Soon, one of them actually will—I push that thought out of my mind because I just can’t handle thinking about it.
“Hey, you.”
Alonso appears at my side, his voice cutting through my thoughts. He never addresses me by name. He probably doesn’t even remember my name. His cologne is strong enough to make my eyes water. Everything about him is vile—the way he looks atthe girls like we're inventory, the way he calls us "merchandise" like we're not even human.
"Yes, sir?” I try to keep my voice steady.
His grin is all teeth and malice. "Time to earn your keep, princess. You're giving your first lap dance tonight." His eyes glitter with sick pleasure. "Got to show the potential buyers what their money can get them.”
The blood drains from my face. "But—I—I don't know how to?—"
"Don't worry." His smile is like a knife. His fingers dig into my arm as he drags me toward the private rooms in the back. "The customer will guide you. Just do as you're told and remember—this is just a preview. Keep that cherry intact. It's your only real value to us."
Chapter 3
Fury
I wait until the main floor traffic grows heavier before slipping toward the back corridor. The excuse is easy enough—restroom. But once I'm out of sight, I veer left toward the administrative wing.
My leather soles are silent on the thickly carpeted floors as I move deeper into the club's inner sanctum. Most patrons never see this part of the club. It’s the first time I’ve had the opportunity to sneak back here. Usually, there are guards preventing it or there are too many eyes.
The door to the main office is locked, but that's barely an inconvenience. I slide out a small pick set disguised as a money clip and work the tumblers with practiced ease. Three seconds and I'm in.
Inside, the office is surprisingly modest—desk, computer, filing cabinet. The walls are soundproofed, which tells me everything I need to know about what happens in here. I immediately go for the desk, sliding on thin leather gloves before touching anything.
The computer's locked, and I don't have time to mess with it. The drawers yield nothing but mundane business shit—receipts,schedules, payroll. But the filing cabinet has promise. I ease open the top drawer, finding folders organized by date.
Jackpot.
I pull out my phone and start taking photos of documents. Bank statements. Property deeds. Names of businesses I recognize as possible fronts. Wire transfers. This is exactly what we need.
I snap photos of everything.
A sound in the hallway has me tensing. I slide the folder back in place, close the cabinet silently, and move toward the door. Voices approach—Spanish, male.
I press myself against the wall beside the door, ready for whatever comes next.
The voices pass. I count to ten, then ease out into the hallway, closing the door silently behind me. I quickly remove the gloves and pretend to check my phone as I move toward the main floor, assuming the confident stride of a man who belongs everywhere he goes.
As I round the corner back toward the club, I spot Alonso's slick-haired figure dragging Kayla by the arm toward the private rooms. Her face is pale as death, her movements rigid with fear, trying to pull back against his grip.
"Please," I hear her whisper. "I don't know how?—"
"Shut up and do as you're told." Alonso's voice is sharp. "The client's waiting. He’s an important man. Keep him happy."
“I’m scared," she pleads. “And I honestly don't know how?—"
“I don't give a shit if you're scared. You think I give a shit about your feelings?”
He yanks her head back so hard she winces, and backs her against the wall. Her body language screams terror.
I’ll kill the bastard.
Alonso jerks his head toward a door marked private. "Mr. Christian is waiting, and he specifically requested fresh meat.You're going to give him the best fucking lap dance of his life, and you're going to smile while you do it, or you’ll be sporting welts from my whip across your backside."
Every muscle in my body coils tightly. I’m seconds away from smashing my fist into that motherfucker’s face, grabbing Kayla, and getting her the hell out of here. But the Renegade Kings are relying on me. I can’t blow my cover.
Vincent Torrino wouldn't rescue a young woman from this sick fuck. Vincent would mind his own business, enjoy the show, or maybe behave like an even sicker fuck.
