2. Zara
I move through the club, my heels pressing into the worn carpet as the bass vibrates in my chest. My head is held high, my flirtatious smile is practiced. Every face that tipped me during my last set is locked in my memory. Time to make my rounds.
"Thanks for the tip," I say at one table, tracing a finger along a man’s shoulder. "Care for some company?"
The line isn’t my favorite, but it works. Most nights, it doesn’t bother me. Tonight, though, it grates at my nerves. My focus is fractured, my patience wearing thin. Part of me wonders why I even came in.
Because today is my birthday. More specifically, my thirtieth birthday.
Tonight, I’m supposed to be somewhere else entirely. Standing under chandeliers, raising champagne glasses, surrounded by fake smiles and empty words. At least, that’s what my father had planned five years ago before I decided to destroy it all.
Lachlan Kavanagh, the Don of the Emerald Brotherhood in Chicago, had laid out my future with precision.
Today, on my thirtieth birthday, I was to marry the son of Jerome Falco of the Philadelphia-based Syndicate, Blackline Holdings.
A merger of families, tying loyalties together with rings and bloodlines.
I wasn’t a daughter to him at that moment; I was a transaction, a pawn in his endless climb for power, ports, and money.
I can still hear his voice from that night. We were in the cold, cavernous study of our house, his gaze sharp.
“This is what’s best for the family, Zara. You’ll be a good wife. A good mother. That’s your duty.”
As if my life, my happiness, didn’t even register.
But I had my own plans. My mother might have been able to protect me once, but after she was gone, there was no one left to fight for me. That meant I had to fight for myself.
That night, I made my escape. With nothing but a backpack stuffed with years of hoarded cash, I climbed out my bedroom window, slid through the one blind spot in the security system, and never looked back.
That was five years ago, and I’m sure they’ve been looking for me ever since. I know my disappearance was a humiliation they won’t let slide, and now with just a few hours left of what was to be my wedding day, I’m sure they’re doubling their efforts.
It doesn’t matter. They won’t find me.
Dancing lets me slip between identities. I don’t work long enough anywhere for questions to pile up. A false ID gets me in the door, and the nocturnal hours keep me out of the daylight, where recognition could ruin everything.
As I weave between tables, the soft, shifting lights sweep across the floor in waves of gold and crimson. The air carries the vibration of music, a steady undercurrent that wraps around the clink of glasses, the muted murmur of conversation, and the bursts of tipsy laughter drifting from the bar.
A man shifts in his seat, running his thumb along the rim of his whiskey glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light.
A dancer, wrapped in silver sequins, tosses her hair over her shoulder as she glides past with the effortless sway of someone who knows every eye is on her.
It’s a dance floor, but not the kind most people picture—this is a carefully orchestrated exchange of money, power, and lust.
I pause to glance over the room. For a split second, the noise seems distant, like it’s pressing in from the edges instead of surrounding me. I shake the thought away, pulling my attention back to the task at hand.
“Focus,” I whisper under my breath.
I made my choice years ago when I climbed out of that window. They wanted me to be quiet, obedient, and complicit. Instead, I chose freedom. But more and more I feel like my freedom is slipping away, and I’m caught in an endless rotation of faces and R&B songs.
A light tap on my elbow pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to find one of the waitresses behind me.
“If you aren’t occupied, there’s a gentleman in VIP who’d like to meet you,” she says, her tone softer than the usual transactions I deal with.
I glance over my shoulder at her, raising an eyebrow. I don’t get these polite ones often. Most of them come across like they’ve been trained to treat us like pieces on a board.
"Oh, sorry, I’ve got a table I need to visit before I'm done for the night," I reply smoothly, not bothering to turn toward the VIP area she’s pointing to. I already know what VIP means: another conversation that starts with overpriced drinks, a lot of false promises, and a guy hoping I’ll let him buy me a few rounds just to get me stuck for the night.
I don’t need that, not in the mood for it tonight.
Her smile falters a bit but stays intact as she gestures toward the men.
“That’s unfortunate, these two seem like they’re here to spend some money.
” She’s making the pitch, her words carefully chosen, though I see the slight shift in her gaze.
The silent nudge that says she doesn’t really believe I’ll walk away.
“Yeah, sorry,” I answer, offering her a tight, apologetic look. I mean it. I don’t want to be that girl tonight. Not when I’m already drowning in my own thoughts.
She nods, still smiling, but her eyes betray a hint of disappointment before she turns to return to the men who probably have more than enough cash to keep her busy.
I let out a soft breath as I turn on my heel, heading for the man who promised me dances. The kind of quick exchange that earns me a straight five hundred and freedom. No lingering conversations, no shots to bury my brain in. Just money.