Chapter 7 – Elara
The bar smells like money, sweat, and insecurity.
Not the kind you feel, the kind men drown in—buying drinks they can’t afford in suits they didn’t earn, pretending they don’t see the stains in the carpet or the cracks in the marble columns.
It’s a place built for distraction.
But I’m not here for the show.
I sit at the edge of a velvet stool, back straight, one hand wrapped around a glass I haven’t touched. The bartender poured top shelf without asking. Doesn’t know I only drink when I’m off the clock. And lately, I don’t feel off anything.
Nico stands behind me, not looming—but close enough that I feel it.
He doesn’t say much tonight. That’s fine. He doesn’t need to. His presence is enough.
Security eyes us from the corners. Not subtle. Not smart either. But that’s how Marco likes it. He wants us to know this is his space. His house. His rules.
The lighting in here is low. Not soft—low. Everything’s gold and wood and shadows. Velvet curtains cover the back wall, everyone pretending they don’t know what’s behind them.
But they do.
Behind those curtains is where Marco plays king.
Where people walk in with pride and leave with debt.
And tonight?
I’m walking in with blood on my hands and zero patience left for games.
My dress is black, skin-tight, no frills. The chain stays around my neck. No one asked me to dress up. But I know what power looks like. And I’m wearing it.
My scar burns slightly beneath the fabric.
Maybe it’s the lights.
Or maybe it’s the way every eye in the room shifts when the curtain parts.
Marco Salvatore walks out like he’s gliding.
Suit tailored within an inch of its life. Hair slicked back. Smile polished.
His hands are empty. That’s what bothers me most.
He’s the kind of man who always enters a room already reaching for something—your arm, your drink, your weakness. The fact that his hands are free right now makes me check the exits.
“Elara,” he says, voice smooth as oil. “Finally, in my bar.”
I don’t stand. I don’t smile.
He steps closer.
“Come back with me,” he says, nodding toward the curtain. “Let’s talk.”
“I don’t sit behind curtains,” I reply.
The corners of his mouth twitch. Not amused.
“Pity,” he says. “I had a seat just for you.”
Nico’s voice cuts in from behind me, low and direct. “He’s not here to offer anything but problems.”
Marco turns his head, just slightly. Like Nico’s background noise.
“I’m talking to the lady,” he says.
“Then say what you came to say,” I tell him. “Or walk.”
That wipes the fake charm off his face for a second.
He steps to the side of the bar, resting a hand on the stool next to me.
“This your new gig?” he asks. “Bodyguard with benefits?”
“You’re reaching.”
“I’m just surprised,” he says, smile returning. “The Brotherhood sending dancers now. Didn’t expect them to start recruiting from strip clubs.”
I keep my eyes on him. Steady. Direct.
“I came on my own,” I say. “And I’ll leave the same way.”
Marco chuckles.
Then steps back.
“You always had fire,” he says. “Even when you didn’t know what to do with it.”
Nico steps in now, fully. No longer behind me. Just beside.
“She’s not here to play nostalgia games,” he says.
Marco’s gaze shifts between us, calculating.
“Oh, I get it now,” he says. “This is personal.”
He looks at me again.
“You run from one man, land in the arms of another. Cute.”
“You still think it’s about men,” I say. “That’s your mistake.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“My mistake was giving you time to grow teeth.”
“Your mistake was thinking you could still use me.”
The bar feels smaller now.
A few people have left. Some are pretending to watch their drinks.
Marco leans in, voice lower. Not for privacy—just menace.
“You’re in over your head, Elara.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“And it was true then.”
“It’s not now.”
He looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I actually believe that. And that’s the problem for him. I do.
I’m not here because I want his approval.
I’m not here to settle old scores.
I’m here because I’m done being a warning story.
Marco steps back. Smooths his lapel. Smiles.
“Well,” he says. “If you ever remember where you came from, you know where to find me.”
I stand now.
Look him dead in the eyes.
“I didn’t come from you,” I say. “I escaped you.”
He says nothing.
I take one step closer.
“You want to throw shade? Do it louder. You want to make a move? Make it cleaner.”
He blinks once.
I walk past him.
Nico follows.
At the door, I turn once more.
“I don’t belong to anyone,” I say. “Not even him.”
Marco raises his glass in a mock toast.
“But you’re still dancing on a leash, sweetheart. Just changed handlers.”
I stare for one more beat.
Then leave.
I don’t get six steps from Marco before a hand grabs my ass.
