Silent competition.

I step forward. Drop to my knees beside her. The client groans louder, two mouths now. Clarissa's technique is aggressive, fast bobs, head moving like a piston, saliva dripping, moans theatrical and high-pitched. She's trying to out-volume me. Out-speed me. Win with noise and spectacle.

I don't compete on volume.

I compete on control.

I lean in slow.

Tongue flat along the underside, tracing the vein from base to tip.

Lips seal tight. I take him deep, deeper than she did, until my throat flutters around him. Hold, swallow once, pull off slow, tongue dragging, lips sealed, leaving him glistening. Then again. Steady rhythm. Tight suction.

One hand cupping his balls, rolling gently, thumb pressing the sensitive spot behind. The other braced on his thigh,nails digging just enough to sting.

He curses under his breath. Hips twitch hard.

Clarissa glares sideways. Pushing me away, she takes him again. Speeds up. Tries to match me. Gags louder. Moans higher. Hand twisting faster. She's desperate now, sloppy, frantic.

I ignore her. Focusing on him. Slow, deliberate pulls. Tongue pressing flat on every upstroke. Hollowed cheeks. Throat working in subtle swallows that make him shudder. I feel him thicken, pulse against my tongue.

Clarissa redoubles, slurping, moaning, trying to drown me out.

I pull off slowly, let saliva string from my lips to his tip, then take him again, deeper, holding until my nose brushes his abdomen. His hips jerk violently.

He groans, long, broken.

She tries to push in, take him back. I don't let her. I keep the rhythm steady, unhurried, merciless.

One final deep hold. Swallow around him. He cums with a choked curse, thick, hot pulses down my throat. I swallow without breaking eye contact with Clarissa. Pull off clean. Lips barely wet.

Clarissa pulls back coughing, mascara smudged, lipstick smeared across her chin. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, glaring at me like I stole her birthright.

The client slumps back, panting, fumbling for his wallet.

Thick stack of hundreds hits the table, more for me than her. "Jesus Christ. Both of you. Again next week. But you," he points at me "first dibs."

He leaves.

Clarissa stands. Steps close. Voice low, venomous, barely above a whisper.

"You think you're special because Damien recruited you bitch? He fucked me on his desk.

Bent me over, came on my back. You're just the new flavor. He'll get bored."

I wipe the corner of my mouth with one finger. Meet her eyes through the lace.

"At least I don't get fucked like a nobody." I replied , glaring back at her.

Her face blanches, then flushes crimson.

I turn. Walk out.

In the hallway, the manager is waiting, eyes wide. "Room 8. Another booking. They're scrambling for you already, words are spreading."

I nod.

I glance up at the mezzanine alcove.

Damien hasn't moved.

Still in shadow. Eyes locked on the floor below, on me.

His mouth curves again slowly, satisfied, almost proud.

I didn't return it.

I just walk to the next room.

But the fracture is wider tonight.

And Damien Blackwood is already addicted to watching me break other people's control without ever losing my own.

The rest of the night is a blur of bookings.

Room after room.

Men who pay double, triple, to have me alone.

Some want pole work, slow grinds, arches, drops that leave them hard and breathless.

Others want private dances, hovering inches away, heat radiating, never quite touching. I give them just enough to hook them. And they couldn't get enough of me.

Every time I glance up, he's there, watching from the dark.

Not intervening.

Just observing.

Happy.

Because the line outside the private rooms is growing. Names on the list. Cash stacking.

And every man who books me is another piece of his empire that now orbits me.

Chapter 6:

RAVEN'S POV

The SUV dropped me three blocks away from my apartment at the early hours of the morning.

I walked the rest, hood pulled low, heels swapped for sneakers in the back seat. The duffel over my shoulder felt heavier tonight, cash bundles from three private rooms, the mask and wig stuffed deep, the faint scent of cigar smoke and client cologne still clinging to my skin.

My jaw ached from the last booking, thighs burning from kneeling on hardwood, but the real pain was deeper, seeing damien from a very close range and not gutting him out burned on me like a brand I couldn't scrub off.

I turned the corner onto my block and froze.

Exotic cars lined the curb. Not the usual rusted sedans or delivery vans.

Fleets of them, matte-black G-Wagons, gleaming Lamborghinis, a Bentley with windows so dark they swallowed light.

