The first gunshot shattered the music.
Angela Dias froze with a tray of drinks trembling in her hands, the bass from the speakers still thumping through the floor as if nothing had gone wrong.
For one breathless second, the club kept dancing. Neon lights flashed. Bodies pressed together. Laughter spilled like alcohol.
Then the second shot came.
Screams ripped through the air, sharp and raw, cutting through the smoke and music. Glass exploded near the bar, shards raining down like ice. Someone shoved Angela from behind, and the tray slipped from her fingers, glasses smashing at her feet.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"Get down!" someone yelled.
Angela dropped to the floor, her knees slamming into sticky tiles soaked with spilled liquor and blood.
The smell hit her immediately gunpowder, sweat, alcohol, fear. Her ears rang as more shots followed, deafening and violent. She crawled instinctively, her palms burning as they scraped against broken glass.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
She was just a waitress. Just a girl trying to pay rent.
The club Velvet was known for trouble, but never like this. Never war.
Angela pressed her back against the bar, chest heaving as she struggled to breathe. Her fingers shook as she pushed her dark hair out of her face. Through the chaos, she heard men shouting in harsh, curses, threats. Not drunk arguments. Not street fights.
These were professionals.
Her eyes lifted before her mind could stop them.
Across the room, near the private booths, a group of men stood unnervingly calm amid the chaos. They were dressed in black, their movements precise, deadly. One of them wiped blood from his cheek as if it were an inconvenience. Another reloaded his gun with terrifying ease.
And then she saw him.
He didn't flinch. Didn't shout. Didn't fire wildly like the others. He simply stood, tall and solid, watching the room like a king surveying a battlefield already won.
The lights flickered, briefly illuminating his face.
Sharp jaw. Cold eyes. A faint scar cutting through one brow.
Their gazes met.
Angela's breath caught.
Something dark and knowing crossed his expression. Not surprise. Not confusion.
Recognition.
Her stomach dropped.
She ducked immediately, heart racing, but it was too late. She had seen him. And worse he had seen her see him.
Another explosion rocked the club, and someone grabbed her arm.
"Move!" a bouncer shouted, dragging her toward the back exit.
Angela stumbled, legs weak, ears ringing as they burst into the alley behind the club. Cool night air hit her skin, sharp and biting compared to the suffocating heat inside. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, growing louder by the second.
She bent over, gasping, her hands on her knees.
"I….Ineed a minute," she whispered.
But the minute never came.
A black van screeched into the alley, tires screaming against asphalt. Doors flew open. Men poured out fast, silent, efficient.
"No…wait…." Angela barely had time to turn before a rough hand clamped over her mouth.
She struggled, panic exploding in her chest. The smell of leather and cologne filled her senses as she was lifted off her feet. Her screams were swallowed by the alley as she was shoved into the van.
The door slammed shut.
Darkness.
The engine roared to life.
Angela kicked and clawed, her heart threatening to tear itself apart. "Please," she sobbed into the hand over her mouth. "I didn't do anything. I didn't see anything, I swear."
The van hit a turn, throwing her against the side. Her captor tightened his grip.
"Quiet," a voice said. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
The same voice.
The lights inside the van flicked on.
Angela's breath hitched as she found herself staring straight into the eyes of the man from the club.
Up close, he was even more terrifying.
His presence filled the space, heavy and suffocating. His eyes dark, unreadable studied her face with unsettling focus. She could see the faint lines of exhaustion around them, the shadow of violence that clung to him like a second skin.
"You work at the club," he said, more statement than question.
She nodded frantically.
"You saw the shooting."
Tears burned her eyes. "I didn't understand what was going on, I don't know who you are. I don't know anything, I swear."
He leaned closer.
Angela smelled him..smoke, gunpowder, something metallic. Blood.
"You saw my face," he said quietly.
Her throat tightened.
Silence stretched between them, thick and unbearable. The van hummed beneath them, carrying her farther and farther from everything she knew.
Finally, he leaned back, exhaling slowly. "What's your name?"
"A-Angela," she whispered. "Angela Dias."
He repeated it softly, as if testing the sound. "Angela."
She flinched when he reached out, but his fingers only brushed her wrist, turning it gently to inspect the small cut bleeding there.
"You're shaking," he observed.
"You kidnapped me," she snapped weakly, fear sharpening her voice. "What do you expect?"
Something flickered in his eyes. Not guilt. Something closer to conflict.
"You were in the wrong place," he said. "At the wrong time."
"That's not my fault!"
"No," he agreed. "But it's my problem."
Her chest tightened. "Please. I won't tell anyone. I just want to go home."
He studied her for a long moment, as if weighing her life on an invisible scale.
"There is no home anymore," he said.
The words hit harder than any blow.
Angela understood one thing the moment the car slowed.
She wasn't being taken somewhere temporary.
The road had grown too quiet. Too long. Trees lined both sides, thick and dark, swallowing the headlights as the vehicle moved deeper into isolation. The city lights were gone now, replaced by silence so heavy it pressed against her chest.
Her wrists trembled in her lap.
She had stopped crying somewhere along the way. Fear had burned through her tears and left something colder behind.
The car rolled through iron gates that opened without a sound. Beyond them rose a mansion that didn't feel like a house—it felt like a statement. Stone walls. Tall windows. Armed guards standing like statues.
Angela's breath came shallow.
The door opened.
"Out," a voice commanded.