38. Gabriel
I sit at the bar with a glass of whiskey resting against my palm, the amber liquid catching the low light as I turn it once between my fingers.
On stage, a dancer moves, circling the pole before stepping down to collect tips from men who lean forward in their seats as though proximity alone earns access.
The rest of the room is absorbed in its own distractions—skin, alcohol, ego. But only one couple commands my attention.
The club lives up to its reputation. The dancers are disciplined.
The service operates with seamless precision.
The lighting flatters and conceals in equal measure.
I studied the numbers, the property filings, and the security feeds.
Enzo Marchetti has built something here that mirrors the rest of his empire: structured, profitable, and secure.
None of that prepared me for the atmosphere.
From the bar, I watch in my peripheral as their waitress replaces the empty champagne bottle at Lars and Neomi’s table.
The cork releases with a pop, barely audible beneath the music.
They’ve relaxed since arriving. Alcohol has softened the edges of their posture.
They exchange short kisses between songs.
Lars keeps a steady point of contact with her—a hand at her thigh, fingers brushing her waist, his arm draped across the back of her chair.
Earlier, Neomi received a dance. She laughed through it, tipping generously, but when the music ended, she and Lars dismissed the dancer with an easy finality. There was no invitation beyond the small interaction.
Their waitress passes near the service bar, and I lift a hand to catch her attention.
“The couple at the table in the far corner,” I say quietly, tipping my head toward them. “What shots did they order earlier?”
“Tequila,” she replies.
“Send them two more. From me. I have a tab open.” I slide a fifty across the counter. “Bring one for me as well.”
She accepts the bill and orders the drinks. She places two on her tray and sets one in front of me.
As she crosses the floor, my heart hammers inside my chest. The transition from observation to participation is a carefully walked line. Satisfaction rises in me knowing how close I am to closing the gap.
The waitress sets the shots down on their table. Neomi’s gaze lifts first, confusion flickering before sharpening into curiosity. Lars’ brows draw slightly as he scans the room.
The waitress gestures toward the bar, and I allow myself to turn fully toward them.
Our eyes meet across the distance.
Neomi studies me openly, her attention innocent. Lars’ gaze settles with more restraint, measuring rather than reacting.
I lift my glass in acknowledgment. The pause stretches long enough to make my stomach clench. Then Lars reaches for his shot and Neomi follows his lead.
They raise their glasses.
I hold their gaze as I bring mine to my lips. The tequila burns sharp and acidic as I swallow. Across the room, they do the same.
When I lower the glass, Neomi grins, intrigue settling into her expression. Lars continues watching me. There’s no visible defensiveness in him, only assessment.
The waitress clears the empty glasses. Neomi leans across the table and presses a kiss to Lars’ cheek before rising with a few folded bills in her hand. She moves toward a side stage, the lights catching in her hair as she approaches a dancer.
Lars tracks her movement until she’s out of reach. Then he looks back at me. I allow a small smile to form.
For a moment, the noise of the club recedes beneath a low thrum in my ears. The lighting blurs at the edges. The space between us narrows as we watch each other.
His expression changes. The calculation remains, but the guarded edge softens.
Then, slowly, he smiles.