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.

CHAPTER 8:

RAVEN'S POV

The car rolled to a stop at exactly 11:58 p.m. outside a hulking, windowless structure on the far edge of Red Hook, Brooklyn, former meatpacking plant turned fortress.

No signs, Just razor wire curling over chain-link, floodlights sweeping the perimeter like searchlights in a prison yard, and four armed bouncers at the gate who looked like they ate nails for breakfast.

The driver didn't speak. Just nodded once toward the entrance.

I stepped out, no weapons, that would be a very deadly idea. Just black jeans, long-sleeve thermal, boots, hair in a tight knot.

My heart was a war drum in my chest, but I kept my face blank.

I'd kissed Lila goodnight three hours ago.

Told her I had a late meeting.

Maya the only friend that i have had from horrible days at darkar, stayed over, eyes sharp with worry.

"If you're not back by dawn," she'd said, "I'm coming for you." I nodded once, didn't argue.

The bouncers didn't ask for ID. One of them, very huge, neck like a tree trunk, earpiece glinting looked me up and down, then jerked his head. "Boss is waiting."

They flanked me as we walked through the gate. Metal clanged shut behind us.

The air changed immediately, heavy with diesel, sweat, cheap perfume, and something metallic underneath. Blood, maybe.

The main entrance opened into what they called the clubhouse. Dim red lighting, bass so deep it vibrated in my teeth. Concrete floors sticky under my boots. A long bar lined with men in suits and leather jackets.

Girls moved through the crowd, collared, barely dressed, eyes vacant. Some on leashes. Some kneeling at feet, mouths working.

One girl was bent over a high-top table, skirt hiked, a man taking her from behind while his friends watched and laughed.

She wasn't moaning. She was rather making muffled broken sounds swallowed by the music.

I kept my eyes forward, trying to shut the memories of my horrible past here. The bouncers didn't let me slow.

We passed the main stage, three poles, three girls, all naked, twirling and shaking asses in perfect rhythm.

One dropped low, thighs spread, fingers sliding between her legs while men threw bills.

Another climbed the pole upside down, legs splitting wide, holding the pose while a client reached up and slapped her ass hard enough to leave a red handprint.

She didn't flinch. Just smiled, the empty, practiced smiles all girls were tortured into learning here.

The third girl was on her knees in front of a man in a booth. He had her hair fisted, forcing her head down, thrusting violently into her mouth. She gagged, tears streaming, but he didn't stop. His friends cheered. Money changed hands like it was a show.

My stomach turned. I'd killed men like these.

Seeing this all laid bare, raw, brutal, again made me remember the past.

What they had done to maya.

This horrible place wasn't anything like Velvet reservoir.

This was a slaughterhouse for girls.

The bouncers pushed me through a side door marked PRIVATE. The music muffled. The corridor narrowed. More doors lined the walls, some closed, some cracked.

Moans leaked out. A girl's scream cut off abruptly. A whip cracked somewhere. Flesh slapped flesh. Chains rattled.

We passed an open room, two girls on their knees, naked, hands cuffed behind backs.

A man in a white coat, doctor, maybe, examined them like livestock. Flashlight in one girl's mouth. Gloved fingers between another's legs. "This one's tight," he said. "Good price." The girls didn't move. Didn't look up. Just stared at the floor.

Another room, a girl tied to a cross, lashes across her back, fresh red welts overlapping old scars. She was shaking, sobbing quietly.

A man stood behind her, belt in hand, stroking her hair like he loved her. "You'll learn," he murmured. "You always learn."

I swallowed bile, and kept walking.

The corridor ended at a heavy steel door.

One bouncer knocked twice, opened the door and pushed me inside.

Oscar waited inside.

The room was larger than the others, high ceilings, massive bed in the center draped in red silk, chains hung from the ceiling, leather couch, bar, dim red lighting that made everything look bloody. No way to escape this deadly place except the door behind me, and the tiny window, big enough for a seven year-old to fit in.

He sat on the couch, legs crossed, same black silk shirt from last night, a big cigar in hand. Just him.

"Pet," he said, voice low, pleased. "You came."

I stood in the doorway, arms loose at my sides. "You didn't give me a choice.

Oscar laughed softly. "I always give you a choice. You just never make the smart one."

He gestured to the couch opposite him. "Sit."

I refused his offer, standing instead. "What do you want?"

He studied me for a long moment, eyes roaming my body like he was cataloging every inch.

Then he stood, slow, deliberate. Crossed the room, and stopped inches from me, close enough I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and the cigar on his clothes.

"I want obedience," he said quietly. "I want loyalty. I want you to remember who owns you.

His hand moved fast. Fingers closed around my throat, not choking yet, just holding, firm, possessive.

His thumb pressed against my pulse point, feeling it race. With his other hand he caressed, slow, deliberate, down my side, over my hip, up my waist, tracing the curve of my breast through the thin thermal.

