Chapter 3 Fury
Fury
I wait until the main floor traffic grows heavier before slipping toward the back corridor. The excuse is easy enough—restroom. But once I'm out of sight, I veer left toward the administrative wing.
My leather soles are silent on the thickly carpeted floors as I move deeper into the club's inner sanctum. Most patrons never see this part of the club. It’s the first time I’ve had the opportunity to sneak back here. Usually, there are guards preventing it or there are too many eyes.
The door to the main office is locked, but that's barely an inconvenience. I slide out a small pick set disguised as a money clip and work the tumblers with practiced ease. Three seconds and I'm in.
Inside, the office is surprisingly modest—desk, computer, filing cabinet. The walls are soundproofed, which tells me everything I need to know about what happens in here. I immediately go for the desk, sliding on thin leather gloves before touching anything.
The computer's locked, and I don't have time to mess with it. The drawers yield nothing but mundane business shit—receipts, schedules, payroll. But the filing cabinet has promise. I ease open the top drawer, finding folders organized by date.
Jackpot.
I pull out my phone and start taking photos of documents. Bank statements. Property deeds. Names of businesses I recognize as possible fronts. Wire transfers. This is exactly what we need.
I snap photos of everything.
A sound in the hallway has me tensing. I slide the folder back in place, close the cabinet silently, and move toward the door. Voices approach—Spanish, male.
I press myself against the wall beside the door, ready for whatever comes next.
The voices pass. I count to ten, then ease out into the hallway, closing the door silently behind me. I quickly remove the gloves and pretend to check my phone as I move toward the main floor, assuming the confident stride of a man who belongs everywhere he goes.
As I round the corner back toward the club, I spot Alonso's slick-haired figure dragging Kayla by the arm toward the private rooms. Her face is pale as death, her movements rigid with fear, trying to pull back against his grip.
"Please," I hear her whisper. "I don't know how—"
"Shut up and do as you're told." Alonso's voice is sharp. "The client's waiting. He’s an important man. Keep him happy."
“I’m scared," she pleads. “And I honestly don't know how—"
“I don't give a shit if you're scared. You think I give a shit about your feelings?”
He yanks her head back so hard she winces, and backs her against the wall. Her body language screams terror.
I’ll kill the bastard.
Alonso jerks his head toward a door marked private. "Mr. Christian is waiting, and he specifically requested fresh meat. You're going to give him the best fucking lap dance of his life, and you're going to smile while you do it, or you’ll be sporting welts from my whip across your backside."
Every muscle in my body coils tightly. I’m seconds away from smashing my fist into that motherfucker’s face, grabbing Kayla, and getting her the hell out of here. But the Renegade Kings are relying on me. I can’t blow my cover.
Vincent Torrino wouldn't rescue a young woman from this sick fuck. Vincent would mind his own business, enjoy the show, or maybe behave like an even sicker fuck.
But… No. I’m not watching this happen.
I increase my steps, checking my Rolex as I stride up to them. “Hey, baby.” I address Kayla with casual arrogance. “There you are. I've been looking all over for you."
Alonso spins around, his grip on Kayla ’s hair loosening slightly. "Mr. Torrino? Is there something I can help you with?"
"Actually, yes." I let my gaze slide to Kayla, then back to Alonso. “This little sweet thing here promised me a private dance. I’m here to collect.” I do my best to flash a creepy grin.
Alonso's smile is all practiced courtesy. "Of course, sir. But this one..uh…is already spoken for. I can get you any of our other girls. Emerald is available, or perhaps Cinnam—”
"No." I cut him off with the kind of authority that money commands. "I want her specifically."
"Sir, I understand, but there’s another guest—“
"Is your other guest prepared to pay twenty thousand for a lap dance?" I reach for my wallet, making sure they both see the thick stack of hundreds inside. "Because that's what I'm offering."
Alonso's eyes widen. Even Kayla looks shocked.
