I woke up to the soft hum of traffic outside and the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Sunlight streamed in through the half-closed blinds, casting slanted lines on the wooden floor of my bedroom. I stretched, slow and lazy, feeling the pleasant ache in my limbs from sleeping too long. My hair was tangled from tossing, my skin warm under the oversized T-shirt I had slipped into the night before.
From the hallway, I heard movement—familiar, rhythmic steps and the quiet shuffle of keys. Then Caleb's voice called out, warm and teasing.
"Amelia, you're finally awake," he said, poking his head into the room. He was already dressed in his usual crisp shirt and slacks, badge clipped to his belt, looking like he had his life together, as always. "Didn't want to disturb you. You looked so relaxed, sleeping like that. You even missed dinner last night."
I pushed myself up on one elbow, blinking the sleep from my eyes. "You bought milk?"
He raised a small white carton in triumph. "Got it on my way back from patrol. You're welcome."
"Thanks," I mumbled, dragging myself out of bed and padding toward the kitchen in my fuzzy socks. I poured a cup of coffee, black, just the way I liked it. The bitter taste grounded me more than the heat.
"You're not nervous?" Caleb asked, grabbing his jacket.
I sipped slowly. "A little," I admitted. "But it's just bartending. Nothing I can't handle."
He gave me that look—half skeptical, half proud. "You'll do fine. Just remember, you're not there to impress anyone. Keep your eyes open, ears sharp."
I nodded. I would miss going into the precinct with him, those quiet commutes and coffee stops on the way, but something about tonight—about this assignment—thrilled me. The fear didn't outweigh the anticipation.
After Caleb left, the apartment felt quieter. I had a shower and pored myself another cup of coffee. I settled on the couch, mug in hand, and stared at the half-unpacked duffel bag by the door. Then, like a flicker in my mind, I remembered the night before.
The gummy wrapper.
It was still in the pocket of my jeans, tucked away like a secret. I retrieved it, held it in my palm, and examined it in the light. Cheap. Grape-flavored. Nothing remarkable. Still, something about it felt out of place. Why was it delivered to my apartment? I frowned, then pushed it out of my head. Paranoia wasn't a good look on day one.
I spent the whole afternoon researching every hint of information I could get about the club and its rumored owner. The place—Inferno—was barely on any public records. What little I found hinted at offshore investors, laundering allegations, and a façade of glamor built on secrets. It was all hearsay, fogged with speculation. But that only added fuel to my curiosity.
Before I knew it, evening crept in, golden light fading to gray. I showered, scrubbed every inch of myself clean, and stood in front of the mirror wrapped in a towel. I stared at myself. Wide-eyed, lips parted, trembling slightly with anticipation.
By 6:45, I was outside Inferno.
The club loomed ahead, nestled between two tall buildings like a secret kept between friends. A crimson neon sign glowed above the blacked-out glass doors, humming faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. The sidewalk was slick from a recent drizzle, and the air smelled of gasoline and perfume.
Two large men stood at the entrance—arms folded, dressed in all black. One of them stepped forward as I approached.
"Staff?"
I nodded. "Mel Monroe."
He looked me over, not in a creepy way, but like he was measuring me. Then he jerked his thumb toward the side entrance. "Through there. You're expected."
The hallway I stepped into was narrow and dimly lit, with black walls and a low ceiling. Music thumped faintly from deeper inside. I followed the echo of voices until I reached a doorway. I peeked inside—and stopped short.
Dante Moretti.
He stood near the back of the room with a cigar in mouth, watching two servers argue over bottle placements. Short and stout, grey-haired, sharply dressed in a tailored charcoal suit. His hair was slicked back, but a few strands had fallen over his forehead. He had a glass of scotch in his right hand which he twirled repeatedly in circles.
When he noticed me, his gaze didn't flicker. He nodded once and dismissed the others with a wave of his other hand, each finger adorned with gold rings.
"Mel," he said, voice smooth but stern. "Right on time." His phrase revealed a gold tooth.
I swallowed. "Yes, sir."
He looked me up and down in a slow, intimidating manner.
"You'll pick up your uniform from the changing room down the hall," he said.
He spoke fast.
"Your shift starts in twenty. You don't drink on the job. You don't flirt back unless you're told. You stay behind the bar. You don't wander. You speak when spoken to. Understand?"
I nodded. He didn't like the fact that I did.
"Do you understand?" He said again. Louder this time.
"Yes sir"
"Good. Any questions?"
"No sir"
"Good," he said again. "Let's see how long you last." He gulped down what was left of his scotch and pushed the glass into my hands. "Now get to work."
He walked away.
Two girls lingering nearby exchanged glances after he left. One leaned in. She had jet-black hair and glossy lips, and spoke in a whisper loud enough for me to catch.
"I hate him. He's always like that. Thinks he owns the place."
