5. Zayn
CHAPTER 5
ZAYN
The atmosphere in the club tonight felt heavier than usual, thick with the weight of unspoken threats and carefully calculated risks. My corner table gave me the perfect vantage point, but there was an undeniable sense of menace prowling the shadows of the lower level of Elixir.
And it wasn’t me.
I leaned back in my chair, one leg crossed over the other, as I nursed a Scotch that served more for show than for satisfaction. The muted glow from the black chandeliers barely illuminated this corner of the room, and I considered adding soft uplighters. Though the shadows suited everyone down here just fine, my security cameras needed a bit more of the softer lighting to pick up details, which would maintain the shadows, making the clientele feel safe but keeping them in my sights a little better.
After all, this was meant to be neutral ground, where deals were made, alliances forged, and secrets kept, all under my supervision.
Across the room, at one of the larger booths, two parties faced each other. The tension between them was palpable. Even from here, I could see it was close to the breaking point. Perhaps my lighting wasn’t the problem with the atmosphere, and instead, it was these two groups making the rest of my customers uneasy.
On one side sat Patrick Delaney, the kind of businessman who thrived on walking the line between legitimate and illicit—much like myself. His bespoke suit was immaculate, but the restless tapping of his foot against the floor betrayed his nerves. Opposite him was Tomo Vega, whose casual attire didn’t fit my club and didn’t disguise the coiled energy of someone ready to act. Tomo’s reputation preceded him, a fact I knew Patrick knew all too well.
Both of them kept glancing my way; they knew this was my house. My rules.
I knew they were arguing over the collateral for a debt Patrick was owed. Tomo’s repayment plan had hit a snag; his business was low at the moment due to a drug bust the other week, so instead of the cash he was due, he was offering Patrick a thirty percent stake in an upcoming deal—a tidy little operation with high demand from a fluid clientele.
Rye was hovering close by, and when I saw him look my way, I smoothly rose from my chair, downed my Scotch, and crossed the room. Patrick saw me coming first and muttered to one of his guys, who slid out of the booth to make room for me.
“Gentleman,” I greeted as I took the freshly vacated space. “Are we doing okay here, or do you need to move this upstairs?” Upstairs were the private rooms; if blood were to be shed, I would prefer they did it in the confines of one of the rooms than in here where it was open with far too many witnesses.
Witnesses who would never talk to the cops, but they would judge me for not being able to handle shit in my house.
Patrick shook his head. “All good here, Zayn,” he assured me. He turned his attention back to Tomo. “Thirty percent?” he asked him with disdain. He leaned forward, one elbow on the table. “You think that’s cute? Thirty percent of that deal isn’t close to what you owe. Fifty.”
Tomo’s jaw clenched. “That’s half my investment,” he told him tightly. “The risk of moving the product?—”
“Tomo.” My voice was a low warning; we didn’t need the details spelled out in the crowded room.
“Sorry, Zayn,” he grumbled. “That’s half ,” he stressed to Patrick.
“Fifty and an extra twenty Gs.” Patrick smiled widely. “Interest. It just bleeds you dry.”
I didn’t react, but you’d have to be blind and deaf not to hear and see the threat Delaney was posing.
“Fifty percent covers your i nterest ,” Tomo scoffed, fury riding his tone.
“But it doesn’t cover the fact you fucked up my ride and I needed to get two new wheels.”
I coughed to cover my laugh. He was seriously charging Tomo twenty grand for sticking his knife in the Bentley’s wheels.
“Wheels don’t cost twenty grand.”
“Do we have an agreement or not?” Patrick asked, lounging back.
“Fuck you.”
This was the point where tempers flared, where lines that shouldn’t be crossed were crossed, and it was time for me to step in.
“ Gentlemen .” My voice cut through the air, soft but commanding. I felt Rye move closer. Patrick turned his head to look at me, and Tomo switched his attention from him to me. “Patrick,” I said, holding his gaze. “Tomo has a point. Twenty grand for two wheels? I appreciate the time and inconvenience, but you’re a reasonable man.” I ignored Tomo’s grunt.
Patrick’s face was a mask of calm, but I saw the amusement in his eye. “Ten.”
Turning to Tomo, I watched for his tells. The guy was dangerous. He enjoyed dabbling in his product too much, which made him unpredictable. “Fifty is steep,” I agreed. “But you reneged on an agreement. That’s not part of the deal. You have a very lucrative deal coming up, but that cash you need isn’t available now . It’s to come. Interest is always payable, Vega. You know this.”
I let the silence stretch for a beat before I shifted my attention back to Patrick. “Five. He didn’t hit the trim. He didn’t mark the paintwork. Meet the man halfway.”