“Twenty thousand?" Alonsopractically salivates. "Sir, that's...that's very generous, but—"
“Okay, thirty-five.” I don't even blink. "Final offer. Take it, or I find another club that knows how to treat its VIP clientele."
The calculation happens behind Alonso's eyes in real time. Christian might be disappointed, but thirty-five grand is thirty-five grand. I doubt he wants to explain to his superiors why he turned it down.
“No, no, Mr. Torrino. No need for you to leave Midnights. We greatly value your patronage." Alonso's grip on Kayla loosens slightly. Room three is available. And she better make it worth your money."
He says the last part to Kayla through gritted teeth.
He pushes Kayla toward the private room, and I follow, my jaw so tight I might crack a molar. The room is small and dimly lit, with burgundy walls and a single leather chair in the center. A small camera is mounted in the corner, its red light blinking steadily.
Alonso shuts the door behind us with a decisive click.
Kayla stands frozen in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped around herself like armor. She won't meet my eyes.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.
“Look.” I tip her chin up, forcing her to look at me. Her eyes are enchanting, even now when she’s stressed and scared out of her mind. “I don’t expect anything from you. All I wanted was to get you away from that asshole.”
Her head swings up. “You paid thirty-five thousand dollars to get me away from Alonso? Why?”
I shrug. “He’s a dick.”
She stares at me, incredulous.
"We’ll just stay in here for a while and then head back out. I’ll tell him you were great.”
Her laugh is bitter. "See that?" She nods toward the camera. "They're watching. If I don't...perform, Alonso will punish me. Trust me, he’s got no mercy. I’ve seen girls who’ve been punished.”
The knowledge pisses me the fuck off. "How long have you been here?"
“About a week." She finally looks at me, and I see resignation mixed with terror. "Look, I know this is what you paid for, but I've never done this before. I don't know how to...to be sexy or seductive or whatever you're expecting."
She's so young. So fucking innocent. And these animals are going to destroy her piece by piece.
“Okay, doll,” I keep my voice low, soothing. "Look at me."
She does, her eyes wide and pleading.
"We're going to put on a show for that camera. But you're in control here, understand? If you want to stop, you stop.”
"I can't stop," she says simply. "If I don't do this, Alonso will—"
"He won't touch you." The words come out harder than I intended, carrying the edge of violence that earned me my road name. "I promise you that."
She studies my face for a long moment, like she's trying to decide if she can trust me. Finally, she nods.
"Okay. But I really don't know what to do."
I release her chin and move to the chair, sitting down and splaying my legs in the classic position.
"Now come here." I gesture for her to approach the chair. "Turn around. Face the mirror."
"We're going to put on a show. But it's just acting. You understand? Nothing real happens unless you want it to."
She does, and I can see her reflection—the way she's holding herself, the tension in her shoulders, the uncertainty in her posture.
"Now, slowly turn back to face me. Don't think about the camera. Don't think about anything except the music."
I need her to find a rhythm, something to ground herself in.
She does, and I get a perfect view of the way her dress clings to her curves.
"Now slowly—and I mean slowly—lower yourself onto my lap. Don't sit all the way down. Just hover. Put your hands on my shoulders. Let your ass barely touch my thighs."
She follows my instructions, her movements jerky and uncertain. She's so close. So warm. And I can smell her shampoo.
“That’s it. Good girl," I murmur close to her ear, and feel her shiver. "Now I want you to move. Just a little. Rock your hips, just slightly. Find a rhythm that feels right."
"I don't know how—"
"Yes, you do. Your body knows. Just feel the music and move."
She's trembling, but she's doing as I instruct. I can see her trying to be brave, trying to push through her fear, and it's the most goddamn beautiful thing I've ever witnessed.
She starts to move, tentative at first. Small circles with her hips that make my cock immediately harden.
"That's it, babydoll.” I keep my hands on the armrests, gripping hard enough that my knuckles turn white. "Just like that. You're doing so good."