Seven in total, parked like a silent army.

No plates visible.

Engines off, but the air felt alive with threat.

This street didn't see cars like this and it troubled me.

Panic surged through me, cold, sharp, flooding my veins like ice water.

Lila.

She's alone, i left my daughter all alone for the night.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I tasted copper. I dropped low, using a parked junker for cover, scanning windows, rooftops, shadows.

No drivers visible, no movement.

My hand slipped to the thigh sheath, fingers brushing the blade.

Pulse kicking to ninety, then one hundred. I forced it down. Control, i always control myself.

But the fear was alive now, crawling under my skin, whispering, too late, too fucking late.

I moved fast, sticking to shadows, circling the building. Back entrance clear.

Up the fire escape, rusted metal creaking under my weight, each groan sounding like a gunshot in the quiet. My window was locked, curtains drawn. No breach.

Front door then.

I circled back, breath shallow, heart hammering so loud I swore the night could hear it. The building door was propped open, just an inch. Someone had jammed the lock.

Panic took full control. Visions flashed, Lila's room, small and safe, her bear clutched under chin, gray eyes wide with fear.

I shaked the off my head as fast as it came.

No. Not her. Not my baby.

Composure snapped into battle mode. Knife out, gun corked, I pushed the building door open with my boot, body angled low. Hallway empty. Stairs clear. Third floor, my door.

Slightly open. Two inches. Light bleeding from inside.

Fear for Lila's safety clawed at my throat, rawl.

I swallowed it.

Pushed the door open with the knife tip, hinge creaked. The living room came into view,table lamp on, tea mug steaming on the table. Lila wasn't on the couch. No blood. No struggle signs. But the air smelled wrong, expensive cologne, cigar smoke, danger.

I stepped inside, knife low, gun raised high, and the door clicked shut behind me.

Oscar lounged in my armchair like it was his throne.

Black silk shirt unbuttoned at the chest, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms corded with old scars and faded tattoos.

Dark hair slicked back, eyes black as bottomless pits.

A predator wearing human skin, smiling that slow, thin smile that showed too many teeth.

He swirled a glass of my cheap bourbon, ice clinking like tiny bones.

"Hello, pet."

The word slithered through the room, deadly and intimate.

I kept the knife raised, gun aimed at his chest. "We had a deal," I said, voice flat but edged with steel. "You never show up in front of my daughter."

Oscar's smile widened, eyes glinting with amusement and something darker. "Ohhh, my pet..." He leaned forward, elbows on knees, glass dangling loosely.

His voice was velvet over razor blades, low and predatory, like he was toying with prey before the kill. "But you broke your part of the deal first."

I didn't move. My mind raced. Lila's door was closed, but Oscar's men were definitely outside. If he wanted her, he could have taken her.

"I don't whore for you," I said, words sharp. "I only kill for you. You do not own me or my body Oscar!"

He chuckled, low and wet, like blood bubbling in a wound.

"Ohhh, but you got it all wrong." He said, setting the glass down with deliberate slowness, stood in one fluid motion that made the room feel smaller. Taller than most men i know, shoulders broad, moving with the grace of a panther stalking. The air thickened with his presence, cigar smoke, expensive leather, the underlying threat of violence. "I own you.

Everything about you. Your hands. Your blades. Your nights. Your secrets. You work for me."

Tension coiled in my gut. "What do you want?"

"I heard news." He said, circling me slowly, predatory, never touching but close enough I felt the heat from his body. His breath brushed my neck as he paused behind me.

"Unpleasant ones, Raven. You've been playing in someone else's sandbox. Damien Blackwood's little playground.

Letting rich men drool over what belongs to me."

My jaw clenched. "It's a cover Oscar, It gets me closer to a target."

"Closer to a target?" Oscar stopped in front of me, leaning in, his face inches from mine. His eyes locked on, unblinking, deadly. "Or closer to a cock? I saw the footage, pet. The way you drop to your knees. The way you control them. Very... professional. But you forgot who taught you control."

I pressed the gun to his throat, steady, not shaking.

"How did you get those videos? Is Damien aware of it?"

"Don't pet."

"I have eyes all over the country, even men like Damien's world can still be penetrated."

He didn't flinch. Just smiled wider, pressing into the edge enough to draw a thin line of blood.