Hard. Open palm. No shame.
The kind of touch that assumes ownership.
I spin around before I can think.
The guy’s drunk. Balding, red-faced, breathing booze and cheap power. His friends laugh behind him—two of them, also drunk, but not dumb enough to reach.
He leans in. Grinning.
“Dance for us, sweetheart.”
My body’s already moving.
I grab his wrist and twist it back, hard enough to make him grunt. Then I drive my knee up into his ribs.
Crack.
It’s not subtle. It’s not clean. But it lands.
He folds forward with a loud bark of pain, one hand flying to his side as he staggers back.
“You crazy bitch—!”
I’m ready for the follow-up. I brace, fist clenched.
But I don’t get to swing.
Nico steps in from the right, like smoke turning solid.
His blade flashes in the low light—no flourish, no warning.
Just motion.
One second the guy’s growling, the next he’s gurgling.
The knife slices across his throat fast. Precise.
Blood hits the floor in a sudden arc.
The body collapses in a heap. Arms twitch once. Then go still.
The whole bar freezes.
Not panics.
Not screams.
Just holds.
Like they’re waiting to see if it’s over.
Nico wipes the blade on the dead man’s shirt and tucks it back into his jacket like it’s just another tool.
He doesn’t look at Marco. He looks at me.
“You okay?” he asks.
I breathe. Steady. Then nod.
“I will be,” I say. “As long as no one tries to own me again.”
Behind us, Marco sips from his glass.
Then he sets it down—slow, theatrical.
“Well,” he says, deadpan. “That escalated.”
No move to help the body. No order barked to clean it. Just a dry quip like he’s watching a movie.
I take a step toward him.
“You brought this energy in here,” I say. “Next time, you clean it up.”
Marco doesn’t blink.
“You think this means you win something?” he says.
“I don’t need to win,” I say. “I just need to survive.”
“Careful,” he replies. “There’s a difference between surviving and living scared.”
“Then maybe you should stop pretending you’re the one we should fear.”
His eyes narrow. But only slightly. He likes the dance. He just didn’t expect me to lead.
I nod once.
Then turn to Nico.
“We’re done here.”
He falls in beside me without a word.
We walk toward the entrance.
No one stops us. No one dares.
The body still lies there, blood spreading toward the velvet carpet.
Behind us, murmurs start again.
The noise returns. A laugh here. A clink of a glass.
The bar tries to forget.
But they won’t.
They’ll remember the girl who didn’t flinch.
The man who cut a throat in front of Marco Salvatore.
And the way neither of us apologized.
We don’t speak until we’re back in the parking lot.
The wind hits colder out here. The heat of the bar replaced by the sting of real air.
My heels scrape the concrete as I walk. I stop halfway between the building and the car.
Nico stands beside me, jacket already zipped. The knife’s gone again. I don’t ask where.
I light a cigarette.
Hands are shaking now. Not visible, but I feel it.
He watches.
“You didn’t have to kill him,” I say, not accusing. Just saying it aloud.
“He touched you.”
“I could’ve handled it.”
“I know.”
“Then why—?”
“Because I felt like it.”
I glance at him. His expression is steady. Eyes unreadable.
“You’re making this complicated,” I say.
“Not really.”
“He was a drunk asshole.”
“He put his hands on you.”
“And if I kill every guy who’s done that, I’ll be knee-deep in corpses.”
“Then I’ll help.”
That makes me pause.
He means it. That’s the problem.
I inhale deep. Cigarette burns down too fast.
“You scare me,” I say again.
“I know.”
“But I’m not afraid of you.”
He looks at me now.
“No,” he says. “You’re not.”
I let the smoke out slow.
Then crush the cigarette under my heel.
I walk toward the car, pop the passenger door, slide in.
He joins me a second later.
We sit there, engine off, neither of us ready to drive yet.
The quiet between us isn’t heavy. It’s tight.
“What now?” I ask, head against the seat.
“Now we wait,” he says.
“For Marco to retaliate?”
“No,” he says. “For him to make a mistake.”
I turn toward him.
“He won’t.”
“He will,” Nico says. “They always do.”
“And what happens then?”
“We move.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“It’s the only one that works.”
I stare through the windshield at the bar lights.
Something twists in my chest.
It’s not fear.
It’s not relief.
It’s the realization that this is real now.
I stood my ground.
And Nico didn’t flinch.
Maybe we are a team.
Maybe not.
But right now?
I’m not alone in this fight.
And for the first time in a long time, that matters.