The praise seems to unlock something in her. Her movements become more fluid, more confident. She's finding her rhythm now, rolling her hips in a way that has my blood racing to my cock faster than the speed of sound.
She's getting bolder now, pressing closer, letting her body brush against mine ever so slightly as she moves.
"I'm supposed to touch you, aren't I?" she asks, still moving above me.
"Only if you want to.”
She lowers herself. settling her lush ass against me. I have to clench my jaw to keep from reacting. I can feel the heat of her through the fabric of my suit pants and see the way her pupils are dilating.
"Is this okay?" she breathes.
"More than okay." My voice comes out as a rasp. "You're incredible."
She makes a small sound, something between a gasp and a whimper.
"I can feel you," she whispers. "You're...hard."
"Yeah, I am." No point in lying. "You're beautiful, and you're rubbing yourself all over me. My body's going to react. That doesn't mean I'm going to do anything about it."
At that admission, her movements become bolder, more confident. She grinds against me now, and fuck, she has no idea what she's doing to me.
"I feel... strange," she admits, her breath coming faster.
"Good strange or bad strange?"
"I don't know. Good? Maybe?" She shifts slightly, and I feel her ass press more firmly against my straining erection. "Really good, actually."
"Good. I think. I've never felt like this before."
Christ. She's turned on, and she doesn't even understand what's happening to her body. The innocent admission nearly destroys what's left of my self-control.
"Keep moving, honey,” I tell her, my voice rougher than before. "Don't think. Just feel. Focus on how it feels and follow that feeling.”
She does, rolling her hips more deliberately now, and I can see the exact moment when instinct takes over. Her head falls back slightly, her lips part, and she makes the softest little sound that goes straight to my cock.
"There's... something..." Her voice is breathless now, confused. Her movements become more urgent. "I feel like I need—I don't know what I need. Something's happening—"
She grinds down harder, faster, chasing something she doesn't understand. Her breathing is coming in short gasps. Her hands come up to grip the armrests over mine, her body arching.
"Oh God," she whimpers.
“That’s it. That’s my girl," I encourage, my voice barely above a growl. "Let go for me."
"I can't—it's too much—"
"Yes, you can. You're so good, so fucking perfect. Come for me."
She makes a sound I'll remember for the rest of my fucking life—half-sob, half-moan—and her whole body goes rigid. I feel her shake, feel her thighs clench, feel the way she grinds herself against me as her orgasm crashes through her.
It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
When she comes back to herself, she's staring at me with wide, wondering eyes.
"What was that?" Her voice is dazed.
“You’ve never had an orgasm before?” I ask her quietly.
“That was an orgasm?” She's silent for a long moment. “No, never. I didn't know it would feel like that."
I let out a slow breath. Her first orgasm. It should have been with someone who cares about her. A boyfriend who’s crazy about her. A high school sweetheart. Not a stranger in a strip club for rich, deviant pricks.
She starts to stand. Her legs are shaky, and I steady her automatically.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For...for being kind. Most men here aren't."
"Most men here are pieces of shit who don't deserve to breathe the same air as you."
She quirks a brow sassily. "You paid thirty-five thousand dollars for a lap dance."
The moment the words are out, she freezes. Her eyes widen, and her hand clamps over her mouth.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” she apologizes through her fingers. “I didn’t mean that.” A sheen of tears fills her eyes, and I want to kill whatever bastard or bastards put that kind of fear in her.
“Hey,” I speak slowly and soothingly. “Don’t apologize, doll. Never apologize to me for speaking your mind and saying what you think. You don’t have to fear me. You understand? I’ll never hurt you."
She studies my face like she's trying to decide if I'm telling the truth. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her because she nods.
"I believe you."
The words slay me.
She shouldn't. She shouldn’t believe me. I’m lying to her about almost everything—who I am, why I'm here, what I want. But in this one thing, I'm telling the absolute truth.