“It’s a fucking Bentley.”
“It’s fucking hideous,” I reminded him. “Ancient as fuck and fucks with the environment.”
“Fuck, Zayn,” Tomo snorted. “You got a Tesla or something?”
“Shut the fuck up, or Patrick will raise it to fifty percent and thirty Gs for my trouble.”
Patrick’s lips curved into a smirk, but there was no warmth in it. He drummed his fingers on the table, considering. “Fifty percent.” He looked between us. “Five for the damage to my vintage car.”
Tomo looked like he wanted to argue, but he caught my eye. “Fuck it. Fine.”
“Excellent,” I said, cutting off Patrick before he could fuck it up. “Details can be discussed somewhere else.” I looked around the club pointedly, noticing the stares of the people trying not to be seen noticing us. “Everyone’s satisfied.”
I didn’t add the unspoken warning that, even if they weren’t, it was too bad.
“Patrick?” I prodded.
“Fine. Done.”
Tomo slid out of the booth, grinning like he won, and I sharpened my focus on him. “Pleasure as always.” He cast a glance around. “I’ll be in touch.”
I watched as he left, feeling Patrick and his guys move to make more space in the booth. This wasn’t a partnership built on trust. One would fuck the other over, and I was sure one would end up bloody or dead.
“He’s a liability,” Patrick huffed.
“Then stop lending him money,” I said casually as I exited the booth. “A loan’s a loan, but you two are playing this shit too often.”
Patrick drank his whiskey. “Fucking idiot keeps making me money with the amount of interest he pays back,” he said with a shrug. “But soon…”
I didn’t respond to the implied threat. Instead, I called a waitress over. “Refills here,” I told her softly. “Rye will record the details of the agreement,” I told Patrick.
I walked away, trusting Rye to take care of the payment for my fee for witnessing the deal. This was routine—another day, another deal. I had no doubt Tomo would cover that, too. Patrick was a slippery bastard as loan sharks usually were.
I made my way to my office and settled in behind my desk while watching the screens of both clubs. Since opening night, the clubs had been packed on both levels. The private booths upstairs were booked months in advance, and the waiting list for cancelations stretched almost as long as the bookings. Celebrities, CEOs, and politicians had found their way to Elixir in the few weeks since it opened, drawn to the allure of something they couldn’t quite describe.
This was what I had created, what I’d aimed for. It was more than just another high-end club. Gracemont and even Chicago, some forty-five minutes away, had those. They already had clubs trying to be exclusive, but at the end of the day, they all had the same cookie-cutter aesthetic.
Elixir wasn’t that. I’d wanted something that whispered secrets and exuded power—a place where people came just not to spend money but to leave their mark. A space that thrived on exclusivity and discretion, far enough from the city to avoid constant scrutiny but close enough to attract those who operated on the fringes of polite society.
The upstairs club had its own allure. Catering to trendsetters, influencers, and restless socialites, it was what people desired: dark, sensual decor, curated cocktails, and music that pulsed with the heartbeat of the night. Along with the luxury and indulgence, it was sheer perfection. The client list attested to that.
If upstairs was the bait, the lower level was the hook. It was quieter, sharper, and darker, offering confidentiality and privacy, not flashing lights and loud music.
Open for three weeks, Elixir had been the talk of Gracemont and surrounding areas for every moment since.
Elixir wasn’t just a club. It was an empire in the making, and empires required control.
Control over the space, the people, over the very air that filled the rooms.
It was mine. Every detail, every decision, every shadow.
But I knew that success was a fleeting thing; the moment you started to relax, it could slip through your fingers. Watching the crowded bar in the club, seeing the waitresses running between the private booths, looking harassed in the servers’ halls but then serene and sophisticated once inside, offering calm and elegance to the clients, I let a small smile slip free. Tonight was another win, another step forward. But that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be the next thing, the next challenge, the next move to make.
This night was mine, but the game never stopped.
The door opened, and the loud music from outside spilled through as Rye stepped into the office. He closed the door firmly behind him, and within a few seconds, he was sinking into one of the armchairs across from me.
“They’re going to kill each other,” he said amicably as he opened a bottle of water. “I no longer know if they hate each other or secretly want to fuck. Know what I mean?” He pushed his blond hair off his face. “Which one do you think would be top?”
“Never thought about it.”
“You are now, though, am I right?” He grinned at me, and I shook my head.
“No. But you may be thinking about it too much.”
He shrugged, rolling his head on his shoulders. “It’s like a fucking zoo out there.”
“Good.”
When I checked my computer screen, the registers throughout the club updated into a program that gave me a live feed. I watched tonight’s earnings grow in real time.
“So…I heard a rumor.”
