I blinked, read it again.
The Sacrifice.
That didn’t sound good.
I ran a search. Not much came up at first—just a sleek, intentionally sparse website with a barely-there landing page. A moody background with a password-protected login portal. No names. No schedules. Just one line at the bottom:Private Members Club. Invitation Only.
Still, I knew exactly what I was looking at. One image showed the silhouette of a woman mid-spin on a pole, her legs extended above a set of dimly lit velvet banquettes. Another captured the blur of strobe lights hitting skin and sequins. No logos. No name. But there was no need. This wasn’t a bar. It was a strip club—one that didn’t want to be found by just anyone.
I ran a reverse-image search, hoping to find a performer tagged somewhere, a location match, anything.
Nothing. The metadata had been scrubbed clean. Whoever had built the site knew what they were doing. That kind of digital hygiene wasn’t cheap—or casual.
I ran a side trace on the site’s backend infrastructure and got a hit: 11th Avenue and West 45th Street.The Sacrifice.Registered under a shell company based out of the Cayman Islands with a fake name that screamedfront, the kind of name used by people with a lot to hide and the resources to make themselves vanish if anyone looked too close.
This was not just any strip club.
It was hidden. Quiet. Exactly the kind of place men like me avoided…or owned.
And my girl was working there?
That little girl in the pink sweater and ratty bun spent her nights on a pole?
I closed the screen halfway and looked back at her.
Something snapped in my jaw. I hadn’t even realized I was clenching my teeth until the pain cut through the fog in my head.
She shouldn’t be stripping.
She shouldn’t be waiting tables either.
I hated that I noticed the way the neckline of her sweater dipped in the front. Hated that I could picture her spinning—the way her thighs would flex, how that sweetness could become something weaponized. But mostly? I hated the idea of other men looking at her. Touching her. Shouting at her from darkcorners, mouths open, eyes tracking every grind her barely clothed body made.
She wasmine.
The thought came uninvited. The word hit hard and settled deep, as though it had always belonged there. I hadn’t planned on claiming her. But the moment the idea crossed my mind, it carved itself in stone.
“Morning, Mr. Volkov.”
Trina’s voice cut through the red haze. She set my order down—black coffee in a double-walled ceramic mug and an open-faced lox on toasted rye with lemon dill cream cheese and capers. She never had to ask, which I appreciated.
“You’re early today,” she said, smoothing her apron.
I nodded, keeping my eyes on the blonde. “What’s her story?”
Trina followed my gaze. Her mouth twitched. “Lyla? She’s been here since April. Started on mornings yesterday. Carmine hired her the day she showed up in the city looking all desperate.”
“Literally?”
“Close enough.” She snorted. “She was staying in one of those scuzzy hostels. Then one of the girls she met here hooked her up with a cheap apartment over in Hell’s Kitchen. Small, a couple of roommates. Barely better than squatting.”
“Why’s she here?”
Trina leaned in, lowering her voice and rolling her eyes. “She’s got a thing for the stage—acting, dancing, the wholefollow-your-dreamsspiel. Says she’s gonna be a star.”
I didn’t respond, just continued focusing on Lyla across the cafe.
“She’s one of those Suzi Sunshine types. Always smiling. Always talking. Like, does she ever shut the hell up?” Trina muttered. “It’s annoying as shit.”