"Your daughter is ten already." His voice dropped to a velvet growl, dangerous and intimate. "Stick to your part of the deal... or she will complete it for you."

Cold sweat broke across my back, my forehead. "Please," I whispered, the word tasting like ash, breaking from my lips despite the gun in my. "You won't do that to me."

Oscar tilted his head, studying me like prey, his smile predatory, eyes gleaming with cruel delight. "Begging already? That's new." He reached out, slow, brushed a knuckle down my cheek, gentle, almost tender, but the touch felt like poison.

"Seems like your little night at Velvet reservoir already softened you.

Come to Darkar. Tomorrow by midnight. We can discuss there. Just you... and me."

He stepped back, casual, as if he hadn't just threatened my child. "Midnight tomorrow. Bring nothing but yourself. I'll send a car."

He moved toward the door. Paused. "And Raven?"

I didn't answer.

"Don't make me come collect what's mine."

The door opened. Closed. Silence rushed in.

I stood frozen, gun still in drawn, breath ragged.

Then the soft creak of a door handle.

Lila's bedroom door swung open.

My daughter stepped out, rubbing sleepy eyes with one fist, stuffed bear dangling from the other hand. Hair mussed, oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder.

"Mommy?" Her voice was small, thick with sleep. "Why are you standing there with that?" she said pointing at the gun in my hand.

My heart cracked open.

I dropped the gun. It clattered on the floor.

Lila blinked, confused. "Mommy?"

I crossed the room in three strides, dropped to my knees, pulled her into my arms so hard she squeaked. Buried my face in soft hair that smelled like strawberry shampoo and safety.

"I'm keeping for a friend, baby," I whispered, voice breaking for the first time in years. "I'm right here."

Lila hugged back, sleepy and trusting. "Was someone here? I heard voices."

I closed my eyes. "Just a bad dream."

I held tighter.

But the fracture in my chest was now a canyon.

And midnight tomorrow was coming fast.

Chapter 7:

CLARISSA'S POV

The mirrored elevator doors of the Tower reflected a woman who looked like she'd been dragged through hell and back.

Platinum hair limp and tangled from fingers that weren't Damien's, lips swollen and lipstick faded to a bruised pink. The cash in my clutch, ten grand after the house cut from three private rooms, wasn't enough to wash away the bitter taste of defeat.

I straightened my pencil skirt, smoothed the silk blouse that clung to my sweat-damp skin, and stepped out onto the top floor like a woman on a mission.

Junior VP of acquisitions. That's what the brass nameplate on the office door said.

But titles doesn't really matter to me now, not when i have a more pressing issue at hand.

That masked bitch had slithered into Velvet reservoir and turned the club into her personal kingdom.

Men who used to book me exclusively now waited in line for her. Triple bids. Quadruple. And Damien, my Damien watched that bitch perform, something he has not done for me.

The one he'd bent over his desk, thrusting hard while I moaned his name until my voice cracked.

The one who'd earned her place in his bed, his boardroom, his life.

I bypassed the front desk and headed straight for the conference room at the end of the hall. The lights were low, only the city skyline glowing through the glass walls.

He was already there, as promised. The strange man. No name. No title.

Just a referral from a client who owed me a favor.

He sat at the far end of the mahogany table, silhouetted against the glittering Manhattan night. Mid-forties, suit cheap but tailored, face scarred from old knife fights. His eyes were cold, assessing, like he was pricing my organs.

"Clarissa Voss," he said, voice gravelly, almost amused. "You said you had a problem."

I slid into the chair across from him, crossing my legs slowly, deliberately.

The leather creaked under me. "I do. I replied to him, voice low, threading with caution.

A woman, a new recruit, masked. She's stealing my clients. Stealing... everything."

He leaned back, fingers stepping. "And why do I care?"

"Because I hate her." The words spilled out hot, burning, like acid in my throat. I leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a hiss. "She waltzed in with that lace mask and that body, and suddenly every man in the room wants her.

First night at the club and she already has all the men wrapped in her fist. They leave the bigger tips for her. Like I was nothing."

The strange man's eyes narrowed, but he didn't interrupt.

I kept going, voice rising despite myself, hands trembling slightly on the table.

"She threatens me. My position, everything i represent.

And Mr. Backwoods, i have a gut feeling he's already obsessed with her. I can't share. I won't share."

