ANIYAH
“M-Miss Glovefox, w-we assure you we’re keeping up w-with your standards,” stammered the mousy male mage, eyes wide behind thick glasses, speaking through the conference call on my laptop.
I laced my fingers together and stared at him like he was sitting right in front of me. “Really? Because I’ve been hearing mixed messages.”
His mouth opened, then closed, garbled nonsense spilling out as he scrambled for a defense. Word was, his club was skimming cash from the girls the moment they stepped off stage. That was abigno-no in my book.
Human strip clubs had their normal revenue streams: cover charges, VIP rooms, drinks and party favors, but that never worked for supes. Our bodies burned through drugs and normal alcohol too fast for them to be profitable.
It wasn't until my parents became bosses that they made magical alcohol for supes, cornering the market. They’d had to assure the US government that the Syndicate would keep a tight leashon those beings influenced by it. To make this manageable, we made it in small amounts, only offering it in our clubs and casinos, which made the Syndicate richer and stronger. On the other side of things, it did make the workload that much bloodier, too.
What really made supe-run clubs different was our magical talents. Supe clubs were dominated by the fae, who were capable of tailoring experiences through glamour. We attracted humans and supes alike and charged a premium for it.
The talent was tiered as some could only alter their appearance, while others could alter their entire form. The top echelon could shift entire settings or even influence the receiver’s mood. Customers paid upfront to attend a performance or for booking private shows, and the tips? Those belonged to the talent, every single coin.
But this club? It was taking everything, tips and all, then tossing the performers scraps, claiming low revenue and underpaying their cut to the Syndicate. A slow week? Understandable. It was a small, rundown club in the rural outskirts of Alabama. But weeks turning into months? That was when my people started digging, and once I got involved, punishments ensued.
Rubbing my temples, I balked at this mage's excuses, rolling my eyes, but this was part of the job. I didn’t just run a world-renowned sex club, I had to babysit clubs across the country. It was exhausting. Why couldn’t people just do their jobs without trying to pull a fast one? He could’ve lived well, but greed got in the way.
Greed wasn’t inherently bad, hell, the Syndicate was built on it, but the trick waskeepingwhat you snatched up and stole. Beingstrong, smart, and vicious enough to make it stick. That was what made us untouchable. We protected what was ours.
“Mr. Haney, you talk about upholding standards, but your finances don’t match your words.”
He fumbled again, and I cut him off. “From where I’m sitting,” I flipped through papers on my desk, feigning interest in his numbers, “you just got greedy.”
His face lost color, and I offered him my sweetest smile and bat my eyes.When in Rome. “Now, I get wanting more money. Judging by the pictures of this dump, you need it.” I held up a photo of his club, the front sign saying, “We have bobies and boties.” I internally cringed at it.
“My issue is that you took from the talent even though you know they’re the lifeblood of our business.” I wagged my finger at him like he was some naughty schoolboy. “Where would we be without them?”
He wiped sweat from his brow and adjusted his glasses with his middle finger. A fire mage sweating? Could he make it any more obvious that he was hiding something? Idiot.
“T-then how do I m-make more if the t-talent gets it all?”
I just stared, baffled that this moron even had a license to operate. He must’ve inherited the club or bribed someone. No creativity, no clue. A man like him had no place in the skin trade, and that was what finally made me lose it.
Slamming my fists on the desk hard enough to rattle my laptop, I yelled, “Fucking anything else but stealing from the talent! Raise prices! Mug a customer! Record them and blackmail them! We’re a criminal organization, for fuck’s sake! I don’t care howyou get the money, just make sure the talent is taken care of! Talent equals profit!”
Anger pulsed through me, sharp and hot, and I began daydreaming of inventive and creative ways to turn this man's body inside out. If he were in the room, I would’ve already had my hands around his neck, ripping it clean off.
It's just not the same when you're online.
Forcing a calm expression, I narrowed my eyes on the screen and cracked my neck. In the corner behind him, a shadow flickered, forming an outline of a hand making a circle with its thumb and forefinger. He was ready.
Keeping the mage's attention on me, I folded my hands atop my desk, glancing at the watch on my wrist and smiling sweetly. “You know what, Mr. Haney? I have another appointment to get to.”
He visibly sagged in relief. “Oh, y-yes, of course. Y-you’re a very busy woman.”
He looked to the side, and I saw my moment. I winked at the shadow who was waiting for my go ahead, and it all happened in a flash. He turned back to me, but he barely got a word out before a man in all black appeared behind him, slipping a wire around his neck and yanking tight.
“You see,” I began as Haney thrashed, “you’re just not a good fit for our organization.”
Fire flared weakly from his fingertips, sputtering as the wire glowed. It drew in his magic, neutralizing it.
“I believe your talents are better suited elsewhere, but this is the Syndicate.” I shrugged. “We don’t do ‘walk away.’”
He gagged and clawed at his neck, eyes bulging. The assassin held steady, giving me time for my final words. Professionalism, after all.
“Now, we’re going to have to sever ties. I hope you understand.” I let a wicked smile spread across my face, the last thing he’d ever see. “Thank you for your service.”
