17. LYLA #2
My heart hammered. He just stood there, watching me wordlessly. I hated how calm he was, how in control he always seemed.
It didn’t make sense. He had killed a man like it was nothing—and then turned around and handed me a coat like he was worried I would catch a chill.
How could someone be both a killer and a protector?
I didn’t know what to do with that. So I focused on what I did know and circled back to defending myself against his anger at me for calling the police.
“I told the truth,” I said, “to the police. Because I thought it was the right thing to do.”
He laughed once, cold and humorless. “You don’t call the cops on someone like me.”
“Why? Because half of them already work for you?”
“Yes, there is that, but more importantly, if the wrong person found out who you were talking to, I’m afraid you’d end up in a ditch with your tongue cut out.”
I flinched.
“I’m trying to keep you alive,” he bit out. “But you just keep walking straight into fire.”
“And you think the solution is stalking me? Spying on everyone in my building? Who even are you?”
He stared at me, silently scrutinizing me.
“You know everything about me,” I hissed. “Where I live. Where I work. What I wear. You’re obsessed with me.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters! Because I don’t even know your goddamn name!” I said. My voice cracked. I didn’t care. “You hide in the shadows, breaking necks and vanishing bodies like some psycho out of a horror movie. You’re probably a serial killer. How many women have you raped and murdered, Mr. Stalker?”
His pupils blew wide.
“I have never raped a woman in my life,” he said tightly. “But I would absolutely kill any man—or woman—who tried to put me in a cage or hurt someone I love.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again, more confused than ever by his response. “You’re not capable of love.”
He scoffed. “You don’t have the first fucking clue what kind of person I am.”
“I know your type. You kill like it’s nothing. You hide in the shadows, committing crimes, doing unspeakable things to innocent people. You’re a Russian Pakhan! That makes you incapable of love. Men like you don’t have hearts. You don’t feel anything.”
“You don’t even know what that title means,” he snapped. “You’re just a little country bumpkin from Tennessee who’s in way over her head.”
“No!” I shoved him in the chest. “I’m sick of your big-bad-wolf arrogance. You treat me as if I’m too stupid to think for myself. If you think you can come here and intimidate me into doing what you want, think again, mister. You’re just pissed off I’m not falling into line.”
He clenched his fists at his sides.
“You have no idea what kind of danger you’re in,” he said in a low tone, his eyes blazing with intensity.
“Delgado’s not just some strip club owner who likes the view from the front row.
He runs one of the most brutal MS-13 cartels operating in the States.
Women like you disappear with a snap of his fingers. ”
My stomach turned.
“And yeah,” he added, stepping in closer, “I know all about you. You want to know why? Because I run a global security firm. Because I own the digital underworld you wander through every time you unlock your phone.”
I clenched my fists at my sides and leaned forward.
“You want to talk about monsters?” I said, my voice shaking now—not only from fear, but anger too.
“Delgado might be scary as fuck, but at least he’s honest. He pays me well.
He praises my work. He’s never once put a hand on me or hidden in the shadows like some creep jerking off to a security feed. ”
His eyes darkened, and his upper lip raised into a sneer.
I continued before he could respond, “And unlike you, he’s in control of his emotions. He doesn’t go murdering men like he’s in a sadistic schoolyard brawl.”
“Stop.”
“Why? Can’t handle the truth?”
Something in him snapped, and his expression morphed from calm to enraged.
He stepped forward, grabbed me by the arms, and shook me hard.
“Delgado is a piece-of-shit drug lord who sells girls like you by the dozen,” he snarled. “He smiles to your face and pays you well to manipulate you into working for him. He doesn’t praise you because you’re talented—he’s evaluating your price tag.”
His grip was punishing, but I refused to look away, refused to be intimidated by him.
“And you,” he growled, “are too na?ve to see it. Too busy chasing Broadway dreams.”
“Screw you.”
“You’re in way over your head.”
I broke free from his grasp. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to tell me where I belong.”
“You should go back to Tennessee,” he said, “before you end up dead.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know enough. And I’m telling you—get out.”
I didn’t move. The street around us was quiet, like the city itself held its breath. A gust of cold air swept past, stirring the snow at our feet and tugging at the edges of the peacoat.
