Chapter Eight-Cecilia
Leaving that room like everything is fine and I feel nothing at all is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.
But I do it. I march upstairs, back straight, eyes level. I give nothing away of the riotous emotions inside of me.
The Den’s front bar is already alive with sound—bass-heavy music vibrating through the floors, laughter spilling like smoke.
I spot Emilio behind the counter and crook my finger.
“Martini,” I tell him. “Dry. Two olives.”
He doesn’t even blink before mixing it. My usual.
I take the glass, swirl the liquid once, and take a small sip.
Cold. Sharp. Exactly what I need.
Then I lift my gaze and find Valera in the DJ booth, grinning at me like she already knows. She always does.
I tilt my head. A subtle point.
That’s all it takes.
We’ve been doing this since we were teenagers sneaking into the Den with fake lashes and fake IDs, but nothing else about us was pretend. Not then. Not now.
Three beats later, it hits.
The drop.
Low and filthy. The kind of bass that grabs your spine and drags it to the floor.
I smile for the first time in thirty minutes.
If they want to treat me like a child—my father, my uncles, Atlas—then I’ll give them the little girl they think I am.
I’ll dance like I never grew up.
Like I don’t know what the price of power is.
Like I didn’t just hear the man who kissed me like a sinner begging for absolution offer my name like a shield in a political war I didn’t start.
I slide off the barstool, my skirt clinging to my hips like it knows exactly what I need tonight.
The floor is alive. A tangle of bodies and beats. Writhing. Glowing. Free.
The Den has always been like this.
Untamed. Undeniable.
It’s not just a nightclub. It’s a legacy.
The Vipers might wear better suits now, sit at cleaner tables, speak in more polished tongues—but this place? This was our first church. Our first battlefield.
I took my first drink here. Learned how to sway my hips in a way that drew attention and kept it.
My mother once danced on this very floor in boots with heels loud enough to gut a man. My aunts grinding next to her like the queens they are, while my father and uncles cursed and growled and pretended not to watch with feral pride.
This place might be ours.
But tonight, it’s mine.
The crowd parts as I move, and I’m not sure if it’s the bouncers ghosting me like shadows or the simple weight I carry. The height. The tattoos. The don’t-fuck-with-me aura I wear better than most women wear perfume.
I don’t care.
Because I need this.
I need to move.
The music finds the hurt in me and turns it into something wild.
I roll my hips, let my arms lift, let the rhythm own me.
Every step is a rebellion.
Every sway is a middle finger.
Every turn of my body is a scream they can’t hear over the music.
They think I need protecting?
And him? He thinks he can just claim me and toss me away?
I want him to see what that looks like.
I want to burn in the dark and make him watch.
Hands reach for me—too bold, too close—and I brush them off like dust. I’m not here to flirt. I’m not here to play nice.
I’m here to forget.
Forget the meeting.
Forget the contract.
Forget the way he said wedding like it was a goddamn chess move instead of a declaration.
Then the air shifts.
I feel it first. Heavy. Electric.
And I know.
He’s here.
Atlas.
My body recognizes him before my eyes do. My hips slow, melting from fire to honey. My head turns on instinct.
And I see him.
Standing just beyond the edge of the floor like he owns the fucking universe and wants to burn it down anyway.
That tailored navy suit, the top two buttons undone just enough to tease a glimpse of gold skin and arrogance.
His hair is rumpled, like someone had their hands in it, and I hate that it makes me want to be that someone again.
His molten eyes glow in the dim light. They’re locked on me.
Not on the bodies grinding.
Not on the VIP section.
Just me.
Like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
Like I’m the problem—and the cure.
Someone stupid moves toward me, smiling like I’m an open invitation.
He doesn’t even get close.
Atlas turns his head, mutters something I can’t hear, and the guy stumbles back like he just remembered he left the oven on in another country.
Then he’s in front of me.
Close.
Too close.
My breath catches. My pulse trips. The heat coming off him is wildfire.
“You finished?” he asks.
His voice is honey over gravel.
Low. Dangerous. Designed to destroy.
“No.” I lift my chin, daring him.
He leans in, not touching, but there.
“Unless you want me to start smashing heads in, you’re finished, kardhoúla.”
My stomach tightens at the sound of that word—little sweetheart—like he has any right to say it after what he did. After he offered me up like a solution.
But I know him. Know what he’s capable of.
And if he starts a fight, my father and uncles will lose it. Not on him. On me.
I grit my teeth.
I nod once. Just once.
That’s all he needs.
“Let’s go,” he says.
And I go.
Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t want him.
Because I’m sick of the ache in my chest.
Because maybe—just maybe—I need to see for myself whether this is a game.
Or something so much worse.
Even if it leads me straight to hell.