"I heard he doesn't," the other said. "He's not even the real boss."
I tilted my head. "What do you mean by—?"
"Mel!" Dante's voice rang out again. "Get dressed!"
I found the changing room down the hall. A rack of outfits greeted me—if you could call them that. Corsets, micro-skirts, fishnets. I found one labeled with my name. The corset was tight, black with gold threading, laced at the back. It cinched my waist and lifted my chest until I hardly recognized my own body. The skirt was short, hugging my hips with a slit that revealed far too much. I slipped on the black Louboutins they had laid out for me—sleek, high, unforgiving.
I glanced at myself in the mirror.
Damn.
Curvy. Sleek. Dangerous. My long, wavy hair framed my face perfectly, and I dabbed oil over my legs and arms, giving my skin a sultry sheen. I looked like someone you didn't mess with—or someone you couldn't help but try.
When I stepped onto the floor, heads turned.
Men stared, women whispered. A few of the bartenders gave me nods of approval, one even smirking. "You're going to cause some trouble," he said.
I smiled but said nothing.
The night blurred into a rhythm of flashing lights, thudding bass, clinking glasses. I kept my posture straight, my eyes alert. I caught snippets of conversations, flirted back when it felt safe, made perfect cocktails while pretending I hadn't done this before.
My mind kept going back to what that girl said in the backroom.
"He's not even the real boss"
What could she possibly have meant by that? Was there someone else running this place through Moretti? I needed to dig deeper and find out more.
My train of thought got interrupted as I heard someone talking to me.
"You're the reason half the men are coming back tomorrow," one of my coworkers whispered as we cleaned up. "Seriously. I heard some guy tipped five hundred just to get your name."
I shrugged, exhausted but proud. "Let him guess."
At 3:30 a.m., I unlocked the apartment door quietly, heels in hand. The lights were off. Caleb's room door was shut, a soft glow peeking from under it. Probably asleep.
I exhaled slowly, walked over to my room, changed and got into bed.
Day one—survived.
When I woke up the next morning, the sun was already slipping through the blinds, casting golden lines across my sheets. My thighs ached from standing in those impossible heels all night, and my voice was slightly hoarse from shouting drink orders over pounding bass. I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the silence of the apartment press against me like a blanket. The club, the noise, the flashing lights—they felt like a distant echo now. But beneath that calm was a current of something else.
I peeled myself off the mattress and winced as my feet hit the cold floor. The scent of toast and coffee floated in from the kitchen, and that familiar comfort pulled a small smile from me. Caleb. He always made sure there was fresh coffee.
I padded into the kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of his old oversized shirts. He wasn't there—already gone to work—but he'd left a Post-it note on the fridge in his lazy scrawl:
"Amelia, didn't want to wake you. You were out cold. Coffee's hot. Be safe, okay? – C."
There was a small paper bag beside the note. I peeked inside and found two doughnuts and a tiny bottle of honey. My chest tightened, warmth seeping through me like sunlight in winter. Caleb always remembered the little things. I don't know what I'd do without him.
I sat down at the kitchen table with my coffee, curled my fingers around the warm mug, and let my mind drift.
The night before replayed in fragments—the bright lights, the slick smell of cologne and alcohol, the way the corset squeezed my ribs with every breath, the weight of men's stares crawling over my body like insects. But most of all, the very brief conversation between those two girls. I need to talk to at least one of them. Who was the real boss?
I curled up on the couch with my breakfast, phone in hand, going through my unread messages. I hated replying texts, it always felt like a chore.
A name flashed across the top of the screen. Bree. My finger hovered, then accepted.
"Hey, Amelia!" Bree's voice was a burst of sun.
"Hey, you," I said, cradling my cup.
"You free tomorrow? The gang and I are hitting that new rooftop place. You need to be there. Please, no cop excuses."
A soft laugh escaped. "No excuses. I'll be there." I actually missed hanging out with them.
The call ended as quickly as it came, and for the rest of the afternoon, I lazed around on the couch, wrapped in the noise of a movie I wasn't really paying attention to, the scenes flickering in and out of my thoughts. I wasn't nervous, not exactly. But something in my chest felt like pressure building against glass—growing tighter as the hour neared.
By nightfall, I slipped into tonight's outfit—another corset, this one deep burgundy, hugging my curves like a second skin. The black skirt was tighter tonight, with two slits on each side, and the heels made my calves pop. My hair was down and wavy again, falling over one shoulder. I oiled my skin until it gleamed like bronze under the mirror lights. I smelled of vanilla and warm musk, my body language was a blend of seduction and control. Still, as I stood outside the club, lights humming, music low inside, my palms itched with tension.
As I stepped through the doors, the place was already alive. The scent of liquor and perfume coated the air like silk and smoke. Amber, a brunette with hazel eyes and sharp cheekbones, waved me over at the bar.
