9. NIKOLAI #2
Because we were all waiting for the only drug that mattered tonight—Lyla.
Finally, the lights dimmed again. Not a wild storm or pop kickoff like before—this time, the lighting was soft, reverent.
A white glow bathed the stage as fog began to curl low along the floor like clouds drifting across heaven’s gate.
The bass faded into silence. Then came the hush. Every man in the room held his breath.
The announcer’s voice returned, but it was subdued now.
“Behold your angel.”
Suspended from the rigging above, turning slowly in a spiral of light, was Lyla, descending.
Her body was wrapped in white lace, sheer and delicate, adorned with tiny crystals that caught the lights and scattered it like shattered halos.
Her wings—not costume-cheap but gossamer and ethereal—shifted slightly with every movement.
The two-piece costume hugged her figure with deceptive innocence, elegant and blindingly pure.
Otherworldly.
Even the drunks in the front row fell silent.
She floated downward, wrapping herself around the rotating pole like it was part of her, using only the strength of her legs and core to spin, pivot, and extend.
Her arms moved in slow, deliberate arcs while her body formed stretching curves that felt less like choreography and more like a celestial dream.
Gasps rippled through the crowd as she executed a backbend and suspended herself upside down high above the floor, her body trembling slightly with controlled tension.
Then she dropped—fast, silent—before catching the pole at the last second and spinning into a long, wide arc that made every eye track her like a comet.
She moved with a grace that dared gravity to intervene.
The silence gave way to moans—desperate, stunned noises from grown men who sat there slack-jawed in awe.
She rose again and inverted, splitting her legs in a slow scissor. Her golden hair spilled down her back. Every flex of her thighs told a story of power and sensuality beneath the illusion of purity.
And when she descended this time, she didn’t rise up again.
She dropped into a floor routine that was pure slow-burn seduction.
Extending one leg, she arched her back and trailed a hand down the curve of her side.
She rolled her hips, her fingertips grazing first her thighs and then the stage.
The movements were slow, deliberate, and intimate—like the stage itself had become her lover.
I was already halfway to losing it.
And then, out of the blue, a man bolted from the front row and launched himself onto the stage.
He slammed into her with his full weight, tackling her to the ground. Her body folded beneath him, and her sharp scream cut through the chaos.
My hand twitched—ready to draw my Glock—but I didn’t move.
Not yet.
In a flash, a man emerged from the wings of the stage—black suit, cold eyes. With no hesitation, he raised a pistol.
The shot rang out like a thunderclap.
The patron’s head exploded.
Skull, brain, and blood sprayed across the stage like a grotesque firework. The audience gasped and erupted into pandemonium, most heading for the door. The smell hit me a second later—gunpowder and blood.
Lyla sat frozen, her mouth open and gasping for breath, her white costume dripping with red, the crystals and lace soaked in a dead man’s blood.
The shooter stepped over the body, grabbed her by the waist, and hoisted her like a rag doll.
She flailed—no fight, just reflex—still in shock.
He carried her calmly offstage like cargo.
I was moving before I realized it—not with fury, but with purpose.
Through the shadows, through the side corridor that led backstage, following them up a flight of steps.
He shoved open a door that led to a large dressing room and dumped her onto the floor like she was nothing.
“That’s why you still have a job here,” he said to Lyla with a maniacal chuckle. “Even though you were late last night. You keep the men stirred up like that and wanting more, and your head’ll stay on your shoulders.”
Then he kneeled beside her.
“Tell you what,” he said, wiping blood off the side of her face like it was nothing. “You be a good girl and keep your mouth shut about what happened tonight, and I’ll give you tomorrow night off. Guessing you’ll need it.”
He stood and walked out.
I waited in the shadows. Hidden. Fuming.
I wanted to break his neck with my bare hands and feel the crunch of his bones beneath my fingers.
Remaining concealed from her sight, I tracked her every movement.
She didn’t remove a single piece of the bloodied angel costume, just reached into her bag with shaking hands and yanked her black hoodie out, pulling it over her head.
