Snapping Point

13.

The time I was entering the club was crucial. It was nearly the moment when the DJ, servers, bartenders, strippers and the crowd shot the mood from a ten to a one hundred.

Slipping in through the back entrance, I had past the regular tier and gone up to the VVIP and found myself at the bar, face to face with Charlotte, one of the female bartenders, her assets on full display like a neon sign in the night. Or better yet, like it was part of the menue.

"Whiskey," I ordered, cutting through the din of the club as I stared around me.

Men ordering drinks at the bar, indulging there or taking their drinks down to their seats across the lounge, others receiving lap dances from half-clothed women—this was the rhythm of my nightly existence. The ebb and flow of desires, the surrender to hedonism, the escape from reality into the embrace of vice. Each night, I witnessed the unraveling of men's common sense, drowned in a cocktail of drinks, women, and drugs.

"Coming right up, Boss." Charlotte poured, her voice barely audible over the thumping bass. She tucked her hair behind her ear and sent me a smile darkened by her gothic lipstick.

Smoke wafted through the air around me, left and right, mixing with the scents of alcohol and perfumes. The high stage was illuminated by spotlights, casting an ethereal glow on the strippers, some with masks and others without.

The next bar was a hub of activity, with bartenders expertly mixing drinks and patrons clamoring for their next round. In darker corners, more secretive figures lurked, engaged in whispered conversations and more erotism. Despite the decadence and debauchery that permeated the club, there was an undeniable energy, a sense of liberation that drew people in, night after night, seeking an escape from the monotony of their everyday lives.

I was not an exception.

Dropping ice into my drink, Charlotte cleared her throat. "Here you go."

I fixed my gaze on the drink, observing the ice as it gradually melted before taking a swig. My desire to find Ottavio burned me, yet the sheer size of the building made the likelihood of encountering him as slim as Charlotte's waist in her tight dress.

Navigating through a fourteen-floor building, with the first four floors stacked with club levels, felt like pursuing a mirage in a maze of concrete and metal.

I didn't bother with the futile search. Instead, I decided that I'd give him a call if I was that desperate. Maybe I'd break the news that I was now engaged to the devil in red dress, or perhaps I'd spin it as if the proposal was the highlight of my existence.

Damn it all. Luciana was doomed, and so was I.

As if my head wasn't already ablaze, now it was devoured by thoughts of further damnation. Regret gnawed at my insides, fueled by the realization that I had let the redhead slip through my fingers without a fight. Perhaps if I had succumbed to impulse, seized her in a moment of reckless abandon, I would have had less to regret tonight.

"Heard about Shed."

I nodded grimly at Charlotte, taking the last swig of my drink and gesturing for her to refill. "These things happen."

"But why isn't Mr. Alfonso facing the same fate?" she pressed, her gaze searching mine for answers.

I couldn't spell everything out to the workers; some things were as obvious as a freshly dug grave. Like why an ex-senator and business partner of the Family would meet his demise instead of a strip club manager.

Shed's responsibility was to maintain peace here, not Alfonso's. Even if Alfonso knew better than to bring in his drugs and accidentally cause harm, someone was supposed to prevent all of that from happening. And he had failed miserably.