We cut through the back hallway, music from the floor trailing behind us, and climb the narrow staircase to the second level. My office sits above it all, reinforced walls, glass overlookingthe floor, the kind of space where I can handle business without interruption. Once the door seals, the sound drops to a dull pulse beneath us. I don’t sit. Neither does he.
“The Kavanaghs are moving again,” I say, voice flat. “Southside docks. They’re pushing distribution, setting up new points, crawling out of whatever hole they’ve been hiding in.”
Lars’s jaw tightens, the muscle there ticking once. “I thought they were finished. Thought Lachlan was too far gone to pull strings.”
“He’s not sick.” The words leave me sharper than I intend, but I don’t correct them. “He’s delusional, yes. Reckless. But not weak. He wants us to believe he’s fading, banking on us being distracted—Miami bleeding shipments, Philly pressing expansion. He thinks he can slip through while the noise keeps our eyes elsewhere.”
For a beat, Lars just studies me—steady, calm, assessing the way he always does. He doesn’t waste words, doesn’t fill the air with bullshit. Finally, he says, “You want to hit back.” Not a question.
A slow smile curves my mouth, one I don’t bother hiding. “I want something more strategic. I want to send a message. Something they can’t ignore.”
I slide a folder across the desk. He opens it, scans the contents—warehouse coordinates, pictures, a timeline. I know what’s inside of that warehouse. Crates of cocaine stacked high, weapons slipped through cartel deals. Lachlan couldn’t hold onto legitimate trade, so he dirtied his hands.
Lars snaps the folder shut, eyes narrowing. “That’s millions in product. Burning it sends a hell of a message.”
“That’s the point.” I lean forward, resting a hand on the desk. “We light it up tonight. Minimal crew. No unnecessary bodies. By morning, the city will know Lachlan’s reach ends here. He doesn’t get to grow under my shadow.”
I glance once through the glass, at the floor below, where the Monarch hums with life. “This isn’t about money. This is aboutcontrol. I think Kavanagh needs to be reminded who the fuck I am and where his proper place is.”
Lars nods. “This won’t go unanswered.”
“Then we will be ready for retaliation.”
“Understood. I’ll get the crews ready and put out a call to the circle,” Lars confirms before heading for the door.
After Lars leaves, I pour a shot of vodka, toss it back, letting the burn coat my throat, and head out to VIP. The sound swallows me whole. Heavier now, thicker, the kind of weight only a crowd full of money and hunger can create. For a Tuesday night, Monarch is louder than it should be, the bass thrumming steady beneath my shoes, a heartbeat pulsing through the foundation.
The air hits next—dark and intoxicating, layered with top-shelf whiskey, expensive perfume, sweat, and the sharp tang of want. Monarch doesn’t breathe unless it’s thick with tension, doesn’t come alive unless it has a thousand eyes fixed on what they think they can take. It’s not just a strip club. It's indulgence incarnate. A temple where desire is currency.
Spotlights slice through the haze, beams of lavender and white that sweep over the stage draped in black velvet. They move like hands teasing over skin, feeding anticipation, stretching the crowd tighter with every pass. Voices hum across the room, rough and impatient, sharpened with hunger.
I lean against the curved brass railing at the edge of the VIP tier, elevated above it all. This is where my regulars and out-of-town whales sit with their cigars and their secrets, where they throw down money like absolution.
Black lacquered walls gleam like oil beneath the lights. Velvet chairs cluster tight around gold-rimmed tables, each one lit by soft amber lamps that glow warm against the bare skin. Crystal glassware catches the light, throwing it back against the mirrored ceiling above the stage until the whole room feels wrapped in reflection—shadows and shine, sin dressed as luxury.
And above it all, Monarch’s signature. A butterfly. Massive, metallic, wings flared wide behind the stage as if it’s about to takeflight and carry every dark fantasy in the room with it. It’s a sanctuary for the fallen, forged in desire, a kingdom for the feared.
The Monarch doesn’t simply open its doors to the city’s elite—it consumes them. Senators sip beside CEOs, cartel heirs melt into velvet chairs, and for a night they all surrender, whether they realize it or not. Deals are inked in the condensation on whiskey glasses, futures traded in the shadows between sets. My dancers glide past their tables and hear more about the inner workings of corporations, campaigns, and syndicates than most interns or admins ever will. Men loosen their ties and their tongues here, thinking the shadows make them invisible, thinking money buys them silence. But nothing in this place escapes me. Their secrets spill as freely as their liquor, and I collect every one. That’s the real currency Monarch runs on.
The music cuts without warning, and the crowd stills as if pulled on a string. Instinct has them leaning forward, eyes locked on the stage before they even know why. The announcer’s voice slides through the speakers, smooth, a practiced drawl that slinks over the club.
“Alright, gents…this next one’s a little slice of heaven in six-inch heels.”
A ripple moves through the room—eager voices, the rustle of bills already being pulled from wallets.
“Let’s give a warm Monarch welcome to our newest Angel. Put your hands together for Bianca.”
The lights snap to center stage. The show begins.
Bianca. Just another stage name, another mask. Girls like her come through Monarch’s velvet ropes every week—wide-eyed, wild, chasing money and validation in equal measure, hiding their truths beneath layers of makeup and the lies they tell. I’ve seen it a thousand times.
But then she steps into the light.
And everything fucking stops.
The music still plays, but it’s faint now, a pulse slipping under water. Glasses clink, voices carry, but the sound barely reaches me.
She doesn’t just walk onto that stage, she arrives. The spotlight bends toward her, pulled like gravity to something it was meant to find. She claims the room instantly—not just the stage, not just the men foaming at the mouth in their seats, but the very air itself.