His touch was light, almost gentle, but the threat was in the grip on my throat.

"I own you," he whispered, mouth close to my ear. "Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every secret you think you're hiding. You want to work for him. But you forget, you belong to me."

His fingers tightened slightly blocking my air-way.

My vision edged black. I didn't fight, not yet.

I let him feel the pulse under his thumb, fast, but steady.

"You think you can get Blackwood by whoring for him?" Oscar murmured, lips brushing my ear. "He will end you the moment he figures out who you are. He will take your precious daughter away from you pet. But i? I will protect you, the girl who crawled through broken glass at fifteen. The girl who killed for me. The girl who still comes when I call."

His hand slid lower, cupping between my legs, firm, possessive.

I stiffened, but didn't pull away. He pressed harder, rubbing once, slow.

"You're wet," he said, almost surprised. "Even now, in this situation, your sweet, sweet body keeps producing fluids. That's why I keep you, i can never get enough of you, my sweet pet."

I swallowed against his grip. "Let go."

He tightened instead. "Beg again. Like last night."

"Please," I forced out, voice hoarse. "Let go."

He smiled, slow, cruel. Released my throat, and stepped back.

I sucked in air, coughing once, hand rising to touch the red marks he'd left.

"Good girl," he said, returning to the couch. He sat, legs spread, glass in hand. "Now sit. We have business to discuss."

I stayed standing. "What business?"

"A contract job, i clean kill tomorrow night." Oscar sipped, eyes never leaving mine. "Client want's it as fast as possible.

Other details will be sent to you by morning.

I didn't react. This was what i do. Who i am.

A sharp tool, in Oscar's hand.

"Also, Raven, about mr Blackwood, something has to be done."

My stomach dropped. "No, nobody touches him except me."

"No?" He laughed, low, dangerous. "You forget. I own your daughter's life too. One word, and she disappears. Or worse. She completes your contract. Ten years old. Old enough to learn the trade."

Cold rage flooded me. "You touch her, I kill you slow."

Oscar smiled wider. "Then do what I say. Blackwood will be eliminated, you will back to me. Or lose everything."

I stared at him, heart pounding, fury twisting together. The room felt smaller, air thinner. I thought of Lila, her trusting face, her innocence.safe in her bed right now.

Oscar stood again.

Crossed to me, grabbed my throat once more, harder this time. Choked me with one hand while the other caressed down my chest, over my stomach, between my legs again. Pressing, rubbing, claiming.

"I own you," he whispered, lips against my ear. "Every inch. Every breath. Every tear.

After you mission, you will come back here. On your knees. Where you belong."

He released me. I gasped, coughing, vision spotting. He stepped back, satisfied.

"Ohhh sweet pet," he said, voice soft, almost tender, grinning wide. "I kept a surprise for you."

Chapter 9:

Raven's POV

The contract landed in my encrypted inbox at 2:17 a.m.

three days after I walked out of Darkar with Oscar's grin still crawling under my skin and his last words ringing like a death knell: "I kept a surprise for you."

Target: a woman.

Age: 68.

Location: private residence, Southampton, Hamptons.

Payment: $750,000 on confirmation.

Notes: advanced dementia, make it clean, no witnesses, no trace.

A photo of a woman was sent, a basic floor plan, security rotation, and a single line: "She's kept on the second floor, east wing, white room."

I didn't hesitate.

Another message popped up my phone, another photo Oscar sent me, i opened it and it was an image of Lila asleep in her bed, taken from outside her window. A reminder, one wrong move and my daughter becomes payment.

The house was a fortress pretending to be a beachside estate. White stone, manicured lawns rolling down to the Atlantic, windows that caught moonlight like knives.

Perimeter cameras every twenty feet, motion sensors buried in the grass, eight armed guards on rotation, two Rottweilers patrolling the grounds.

I spent two nights in the dunes with binoculars and patience, memorizing patterns.

The woman never left the second floor, curtains always drawn, no visitors, only a maid who brought trays and left with them untouched.

I took the maid on the third night.

She was leaving through the service gate at 11:43 p.m., trash bag in one hand, phone in the other. I came up behind her in the shadows of the hedge, arm around her throat, blade to her kidney. "Scream and I open you from the back," I whispered.

She froze, muffling down a scream down her throat, trembling like a leaf.

I dragged her into the dunes, zip-tied her wrists, taped her mouth, pressed the blade against her throat until she nodded frantically.

"Where is she kept?" I asked, pulling the tape down just enough.

Tears streamed. "Second floor... east wing... blue room... please... I have kids..."

"Code to the service door?"

"7-4-9-2."

"Guards on that floor?"

"Two. One outside the room. One in the hallway."

I taped her mouth again, zip-tied her ankles, left her bound behind a dune. She'd be found in the morning, alive, i don't kill innocents unless I have to.