Looking up, I met Rye’s frown. “Do I guess, or do you tell me? Also, when do you listen to gossip?”
“The Grand Gracemont,” he carried on, ignoring my questions. “It’s been undergoing some refurbishment.”
I grunted, returning to my screen. “About time. The place is a monument to a decade that’s long dead.”
“I hear they’re making moves to compete…with us.”
That caught my attention. “It’s a memorial to the last millennium.”
“It’s being refreshed .”
I considered the news. The Grand was huge, as its name suggested. It had potential, though: grounds, a ballroom, hotel rooms, and a restaurant. “Who?”
Rye grinned at me, showing me all his teeth. “Isla Wells.”
I laughed out loud. “Goddamn, she’s a tenacious bitch.”
“Seems she’s project managing the renovations, and Gerard Fitzsimmons is singing nothing but praise for her.”
A slow smile curved my lips. “She wants to compete with us, interesting.” I gestured to the top row of screens. “Not the nightlife. No. She won’t get that there.” I considered her motives, a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “She wants the day events, the conference bookings, lunches, baby showers.” My nose wrinkled in disgust; we had three of them already.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked as he watched me closely.
“Keep an eye on it, let me know how far she’s willing to go.”
“And if she goes too far?” he asked softly.
“Let her.” I sat back in my chair, my eyes on the screens in front of me. “Isla is strong-willed, determined, and an all-round pain in the ass. She can’t compete with us.” My tone was confident, unwavering. “We’re not on the same playing field for that.” I gestured to the live feed of the nightclub. The floor was packed with bodies, the DJ commanding the crowd like a puppeteer pulling strings. Pulsing lights and the low bass of music radiated even through the screen.
“Or that.” My finger shifted to the monitors displaying the private club below. People lounged in plush chairs, drinks in hand, some leaning close in booths, whispering together.
“She’s an event planner,” I said, leaning forward, my voice measured. “She’s good at what she does, no doubt, but don’t kid yourself. She’ll lose some events to our nightclub—weddings, parties, whatever—and we may lose some of the corporate day bookings. It’s a give and take.” I shrugged, nonchalant. “But that’s not our game. It’s not our target.”
My hand swept lazily in the direction of the screens again. “Nice if we get them. A few corporate gigs will pay the staff bonuses, but that —” I pointed to the nightclub, where money was changing hands faster than drinks could be poured “—and that —” my gaze shifted to the private club, where the real power plays were happening “—is what makes the money.”
I let the words hang between us for a moment, allowing the weight to settle. The nightclub was a distraction, the surface-level draw that kept the curious entertained and the casual spenders pouring money into our pockets. But the lower level? That was the real machine. A self-sustaining engine fueled by whispers, handshakes, and the kind of transactions that didn’t get receipts.
Rye shifted in his seat, his look still skeptical. He licked his lower lip as he looked at the screens. “People talk,” he said stubbornly. “She pulls something big and manages to turn heads?—”
“Then let her,” I snapped sharply. “ Let her. People like Isla thrive on proving they’re better than you think they are. She’ll work herself to the bone, trying to outdo us, and for what? A corporate luncheon or a wedding with a fucking champagne fountain?” I shook my head in amusement. “She’s playing checkers while we’re playing chess.”
“And you’re okay with that?” he asked, not looking entirely convinced. “Isn’t she Julian’s friend?”
“ Julian’s friend. Not mine.”
Rye stayed quiet, his eyes flicking between me and the screens.
I glanced at the monitors showing the private club again, this time focusing on the back room. A private party was in full swing. Piles of money, stacked carelessly, sat on tables that gleamed under the dim light. Girls danced for old men in ill-fitted suits with fat wallets. Some of the men slumped in their chairs, their eyes glazed from too much whiskey or too little restraint.
The corners of my mouth twitched into a smirk as I watched the carefully controlled chaos. Every laugh, every dollar thrown, and every whispered word was a piece of a larger picture.
In the corner of the room, a man in a crisp tailored suit stood out like a shark in a tank full of bloated fish. His eyes weren’t on the money or the girls; they were locked on the guy in front of him. I knew what they were discussing, and it wasn’t the kind of deal that ended with a handshake and signed contract.
This was the real heart of Elixir. The place where the stakes were high and the rules didn’t exist. It all unfolded in front of me like a conductor overseeing a symphony. Every movement, every transaction, every indulgence—it all fed back into the machine I’d built.
Isla could fight to find her footing in her little corner of the world, thinking she could beat me, but she’d never touch this. She wouldn’t know how.
Let Isla do her best. She could throw all of her energy into making herself a “threat,” but this game wasn’t hers to win.
She didn’t even know the rules.