(Natalie POV)
The bass was the first thing that hit me. It wasn't the chatter, the laughter, or even the stench of beer; it was the bass. It pounded into my ribs as if someone were inside my chest drumming.
I stood behind the sticky counter, tugging at the hem of the skimpy black dress that the bar had given me. Although the dress wasn't indecent, it was something I knew I could never wear outside. It was simply too tight, too short, and revealed too much skin.
"Relax, dove," Rocco, the club owner, said, slapping a rag down beside me. His smirk was lazy and practiced, the kind of smile that came from a man who thought he'd seen everything. "You pour, you smile, you collect tips. That's it. Nothing you can't handle."
I nodded, gripping the rag like a weapon. "Y-yeah. Just… normal job stuff, right, boss?"
Rocco let out a laugh. "Normal? Baby, nothing in this bar is normal. But you'll learn. Keep your head down, look pretty, and the money will come, got it?"
"Got it," I replied, my voice trying to be steady enough.
Then, the first customer came...almost immediately. He was a guy with slick-black hair, and he wore cologne that was strong enough to sting. Then he leaned against the counter like he was the owner, and then his eyes dragged over my body.
"Well, hello, new girl," he purred, sliding a rumpled bill across the counter. "Didn't know this place upgraded the staff. Tell me, what's your name, sweetheart?" he asked. That was it; I was so furious that I would've smashed his order on his head, but... I paused. The reason I came wasn't to cause a ruckus and get fired on my first day; instead, I answered the call.
"Um… Natalie." I answered while tugging a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Natalie," he repeated, like he was savoring or should I say 'tasting' it. "Pretty name. Matches the face." His grin widened. "What do I get if I order two shots and leave a big tip? A smile? Your number, or maybe a taste of what's under the skirt, eh?"
I fumbled with the bottle as I tried maintaining my voice. Then I forced a polite smile. "J-just the shots, sir."
"Ooo, she's polite," the man teased, leaning closer. "Bet you're polite everywhere, huh?"
Before I could answer, Mr. Rocco's voice cut through; it was sharp. "Back off, Tony. She's fresh blood. You want a girl, there's plenty around. Don't make me throw you out."
Tony frowned but backed away with his shots, muttering something about "cock-blocking bosses." I just let out a shaky laugh.
"Thanks," I murmured.
"Don't thank me," Rocco said, smirking. "I'm not saving you. Just don't like my toys broken on the first night."
Immediately, my smile faltered. I turned back to wiping the counter as my cheeks burned.
The next customer was drunk but cheerful, slapping his cash on the counter. "Two beers, princess! And hey, if I get drunk enough, you think you'll carry me home?"
I giggled silently inside myself. "I doubt I could carry you out, sir."
"Ohhh, she's got jokes!" the man laughed, shaking as he tried to wink.
"Here," I slid the beers over quickly, relieved at the harmless banter.
But relief didn't last long. Another man leaned over the counter; his breath reeked of whiskey. His eyes raked me up and down like I was already undressed.
"You new here?" he rasped.
"Yes, sir."
He grinned. "Thought so. Innocent look. I like that. How much for a taste?"
My face flamed red. "E-excuse me?"
"Don't play dumb, sweetheart. Everything in this bar has a price."
Before he could reach for my hand, Rocco appeared again, this time slamming a bottle down so hard the man jumped.
"She's not for sale, jackass. Order a drink or get the hell out."
The man grumbled but slid some cash across the counter, glaring at me like it was my fault. I bit my lip, suddenly wishing I could just melt into the floor.
When the customer left, I whispered, "Why do they all… act like that?"
Rocco shrugged. "Because they're men. Because this is a bar, not Sunday school. Get used to it, dove."
I managed a small nod. Still, despite the embarrassment, I straightened my back and forced a smile at the next customer. I wasn't going to let them see my crack.
WHEN THE ATMOSPHERE SHIFTED
I had just finished sliding change across the counter when another guy leaned in. His hair was wild, and half his shirt unbuttoned down his chest. He reeked like cheap perfume: the kind that stuck to your throat like smoke.
"Hey, doll," he drawled, giving her a smirk that showed gold teeth. "How about you forget this counter and come sit on my lap, doll? First round on me. Hell: make it every round."
I froze, hugging the towel in my hand. "I-I'm just working, sir."
"Working?" He chuckled, tapping the bar with his knuckles. "Sweetheart, what you're doing isn't work. It's begging to get noticed. And guess what? You got noticed."
Just as I opened my mouth to respond, Rocco materialized. He leaned casually against the bar, but his tone was lazy; his stare wasn't.
"Back off, Marco," Rocco muttered. "She's not your type anyway."
"Not my type, old man?" Marco barked out a laugh. "Boss, every girl's my type when she looks like that."
"Yeah?" Rocco smirked, leaning closer until their noses almost touched. "Then consider her my type, and you don't touch what's mine. Got it, d*ckhead?"
Marco stared, but one look at Rocco's unblinking eyes made him back off with a curse under his breath.
I blinked, unsure if I should feel relieved or more trapped. "Why do you… keep scaring them off for me?"
Rocco grinned. "Didn't I tell you, dove? I like my toys looking shiny, not dented. Don't read too much into it."
I swallowed hard and went back to wiping glasses, my cheeks burning.
The night was chaos—music pounding, laughter mixing with curses, hands slapping the bar, people shouting over each other. I kept busy, dodging stares, fumbling with orders, and blushing at every offhand comment.
But then—
The air changed.
It was subtle at first, like someone had turned the volume down a notch even though the music hadn't shifted. Conversations faltered. Heads tilted toward the entrance. A murmur ran through the room, low and uneasy.
Natalie glanced up, confused.
The doors had opened.
He stepped in like he owned the air itself. Tall. Sharp suit, black as night, crisp white shirt beneath it, collar undone just enough to show he didn't give a damn about rules. His presence was heavy, not loud—yet it demanded silence more than shouting ever could.
Victor Santoro.
I didn't know his name. Not yet. But everyone else did.
"Holy shit," someone muttered near the counter. "The Boss is here."
"No way he's on this floor—"
"He never comes down here…"
Men straightened their backs; women adjusted their skirts. Even Rocco, the smirking king of this bar, seemed smaller, suddenly busy wiping the counter like it mattered.
My heart stuttered. I didn't know why. I wasn't even looking directly at him. But I felt it—the weight of his gaze sweeping the room, slow, deliberate.
Then it landed on me.
Just a second. Maybe less. But long enough.
Dark eyes, sharp and cold, flicked to me like I was already catalogued. His stare lingered—steady, unhurried—before moving on.
I didn't notice. I was too focused on fumbling with the cap of a soda bottle, cheeks flushed from the unwanted attention of her last customer. But others noticed. Oh, they noticed.
The whispers grew sharper.
"Did you see that?"
"He looked at her."
"No way. She's fresh meat. Boss never—"
"Shut the hell up before he hears you."
Victor's gaze shifted away, uninterested. He moved with unhurried steps toward the elevator at the far end of the bar. His men flanked him—Adam, stone-faced, just a half-step behind, and two more shadows who looked more like weapons than humans.
The crowd parted without being asked. No one wanted to be in his way.
I, still oblivious, brushed my hair back and took another order, completely unaware of the storm I'd just caught in her orbit.
The elevator dinged. Victor stepped inside without a word, Adam trailing close. The doors slid shut, swallowing him whole.
And just like that, the air slowly began to breathe again.