It draped low enough on her body to hide the costume.
Then she wiggled into a pair of sweatpants and shoved her feet into her worn black sneakers, not even bothering with socks.
I started forward.
But just then, another dancer topped the stairs and headed into the dressing room, pausing mid-step when she caught sight of Lyla.
“Jesus. Are you okay?”
Lyla didn’t answer right away. Her face was ghost white beneath the smeared remnants of the angelic makeup, blood, and brains. She nodded quickly, not meeting the woman’s eyes. “Fine. I’m fine.”
Then she bolted.
Out of the room. Across the hall. Down the stairs. Slamming through the exit and tearing down the alley.
I moved fast, but could barely keep up.
She didn’t slow, didn’t even check her surroundings. Just ran like hellfire—every breath ragged with terror. I followed her through the streets, keeping to the dark edges.
A few blocks from the club, she took a hard turn and nearly slipped. Caught herself. Kept running.
Fuck. She was fast. Running on pure adrenaline.
I managed to remain close—barely. I didn’t want her to see me. I just wanted to make sure she was safe.
She reached her building. Four steps from the entrance, she suddenly turned.
Saw me.
Her breath hitched.
Those wide, wild eyes locked onto mine like I was death incarnate.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Then, slowly, I stepped back into the shadows.
Lyla keyed in her code, stumbled through the door, and slammed it shut behind her.
I circled around to the back and scaled the fire escape.
Through the kitchen window, I saw her collapse into someone’s arms.
Must be Jae Kim—the male roommate I’d seen on the lease and her social media posts. He was athletic and broad-shouldered. He wore a tank and joggers and looked like he could snap someone’s neck if he had to.
He held her like she weighed nothing.
“Hey—whoa, whoa. What happened?” The closed window muffled Jae’s voice, but even through the glass, I caught the protective tone.
Lyla just stood there, frozen in his arms, trembling.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head once, shuddering. “It’s not my blood… I didn’t get hurt. It’s…someone else’s.”
I clenched my jaw. Fuck, she was so wrecked.
“That’s good to know, sweet pea.” Jae pulled back slightly, studying her. “You need to get out of these clothes. I can smell what’s under them.” He brushed her hair back, gentle as hell. “Let me help you get cleaned up, and you can talk to me when you feel up to it.”
Every instinct I had screamed at me to tear him off her.
But then I caught it—the way he moved around her was with effortless familiarity, with comfort. There was zero trace of sexual tension. It was more like brotherly affection.
Good.
She wasn’t alone, and she would be cared for.
Thank God for that.
I exhaled hard, grounding myself with one palm against the railing of the fire escape.
A shadow moved below me.
Henri.
I climbed down and landed on the pavement beside him.
“She’s had a rough night,” I muttered. “If anything— anything —seems off, you let me know immediately.”
Henri gave a sharp nod. “Got it.”
“She works for Delgado. Witnessed a murder tonight. That makes her a target, even if she doesn’t know it yet. Stay vigilant. I want to know if anyone else is watching her.”
He nodded and didn’t ask questions, just faded into the shadows like the ghost he was.
I looked back up toward the fourth floor.
Lyla’s bedroom light was on.
I pulled out my phone and called Rory.
“Same alley you picked me up from earlier,” I said. “Now.”
“Sure thing” was all he said.
I ended the call, stepped away from the fire escape, and pulled the cigarette pack from the breast pocket of my jacket, giving it two quick taps against my palm. I slid one out with my fingers and clamped it between my lips, walking toward the street.
Lighter in hand, I flicked it once, twice—then cupped my other hand over the flame to block the wind as it caught.
The flame held, and I drew in slowly.
Smoke filled my lungs.
I tipped my head back and exhaled, the stream of smoke rising in a steady coil above me, twisting in the glow of the nearest streetlight until it disappeared into the dark.
My fingers were steady.
My pulse wasn’t.
In the underworld, everything changed fast. One minute you were collecting intel, and the next you were watching some bastard get his skull turned inside out. And the girl who’d just blown your mind? She was center stage. Painted in blood. One misstep away from becoming someone’s twisted prize.
