Chapter 1 #2
The night begins and the girls do what we do best.
The Bulgarians are their normal handsy selves, ordering drinks, pulling Marissa onto someone's lap, sliding hands up Tasha's dress while she giggles and pretends to be shocked.
Lindsey works the room like she was born to do it, touching shoulders, laughing at jokes that aren't funny, making every man feel like he's the only one she's interested in.
The Romanians, however, are different.
They don't want anything, not even water.
They're dismissive when we approach, just curt nods or hands waving us away, attention fixed on their conversation rather than the girls in short dresses orbiting their table.
It makes the VIP area feel off-balance, tension creeping in where there should be indulgence and excess.
There goes our tips, I think.
They act like we're not even there, all except the tall one.
He looks at me.
Not constantly or obviously, but I feel his gaze tracking me across the room, landing on me when I'm pouring drinks or laughing at something one of the Bulgarians said.
His dark eyes are unreadable and his attention makes my skin prickle with awareness I don't want.
Time stretches in a weird way in the club. Could be an hour, could be three. The music changes, the crowd below shifts, bottles get emptied and replaced.
Then two of the Romanians stand.
They approach Taylor where he's hovering near the VIP entrance. He's always hovering. One of them hands him a thick wad of cash that Taylor accepts with shaking fingers and a nod that's too eager, too grateful.
He clears the opposite side of the VIP section from the men we're entertaining tonight.
"Everyone out. Private event," he tells them. Some of the people protest, but Taylor's insistent, practically shoving people toward the exit until it's just us girls, the Romanians, and the Bulgarians.
The atmosphere shifts immediately.
Conversations turn louder. Each side clustering with their own men, English fading as Romanian and Bulgarian take over, rapid-fire exchanges that sound increasingly aggressive. Shoulders square. Postures stiffen. The tall Romanian's expression hardens.
I edge toward the tables against the wall where my purse is, instinct screaming that something's not right.
Lindsey doesn't notice. She's still trying to charm one of the men, hand on his arm, lips near his ear.
The tall Romanian stands.
He says something I don't understand and then his men pull out guns.
BANG.
BANG.
Gunfire explodes through the VIP section.
Bullets fill the air as glass shatters.
Screams come next. First from others, and then from me.
Something warm hits my face and I drop to the ground.
I put my hands over my head, body folding into the smallest possible target, forehead pressed against the sticky floor that reeks of spilled alcohol.
My heart slams against my ribs and my pulse roars in my ears underneath the gunfire.
I'm screaming, but the sound gets swallowed by bullets tearing through the air above me.
Then silence.
Ringing silence that feels worse than the noise because now I can hear bodies hitting the floor, someone gurgling, the wet sounds of death that I've only heard in movies.
I don't want to look up, but it's like I need to see it.
Bodies are sprawled across the floor. Blood pooling on leather couches. The Bulgarians are dead, all of them, faces I'd seen laughing and drinking minutes ago now empty, motionless.
I hear the crunch of glass and look to my right.
The tall Romanian approaches and stops.
He crouches beside me, gun in his left hand, still holding it casually.
His dark eyes lock onto mine and I stare back because what else can I do?
I'm shaking, I know I am, I can feel the tremors running through my entire body, but I can't hide it, can't control it, can't do anything except wait for whatever comes next.
He raises his hand.
I flinch.
His fingers brush my cheek, thumb swiping across my skin. When he pulls back, his thumb is red. Blood. Not mine, someone else's.
I look down at the ground, hoping he'll just leave.
Instead, he slides his gun under my chin and raises my head to meet his eyes.
"That yours?" he asks, looking at my purse.
I nod in fear.
Then he reaches across me.
My purse hangs from the hook under the table, the same hook Marissa showed me on my first night, told me to keep my valuables there because drunk men don't look down. His fingers close around the strap and he pulls it free, unzipping it with his free hand while the gun stays steady in the other.
I want to say something, to object. Ask what the fuck he thinks he's doing, but this man literally just killed people and his gun is right there.
He rummages through my purse until he finds my ID. He pulls it out and studies it.
He looks at the photo where I'm smiling like I still believed Los Angeles held anything except broken promises and overdue rent.
He then looks at me, looks back at the ID, and then slides it into his jacket pocket.
I start to push hair out of my face and he catches my wrist.
He turns my hand over and rotates it until the inside of my right wrist faces him. His thumb traces over the small blue butterfly tattooed there.
It's simple line work, something I got when I first moved here, thinking I was being deep with the whole butterflies mean transformation and new beginnings.
He stares at the tattoo for a while and then looks up at me.
"Fluture."
The word rolls off his tongue, heavy and intimate. I don't know what it means, but the way he says it makes me nervous.
He releases my hand and stands.
He takes one last look at me like he's assessing or maybe calculating. I can't read him.
Then he turns to his men and says something that even to me sounds like a command, and they leave.
All of them.
Just walk out of the VIP section like they didn't just execute a room full of people, like my ID isn't in that man's pocket, like he didn't touch my face and trace my tattoo and say a word I don't understand.
I stay on the floor.
Shaking.
Blood cooling on my cheek where he didn't quite wipe it all away.
The music still thumps from below, oblivious to what just happened.
Lindsey scrambles toward me, her mascara running, hands shaking so hard she can barely grip my arm. "Get your shit. We have to get the hell out of here. Come on!"