"Looking like that, someone's definitely getting rich tonight," she teased.
Beside her, Lola, curvy and caramel-skinned, leaned against the counter with a smirk. "Girl, if I had your waist, I'd be charging entrance fees."
I laughed, sliding into the familiar rhythm of banter. "If I had your hips, the world wouldn't be ready."
But the laughter faded quickly when Dante emerged from a side door, clipboard in hand, dressed in his usual all-black ensemble—black suit, black tie, black shoes. His expression, stone-cold, flicked to me.
"Mel," he called, voice low but sharp.
I straightened.
"You're covering VIP tonight."
My heart skipped. "Got it."
"And Mel…" He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Don't mess this up."
I nodded, nerves spiking. "Yes sir"
The VIP lounge was on the upper floor, dimly lit and drowned in red tones—curtains like blood, lights like dying embers. I paused at the doorway, my breath catching. The room pulsed with wealth. Men dressed in dark suits sat reclined like kings in velvet chairs. The air smelled of sandalwood, cigars, and too much money. Strippers moved fluidly among them—half-naked, glittering, performing like art pieces for an audience that never blinked.
I scanned the area and the people there for another minute and then I saw him.
Not just another suit. This man stood out. He sat slightly apart, like the world was just a noise he tolerated. Midnight-black hair slicked back, a silver watch gleaming beneath his dark sleeve. His jawline was a clean, perfect cut; lips relaxed in a line of boredom or calculation—it was hard to tell. He wore a deep navy shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the smallest hint of chest. His gaze was predatory, still, unreadable. His presence was a weight that bent the room around him. And when his eyes found mine—
My knees nearly gave.
He didn't smile. But something in his expression shifted, interest sparking in the abyss.
I swallowed hard, turned away, and went to the bar to start working. Hours crawled by. The crowd grew louder. Glass clinked. My heels ached. I danced between tables with empty smiles and practiced grace, until I reached one of the corner tables. A table of four, loud and drunk. One of them, bloated and red-faced, smirked as she leaned over to pour champagne.
"Now this is service," he slurred. "How much for a private pour, sweetheart?"
"Just doing my job, sir," I replied, stiffly.
"You could do it slower. Or better." Laughter erupted.
Then—fingers, cold and wet, grazed my upper thigh. "Dance for me, you slut!"
Before I could react, a hand slapped the drunk's wrist away with enough force to jolt the table.
"That's enough," said a voice behind me—deep, calm, but sharp like steel.
I turned. It was him. The man who almost made me turn into a puddle of myself a few hours ago.
He stepped between me and the man, one hand gently curling around my hip as he shifted me behind him. The contact was brief—but electric. I could barely breathe. His touch was firm, not possessive, but protective in a way that made my chest burn.
"You touch her again," he told the drunk, eyes dark as oil, "and you'll leave here with less fingers than you came with."
The man muttered something, but shrank back into his seat.
I didn't realize I was shaking until we were walking away from the table. The stranger hadn't said another word, just steered me with a light pressure at my lower back until we were away from the crowd. He stopped. Turned to face me.
"You alright?"
I looked up into his eyes—dark gray like a storm cloud on the edge of breaking.
"Yes," I breathed. "Thank you."
He gave me a single nod. "Be careful who you serve in here."
And then he was gone, swallowed into the room's velvet shadows.
I stood frozen for a moment after the man walked away, but the weight of what just happened clung to my skin like something filthy. My chest began to tighten, my breath thinning out like smoke in winter air. Without a word, I slipped past the bar, down the narrow hall behind the stage. The music dimmed into a dull throb behind the walls.
I was alone now, I leaned against the wall, one hand bracing my weight, the other curled into a trembling fist.
It wasn't just the drunk's hand—it was what it reminded me of.
His voice, the grin, the grab—it all yanked me backward, into a place I'd fought hard to bury. The past clawed its way to the surface. My breathing turned shallow. My vision swam.
I hated this feeling. Hated that it made me feel weak after I had fought so hard to be strong.
I closed my eyes tightly, grounding myself in the present.
Still, it took a full minute for my lungs to obey again. For my pulse to ease back into something bearable.
When I finally stepped away from the wall, my hands were still slightly unsteady.
When I came back out, the hallway near the offices was quiet. A door creaked open. Light spilled from inside.
Dante's office.
My heart thudded. I checked over my shoulder. No one.
I crept forward; the club noise muffled by thick walls. Inside the office, papers were scattered. A file laid open. I edged toward the desk, flipping through documents—supply invoices, payroll, nothing of note. I moved to the drawers, my fingers curling around the metal handle just as—
The doorknob clicked behind me.
My stomach dropped. I heard footsteps.
I froze, still bent behind the desk, every muscle locked in place.
What was I going to say?