I inhaled again, tightening my jaw and letting the nicotine calm my pulse.
Rory’s SUV pulled up. This felt like a replay of earlier.
I opened the door and slid inside.
“You look like shit,” he pointed out with a chuckle.
“Just drive,” I said, slamming the door.
Rory merged into the late-night Manhattan traffic.
“Home,” I ordered. “And make sure that surveillance is installed in her apartment the second it’s empty. Full kit. I want everything recorded.”
Rory nodded. “Got it. You wanna debrief or brood?”
“Both.”
He glanced over. “Shoot.”
“Delgado’s holding fucking auctions. Not behind closed doors. Not in back rooms. Onstage. In front of drunk assholes with fat wallets. Every dance is a sales pitch. Lyla doesn’t even know she’s the product.”
Rory swore under his breath.
“Guy tried to jump her mid-performance,” I growled. “Some manager shot him. Point blank. Blew his goddamn head across the stage and all over Lyla.”
Rory let out a low whistle. “Damn.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, then slammed my fist into the glove box.
Rory didn’t flinch. “You good?”
“She’s in shock. Blood all over her. Probably still thinks if she keeps her head down and does her job, she’ll be fine.”
“She doesn’t know a thing about sex trafficking, huh?”
“Not a clue.”
Rory exhaled through his teeth. “Delgado’s fucking disgusting.”
“Disgusting doesn’t cover it,” I snapped. “I want every last one of those cartel pricks gutted. Hung from hooks. Left to rot in the dark with rats chewing through their goddamn faces.”
Silence settled between us.
“Tonight changed that girl,” I said quietly after a beat. “She walked in with wide eyes, thinking she was just doing a job, and she walked out with a man’s brain matter on her chest. That doesn’t wash off. Not ever.”
Rory exhaled sharply. “And you? You planning on telling her what kind of world she’s really in anytime soon?”
I glanced out the window. “I’m the last man she would trust. She thinks I’m one of them. Hell, I probably look worse to her right now than the man who pulled the trigger. At least he shot the guy who tackled her.”
Rory gave me a sideways look. “So what now?”
“I keep her in the dark so she’ll play along and not draw attention to herself.
Tomorrow, I’ll make sure she stays the fuck home.
She needs some time to wrap her mind around what happened, needs to lay low.
I don’t want Delgado getting suspicious.
If he even thinks she might squeal or that she’s tied to me, she’s dead. ”
“And how do you plan to keep her quiet?”
“I’ll shut down the coffee shop for a day. Call it a surprise inspection. Pay Carmine double to sell the story.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed. Carmine answered on the second ring.
“Close up tomorrow. Tell the team it’s a health inspection and that they’re getting paid in full for the day.”
“What—”
“Don’t argue, Carmine. I’ll make it worth your while. Call Trina. Tell her to give Lyla the heads-up.”
I hung up.
Rory smirked. “That girl has no idea she just stepped into a turf war.”
“No,” I said darkly. “But she will.”
Rory shifted in his seat. “So you’ve staked a claim? That makes her your problem, you know.”
I snorted. “Yeah. And what the fuck am I supposed to do with her?”
Rory grinned. “Underworld marriage proposal, brother. One bullet, one trauma bond. She’s halfway to a honeymoon.”
“The last thing I need is a goddamn wife.”
“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
“I don’t have time to babysit her. I’ll change her ID and ship her to some cold-as-fuck place where she has to keep her damn clothes on.”
“You’ll never get her to go along with that. She’s too young and idealistic.”
“I don’t need her to like it. I need her alive. And if I have to lie, steal, or lock her in my damn apartment to keep her out of Delgado’s hands, I’ll do it.”
The SUV pulled into our building’s garage. Rory swung it around like it was a drift car and parked in my spot by the elevator. Neither of us moved.
I looked out into the dark.
“She just became a pawn in a war she doesn’t even know exists. And I’ll burn this whole fucking city to the ground before I let the darkness claim her.”