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Fisting my bag, I dart out of the dressing room, passing the guards stationed at the back exit of the club.
“Leaving early tonight, are you?” Jayden—one of the security—asks as I brush past him and out of the back door.
I spin towards him. His slicked-back, blonde hair reflects off the street lights in the alleyway. He’s wearing his usual lopsided smile framed by a light blonde stubble. He’s an attractive guy. We slept together once, but it was a drunken night of fun; nothing past that.
He looks me up and down, and I realise how ridiculous I look in my platform heels paired with joggers.
Oh well.
“I’m knackered tonight. I need to go home and sleep,” I lie, giving him a small smile.
“You deserve it. You work hard. Have a good night, Vix.” He winks. I give him a small, awkward smile and speed-walk to my car in the parking lot opposite the road.
Chapter 4
Xander
Ipull up to the car park of DL. Bright white lights consecutively light up as the sensors pick up the presence of my McLaren GTS.
“Aidan is already waiting with Jacques, sir,” Ezra—my bodyguard—explains as I park in a large designated space, away from the customer and staff parking, next to Jac’s black Lamborghini Revuelto.
We both step out of the vehicle, the loud echoes of our doors shutting filling the hollow space.
Jacques has been chasing up about our Italian dealers, but there’s still not been a word from their caporegime. Our runners have been sending out question pings, waiting for their share of drugs to distribute. The longer we don’t hear from our suppliers, the more money we lose out on.
Ezra catches up to walk beside me, an in-ear monitor secured for communications with our team. His brown eyes assess our surroundings at every step. He’s a little slimmer than me with umber brown skin. He doesn’t train frequently at the gym like the rest of us—Ezra prefers mixed martial arts; it’s what makes him one of our top guards.
We cross the road into the alleyway to enter through the back, keeping our heads down to avoid the bustling crowds of drunk people. Jayden pushes the door open as he spots us.
“Good evening, Mr Warren,” he greets. As I pass him through the door, his frame goes rigid and he holds his breath. I don’t even think he realises it.
“Jayden.” I nod at him.
A loud exhale follows inside as the door shuts behind us and shrouds us in darkness.
Ezra snickers from beside me. “That will never get old.”
Unlocking another heavy-duty security door into the red-lit corridors of the club, we step in. Small lights on the CCTV cameras blink to indicate they’re recording.
Everything in this club is of the highest quality, from the tech to the staff.
“Are undercovers stationed?" I ask, patting the holster inside my waistband to check for my gun.
“All around the perimeter, sir.”
The last thing we need is the police to come sniffing around here during a business meeting.
“Has Aidan been searched?”
“Yes,” he confirms.
We push through the black, leather-padded double doors into the main club floor, the bass of the music vibrating through my chest. Cigarette smoke immediately fills my lungs, burning my throat.
The club is unusually busy tonight. Maybe it’s because I don’t often come here around this time. The only time I’ll show my face—when I have to—is before the music turns up and the smell of alcohol and horny men fills the air.
Crystal chandeliers and silver disco balls hang from the high-rise ceiling. Small, square tables with leather chairs—currently occupied by men in suits—are placed neatly around the marble-floored space. The bar shines a dim blue colour, stools tucked neatly under the bar tops, and it’s the brightest part of the club. The main room houses a ground floor and a balconied second-floor VIP area where the girls are free to dance more privately with the clientele. At times, we do get female clients attending the club when their billionaire husbands host parties here, but for the most part, it's men. There are luxury private rooms in the back of the club for more intimate services.
Everyone is in their seat; not one person is situated around the bar like they normally are when I check in on the cameras. Full tumblers of alcoholic drinks sit on their tables as they engage in conversation. A few of them dip their heads in our direction as we weave our way through the tables. Dancers move to the music against the poles on the second floor, some giving their men a lap dance. Banknotes fly off the side as hungry men throw their dirty cash at their feet. That’s one of the rules we implemented—cash is never to be thrown at the dancers but to them at their feet.
