The gunshot came from behind the red velvet curtain.
It was loud. Too loud for a place like this.
Music was still blasting in the nightclub, lights flashing like nothing had happened, but I froze. My drink slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. People around me laughed, danced, kissed. No one noticed the sound because no one wanted to.
I wanted to leave.
I turned toward the exit, my heart beating hard, when a hand closed around my wrist.
"Don't," a man said quietly.
I looked up. He was dressed in black, his face calm, his eyes empty. Another man appeared on my other side. Then another behind me. Three of them. All watching me like I was already dead.
"Please," I whispered. "I didn't see anything."
The man smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "That's not what we heard."
They dragged me through the crowd, past the bar, past the flashing lights, and into a narrow hallway marked PRIVATE. The music faded behind us. The smell changed from alcohol and perfume to blood and metal.
The curtain was open now.
Inside the room, a man lay on the floor, his chest soaked red. His eyes were open but empty. I covered my mouth to stop myself from screaming.
I hadn't known him. I didn't want to know him. But I had seen the gun. I had seen the shooter.
That was enough.
They didn't kill me there. That surprised me.
Instead, they blindfolded me and pushed me into a car. The engine started. We drove for a long time. I tried to count turns, time, anything but fear made my thoughts slippery. All I could think of was my brother. Where was he? Had he gotten home safely?
The car stopped.
Hands pulled me out. Cold air hit my face. Gravel crunched under my shoes. When the blindfold came off, I found myself standing in front of a massive iron gate. Beyond it was a house no, a compound. Lights glowed from tall windows. Men stood everywhere, armed, silent.
This wasn't a police place.
This was worse.
They led me inside and into a large room with dark walls and a single chair in the center. I was pushed into it. My knees shook, but I forced myself to sit straight. Crying wouldn't save me.
Footsteps approached.
The man who entered didn't rush. He didn't need to. Everyone else moved out of his way.
He was tall, dressed simply, his sleeves rolled up as if this was just another night. His face was calm, sharp, unreadable. His eyes met mine, and something cold settled in my chest.
This was him.
I didn't need anyone to say his name.
Dante Moretti.
He stopped a few feet from me and studied my face like I was a document he'd already read once.
"You were in the wrong place," he said.
"I was just having a drink," I replied, my voice shaking despite my effort. "I didn't plan"
"I know," he cut in. "You don't look like someone who plans much."
Silence stretched between us.
"I want to go home," I said. "I won't tell anyone what I saw."
A corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Everyone says that."
He turned and nodded once.
A man stepped forward and placed a phone on the table in front of me. The screen lit up.
My brother's face filled it.
He was tied to a chair, his mouth bruised, his eyes wide with fear.
My heart stopped.
"What do you want?" I whispered.
Dante looked back at me, his expression unchanged. "You're going to help me."
"Help you how?"
"There's a man," he said. "His name is Victor Hale. He is my enemy."
I swallowed hard.
"You're going to get close to him," Dante continued. "You're going to make him trust you. You're going to make him want you."
My stomach turned.
"And if I refuse?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
Dante leaned closer, his voice calm, almost gentle.
"Then your brother dies tonight."
He straightened. "You have thirty days."
The guards moved toward me again.
As they dragged me away, one thought screamed in my head, louder than the gunshot had been:
I wasn't being sent to seduce a man.
I was being sent into a war I wouldn't survive.