Bustling city of Milan, where I always seem to find myself.
Tonight, the air is thick with the scent of cigars and liquor.
Sweat trickles down my skin beneath the golden lights of Eden's Ruin Club.
I drift in thought, lost in the rhythm of the club's nightly life, until a sound pulls me back to reality.
"Prinel… Prinel…" Voices echo at the end of the narrow backdoor passage.
I turn around cigarette in hand and there stands Nova.
Nova calls out to me, and a voice in my head whispers, *There goes trouble.*
"Tú perra…" she spits. "What the hell are you doing here?
Riot's been looking for you everywhere." Her voice echoes off the walls as she speaks.
"Get in the club! You've been assigned to Room 7."
I take a slow drag from my cigarette, watching the smoke curl up toward the club's neon glow. Nova's standing there with that look—the one that says I've pushed my luck too far tonight.
"Room 7," I repeat, the words tasting like ash.
"Sí. And you're already late." Nova snatches the cigarette from my fingers and crushes it beneath her heel. "Move. Now."
The bass hits me like a physical force the moment we step inside. Eden's Ruin is in full swing, bodies writhing under crimson lights, the air thick with sweat, smoke, and expensive cologne masking cheaper desperation.
Nova doesn't speak as she leads me through the crowd, past the bar, past the main stages. The other girls watch us pass. They know where I'm going. Some look grateful it's not them.
We reach the private corridor, and there he is.
Riot.
He leans against the wall outside Room 7, checking his watch with the deliberate slowness of a man who enjoys watching people squirm. When he sees me, his jaw tightens.
"Forty minutes late, princesa." His voice is silk over razor wire. "You know how I feel about tardiness."
"I'm sorry, I—"
"I don't want excuses." He pushes off the wall and closes the distance between us. Nova takes a subtle step back. "Room 7 has been waiting. Do you know who's in there?"
I shake my head.
"Dmitri Volkov. Russian. Very particular tastes. Very short temper." His hand shoots out and grips my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. "And you kept him waiting because you needed a smoke break?"
"Riot, I didn't "
His grip tightens. "Get in there. Fix this. And Prinel?" He leans in close, his breath hot against my ear. "Don't disappoint me again."
He releases me with a slight shove toward the door.
Room 7 is a blur of smoke and shadows. Dmitri Volkov is exactly what I expected cold eyes, colder smile, hands that grab too hard and expect compliance.
I play my part. I always do.
But something is off tonight. He's drunk. Aggressive. When I try to slow things down, suggest another drink, he gets angry. His words slur together in Russian and broken Italian, none of it good.
"You think you're too good for me?" He stands abruptly, knocking over his glass. "Riot promised me the best, and they send me a bitch who…."
"Signore, please, if you just "
His hand connects with my face before I can finish.
The room tilts. My cheek explodes in pain. I taste blood.
"Useless," he spits, already heading for the door. "I want my money back."
I'm still on the floor when Riot enters.
The door slams behind him with a finality that makes my stomach drop.
"He wants a refund," Riot says quietly. Too quietly. "Do you know what that means for me, Prinel? For the club?"
"I tried "
"You tried?" He crosses the room in three strides. "You *tried*?"
His hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back. Pain shoots through my scalp.
"You cost me fifteen thousand euros tonight. Plus Volkov's future business. Plus my reputation." Each word is punctuated with another yank. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"Please…" Tears stream down my face, mixing with blood from my split lip.
"Please?" He laughs, cold and cruel. "Please what, ragazza? Please let you cost me more money? Please let you embarrass me in front of important clients?"
He releases my hair only to grab my arm, hauling me to my feet. His other hand draws back..
The door opens.
Riot freezes.
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
A man stands in the doorway. Expensive suit, silver-touched hair, presence that fills the entire space without him moving an inch. Behind him, two men in black silent, lethal.
Luca Moretti.
Even through my tears, I recognize him. Everyone in Milan knows that face.
Riot's hand slowly lowers, but he doesn't release my arm. "Don Moretti. This is...this is unexpected. If you'd called ahead "
"Unexpected?" Moretti's voice is quiet, cultured, and somehow more terrifying than Riot's rage. He steps into the room, his eyes moving from Riot to me, lingering on my bleeding lip, my tear-stained face, the bruising already forming on my cheek.
Something shifts in his expression. Something dark.
"Is this how you run my establishment, Riot?" Moretti asks. "Beating your girls where anyone can hear?"
"She cost the club…"
"I don't recall asking for excuses." Moretti's gaze pins Riot like an insect to a board. "Release her."
One of Moretti's men shifts almost imperceptibly.
Riot's hand drops.
I stumble, catching myself against the wall. My legs barely hold me.
Moretti's eyes haven't left Riot. "You work for me. Do you remember that?"
"Of course, Don Moretti, I would never….."
"Then you understand when I give an order, it's not a request." He adjusts his cufflinks with careful precision. "Bring me the girl."
Silence.
Riot's face goes pale. "Signore?"
"The girl." Moretti's tone doesn't change, but somehow it carries the weight of an absolute command. "Now."
Riot looks at me, then back at Moretti. Whatever he sees in those cold eyes makes his protests die unspoken. He nods stiffly. "Of course. Whatever you wish."
Moretti turns without another word and walks out.
His men remain, watching. Waiting.
One of them looks at me and gestures toward the door.
I force my legs to move, every step feeling like walking toward something irrevocable. As I pass Riot, he grabs my wrist not hard, but enough to stop me.
"This isn't over," he whispers.
But when I look into his eyes, for the first time since I've known him, I see something I've never seen before.
Fear.
I pull away and follow Moretti's men into the crimson hallway.
Behind me, the door to Room 7 closes with a soft click.
And I know, somehow, that nothing will ever be the same.