The service door code worked, i slipped inside, kitchen dark, stainless steel gleaming under moonlight through the window.

I moved up the back stairs, avoiding cameras, sticking to shadows. Second floor hallway marble, crystal chandelier, oil paintings worth more than my life.

One guard at the far end, back to me. I came up behind him, arm around his throat, knocking him out blade pressed to his kidney.

He dropped without a sound. I dragged him into a linen closet, zip-tied him, gagged him with a towel.

The white room door was unlocked. I pushed it open.

The woman was in a wheelchair by the window, facing a small portrait on the nightstand.

Thin white hair, frail shoulders under a pale blue robe, hands folded in her lap like she was praying.

An elderly?

The room smelled of lavender, old paper, huge bed in the corner, IV stand empty, She didn't turn when I entered. Just stared at the portrait, a soft, vacant smile on her lips.

I stepped closer, knife low, one cut, quick, clean, that's all it would take.

As i got closer and took a proper look at her, She looked... harmless. Plain, lost, dementia, the brief said.

She didn't even know I was there. Her fingers trembled as she reached for a portrait, a boy maybe eight years old, dark hair, serious eyes, storm-gray gaze staring straight at the camera.

My breath caught.

The eyes.

Lila's eyes.

The same shape, same intensity, same impossible gray. But a younger male.

The woman whispered something soft, broken words I couldn't catch. She stroked the frame like it was alive. Eyes glistering with unshed tears. "My boy... my sweet boy..."

I looked around the room. No other photos.

Just this one boy. And a single silver frame on the dresser, the name "Eleanor Blackwood." Inscripted on the frame.

the elderly woman but, younger, smiling, arm around a man who looked like an older version of the boy in the portrait. The man's face was scratched out, deliberately, viciously.

The realization hit like a blade between my ribs.

Eleanor Blackwood.

Damien Blackwood.

The uncanny resemblance between the young boy in the portrait and my daughter Lila.

She was Damien's mother.

The contract was to kill Damien's mother.

I stood there, knife in hand, staring at the woman who had no idea who i was or what i was about to do.

Lila's life was along the line, and i can't let anything happen to my daughter!

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

DAMIEN'S POV

I woke up with a sharp pang of pain on my entire body.

Blood had soaked through my shirt, drying in stiff patches that pulled every time I breathed. My wrists were tied behind an iron chair, cold metal biting into skin.

The room was concrete bare bulb overhead, no windows, smell of rust and damp and old blood. A basement, or a warehouse.

I tested the ties, too tight, my gun was gone, phone gone, jacket gone, shirt torn open, wound exposed.

bullet entry, no exit. Through-and-through. Bleeding had slowed, but infection would start soon if it hadn't already.

I felt my head banging terribly, like I fell into a ditch head down.

I heard Footsteps approaching, faintly at first but it grew louder with each steps and within seconds, the door flew opened.

Two men stepped in, masks pulled down around their necks. One tall, lean, scar across his cheek. The other shorter, heavier, knuckles scarred. They carried batons and knives.

"Ohhh, the prince of Manhattan is awake," the taller one said, grinning. "Look at him. All tied up like a present."

The short one laughed. "Pretty boy thought he owned the city."

I didn't answer. Just watched them, calculating how i would gut them if i ever broke free. The door was steel, bolted from outside. One way out.

Tall one walked closer. Baton tapping his palm. "Boss says you're valuable. But not so valuable you can't bleed a little."

He swung. Baton cracked across my ribs.

Air exploded from my lungs. Pain flared white-hot. I bit down on a grunt.

Short one grabbed my hair, yanked my head back. "You like pain, rich boy?" he asked.

Another swing. This one to the thigh, my muscle cramped, and i tasted blood as i bit my tongue.

Tall one leaned in. Breath hot. "You fucked with the wrong people. Now you pay."

He drove a fist into my wounded shoulder. I roared couldn't stop it. Vision tunneled. Blood seeped fresh.

Short one laughed. "Look at him. Bleeding like a stuck pig."

They took turns. Baton to the kidneys. Knife tip dragged across my chest, shallow cuts, just enough to sting. Fists to the face. Blood in my mouth. Vision blurring.

I kept my mind sharp, counted blows, waited for an opportunity.

When they stepped back, breathing hard, I lifted my head. Met their eyes.

"You're dead," I said quietly, spitting out blood.

They laughed hard.

I opened my mouth to speak again, then the door flung open.

Gunshots, sharp, fast. Tall one dropped first, head snapping back. Short one spun, reaching for his gun, but he was too slow.

Two more shots and he fell, dead.

Silence.

A figure stepped in, dark silhouette, gun raised.

I squinted through blood and sweat.

A woman's voice "you belong to me." She said.

Darkness rushed in again.

I lost consciousness.