He chuckled, low and humorless. "Jealousy's expensive."

"I'll pay. Whatever it takes. Take her out." I met his eyes, unflinching. "I hate threats. I can't share my clients, and most importantly, I can't share Damien."

The words hung in the air, heavy as lead. The man studied me for a long beat, then nodded once. "Fifty upfront. Fifty when it's done. Clean. No trace back to you."

I slid an envelope across the table, half the cash from tonight's tips. My fingers brushed his as he took it, and I felt nothing but cold satisfaction. "Make it hurt. Make her disappear."

He got up from his position, pocketed it without counting. "Pleasure doing business."

He left without another word.

I sat there alone, heart pounding, a smile creeping across my lips. Raven Noir or whatever the bitches name is wouldn't see it coming. And my Damien would come back to me. He always did.

************************

DAMIEN'S POV

The conference room was my battlefield.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Manhattan like conquered territory, but the men across the table didn't appreciate the view. They were cowering, and I liked it that way.

"Five million," I said, voice flat, leaning back in the leather chair.

My fingers drummed once on the table, slow, deliberate.

"Take it or walk. I don't negotiate with amateurs."

Harrington, the lead partner from the sinking tech startup, swallowed hard.

His tie was knotted too tight, sweat beading on his forehead despite the air-conditioning. "Mr. Blackwood, that's half our valuation.

We have investors. Projections for next quarter"

"Projections are fantasies," I cut him off, eyes cold. "Your code is buggy. Your market share is shrinking.

Your CEO is one scandal away from prison.

I'm offering five million to buy the scraps. Take it, or I leak the audit to the press. Watch your stock tank to zero by morning."

The room went silent. The other two partners exchanged glances, faces pale. One fidgeted with his pen, clicking it like a nervous tic. The air smelled of desperation, expensive aftershave mixed with fear sweat.

Harrington broke first. "Four and a half. Please."

I smiled, slow, predatory. "Five. And I keep the IP. Sign here."

He signed. Hands shaking. The pen scratched like a surrender.

"Good choice," I said, sliding the papers to my lawyer. "Get out."

They scrambled, chairs scraping, doors closing with a click.

I exhaled, rolling my neck. Another deal crushed, another company absorbed into the empire.

The ruthlessness was second nature now. It kept the board quiet, the competitors scared, the money flowing.

Elena, my secretary, efficient as a blade knocked and entered, stack of files in hand. "The weekly reports, sir."

I took them, flipping through. Real estate: up 12%. Tech startups: 8% growth. Clubs: Eclipse steady, but Velvet reservoir... I paused. Massive revenue spike. One night alone, triple the usual take, private rooms booked solid, tips record high.

Raven.

I made a mental note, to do anything to retain her, double her rate if needed, triple even.

She was gold. The way she commanded the room, the way men scrambled, it wasn't just sex. It was power. And I wanted more of it.

"Elena," I said, closing the file. "Dig into Raven Noir.

Anything you can find. Background. Address. Connections.

Bring it to me tomorrow."

She nodded, no questions. "Yes, sir."

She left.

I stood, grabbed my coat, headed for the private elevator. The city sprawled below, mine for the taking.

The convoy waited in the underground garage, three black SUVs, drivers armed, lead car with my bodyguard. I slid into the middle one. "Estate."

The driver nodded. We pulled out, merging into Manhattan traffic. Late night, streets empty. I leaned back, closing my eyes, mind on Raven.

Her lips under the mask. The way she'd outdone Clarissa in Room 3. The way she glanced up at me from the floor, knowing I watched.

And then suddenly, a screech of tires.

The lead SUV swerved. Gunshots cracked.

Glass shattered.

"Ambush!" my driver yelled.

The car lurched, more shots rang out.

I reached for my gun under the seat, stepping out from the car, i aimed back at my attackers firing multiple shot at them.

This wasn't the first time i have been attacked, from angry business partners, to an angry obsessed fan, to ex's i have lost counts of over the years.

The gun battle dragged on for close to 30 minutes leaving me exhausted.

And then, my shoulder exploded in pain, warm liquid seeped out dripping down my cloth. Blood soaked my shirt.

I ducked back into my car seeking cover.

Then a high-pitched voice rang out, sharp, very familiar?

"Take him dead or alive!"

Darkness crashed in.

I lost consciousness.