“You think Delgado is just a Manhattan thug,” he finally said in that annoyingly condescending tone of his. “But he’s not. He’s protected by men with six-figure suits and ten-dollar souls. He’s got connections all the way up to D.C. and fucking diplomatic immunity.”
He took a slow step forward.
“You think I’m the threat, little lamb? Delgado buys girls from Eastern Europe and Honduras, flies them in under fake student visas, and locks them in basements. And the men who bankroll it?” His lips twisted into something ugly. “They eat lunch with senators and sign bills about justice reform.”
I swallowed, hard.
But he just kept going. “You think twirling half-naked on a pole is harmless? Those routines you do? You work in a goddamn showroom. The Sacrifice is just a marketplace in disguise.”
My breath caught.
“Interested buyers watch you up there, decide if you’re worth owning. Delgado lets them make their picks in the VIP lounge. That’s what your little sparkly costume is for—window dressing.”
I stared at him. The words didn’t just land—they detonated. My mind spun, trying to reject them, but the puzzle pieces were clicking into place—things I’d noticed but brushed off. A sick feeling rose in my chest, bitter and hot.
“The cameras backstage…” I said slowly. “The men who linger too long… Carlos dragging that guy’s body off like it was no big deal…”
Mr. Stalker didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.
And suddenly I couldn’t pretend anymore.
I thought about the way the other dancers wouldn’t meet my eyes. About the girls who never came back. About how Danielle always changed into baggy clothes the second she walked offstage. How I did too. Instinctively.
I’d been so stupid.
Something cracked inside me.
“I didn’t know,” I whispered.
“No,” he said, tilting his head. “You didn’t want to know.”
Shame burned through me like acid. I wrapped my arms tighter across my chest and looked away, blinking hard.
He let the silence stretch before delivering the final blow.
“And you’re right about one thing,” he said coldly.
“I am a killer. I’ve ended lives without flinching.
But there’s a difference between violence and violation.
I don’t touch women who can’t say no. I don’t trade flesh for profit.
And I sure as hell don’t parade innocents on a stage so monsters can place their bids. ”
His eyes locked onto mine, unblinking.
“I’m no saint, but I have a line. Delgado doesn’t. Men like him smile while they sell your future. To him it’s just business.”
My pulse stuttered.
“I’m not one of those girls,” I stammered.
“I’m not even really a stripper. Not that there’s anything wrong with that—a girl has to do what she has to in order to make a living.
But I don’t take my clothes off. I do aerial work—performance art.
It’s like a sexy circus act. That’s what he pays me for.
I’m not…” My hands were flying around as if they had a mind of their own. “No one would want to buy me anyway.”
The man before me didn’t speak for a long moment.
His head tilted, just slightly. He blinked once. Then twice. The faintest twitch flickered at the corner of his mouth, like he was fighting the urge to laugh—but not from amusement, more like disbelief.
“You really believe that?”
I didn’t answer. I dropped my gaze to the ground, trying not to fold in on myself.
A low humph slipped from his throat. “Come on. You can’t convince me that you have no idea what you look like on that stage.”
I glanced up, humiliation burning my cheeks. I did know. I knew exactly how to make men want me when I was seducing them with my moves. But there was no way I could admit that to him. He already had me so off-kilter.
He moved in closer, until his chest brushed up against the new coat he’d given me.
“You know how difficult it was to hack into The Sacrifice’s camera feeds just to watch you?” he murmured. “How disgusting it is to listen to those drunk bastards scream your name like you’re a goddamn altar they want to die on?”
My stomach tightened.
“You’re not just a performer, Lyla. You’re the most beautiful fantasy. Every night you climb that rigging barefoot, every time you swing on that pole with it between your thighs, you hold every man’s dick in your hands—and you never even touch them.”
My face went hot again. And suddenly, the chill in the air was gone, replaced by a pulse of heat that rushed straight to my core.
He’d watched me intentionally—not stumbled across footage of me on social media, but actually hacked into the club’s cameras just to see me. My heart gave a traitorous little lurch.
I should’ve felt violated. I should’ve screamed at him, shoved him, called him every name I knew. But the only thing I could do was stand there, drowning in his words. I was stunned at the way my body was responding to him. He’d said I was the most beautiful fantasy.