Chapter 12
For a second, it felt like I’d stumbled back into The Big Mediterranean—but a dark, distorted, after-hours version of it.
Everywhere I turned, there was glass. Enzo’s hand shot out, catching my arm just in time to keep me from slamming face-first into a mirror.
I blinked, momentarily disoriented. My own reflection stared back at me from every direction: front, back, left, and right, top and bottom.
Enzo was beside me in each one, a dozen versions of him all moving in sync.
Behind us, Gina seemed to splinter into eight different Ginas, her bright grin multiplying with each step she took.
The entrance to Club Montari was a labyrinth of mirrors, twisting and turning in every direction, making it impossible to tell where the room ended or began.
The floor was glossy black, giving the illusion of endless depth.
Neon lights blinked overhead, casting strange, angular shadows that danced across the glass.
It was disorienting, like walking through someone else’s warped dream.
“Wow,” Gina breathed, her voice bouncing off the walls in strange echoes. “Think we’ll win something if we make it to the end?”
“A nice experience,” Enzo replied. His hand slid down from my arm to my waist, guiding me forward. In the mirror, his eyes flicked to mine, like he was daring me to say something. The walls seemed to close in, reflections multiplying like some endless, glossy purgatory.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. “Let’s hope it’s worth the maze,” I muttered, stepping deeper into the mirrored corridor,
He led us through the maze as if he were seeing the map of the place in his head.
We took precise turns avoiding the mirrors and, as we progressed, the music, which had started as a murmur, grew louder.
We emerged from the labyrinth. What we saw next took my breath away.
This place was not an ordinary club. I had expected Club Montari to be a nightclub, but it resembled a miniature neighbourhood more.
It was much larger than that black door had suggested.
Ahead was a wide-open space filled with clusters of people chatting, dancing, or lounging on velvet couches.
Overhead, a massive neon sign in bold yellow letters declared the area “The Square,” casting a warm glow over everything below.
From there, five long alleyways stretched out like spokes, their walls entirely covered in mirrors, making the space seem endless.
Gina’s eyes widened as she scanned the room, her lips moving, but whatever she said was swallowed by the pounding beat of the techno music.
I leaned in, but the bass drowned out any chance of hearing her.
Enzo’s voice managed to rise above the noise.
“Follow me.”
First, we headed to a massive cloakroom that looked more like something from a futuristic airport.
Enzo tapped away at a tablet, and with a soft mechanical hum, a drawer popped open just for us.
I slid a crisp ￡50 note into the machine, and the drawer clicked shut, spitting out a small key attached to a chain, which I looped around my neck.
With that, Enzo steered us out of the maze-like entrance and into the main square.
He weaved through the crowd toward one of the five alleyways.
Each one was marked by bright, flashy letters, the kind you’d see on luxury stores.
Serrano, Fifth Avenue, The Champs-élysées—names of streets reserved for the ultra-rich.
The first thing that grabbed my attention was the flickering neon sign of a tattoo parlour, the word “Open” sputtering in and out of focus.
Next to it, a row of market stalls stretched out, each stranger and more eclectic than the last. Some stalls displayed silver and gold jewellery, glinting under dim, coloured lights.
Others looked like makeshift bars, rows of unfamiliar bottles lined up behind matte black panels, their labels turned slightly away as if to keep the contents a secret.
A few stalls were more brazen, openly showcasing small bags filled with various powders and pills, lined up in neat little rows.
Through the tall glass windows along the far wall, I caught glimpses of smaller rooms.
Inside, people lounged on oversized, velvet couches, some swaying lazily to a beat that was completely different from the music in the main area.
Others stood in an aimless line, waiting for something unseen.
The whole place felt chaotic, as if a black-market bazaar had collided with a nightclub, and neither was fully in control of the result.
Enzo led us to one of the bar-like stalls.
He nodded at the guy behind the counter, who walked over, his expression impassive.
“Well, assistant,” Enzo said, letting go of my hand and pointing to the wall of bottles.
The music in this section was quieter, a steady pulse that let me hear him clearly. “Pick whatever catches your eye.”
The bartender eyed me up and down, his face hard to read. He seemed sceptical, like he’d seen too many first-timers walk through these stalls, and I wasn’t quite passing the test. After a moment, he stepped aside, giving me a better view of the bottles.
I squinted, trying to make sense of what I was looking at.
I half-expected to find the usual: rose-coloured gin, that dirt-cheap vodka they sell at corner stores, maybe a bottle of Jack Daniels tucked somewhere in the back.
But no. Every single label was foreign to me, names scrawled in French, Thai, Russian, some in scripts I couldn’t even place.
Some bottles were tall and slender, others short and squat, a few shaped like skulls or serpents.
“What… are they?” I asked, more to myself than anyone, my fingers hovering over a bottle with a label in a delicate, looping Cyrillic script.
A soft laugh from Enzo caught my ear. He was watching me, a knowing glint in his eyes, like he’d been waiting for this moment—waiting to see how far I’d go into this twisted rabbit hole.
“I can’t let you form a line, girl,” the man said, looking at his nails. “Need any help?”
Indeed, two groups of people had gathered behind us. Gina came to my rescue.
“We’ll have two Kweichow Moutai, however you prefer,” she announced, before turning to Enzo. “Anything for you?”
Enzo had an amused expression. “Royal Salute.”
Gina snapped her fingers at the man.
“That’s all.” He served us two wide-bottomed glasses with a red liquid he called “red sky at night,” and a short glass with a yellowish liquor and ice.
“Here, it doesn’t matter if you pay in cash,” Enzo said. “No one will ask questions.”
I paid almost three thousand pounds. I watched as the man passed my money through a machine, counting and verifying it was real.
My heart leapt to my throat. This was not a place for dirty business.
Green light. I swallowed. One less doubt, the money wasn’t fake.
My hands held the glass with a trembling grip.
“What the hell?” I muttered, leaning in close to Enzo’s ear to make myself heard over the low thrum of music.
“Club Montari’s in Cutnam, the student district.
Why have I just paid a king’s ransom for three drinks?
” The more I looked around, the less sense any of it made.
It wasn’t a complaint, really. Enzo had brought me to the right place. Just… what was this place?
“I’ll explain it to you soon,” he shouted back, steering me down another alleyway.
We entered The Peak. Suddenly, I couldn’t ignore the signs that Montari was more than just a club—it was an entire world of its own.
The atmosphere changed again. Everything seemed to be dusted with glitter and polished to perfection.
The people we passed were draped in designer clothes like armour, their gold chains and gemstones catching the light as they moved.
They strutted through the space, chins raised, necks stretched tall, scanning the room as if everyone was a rival to be outdone.
The mirrors along the walls reflected them endlessly, creating a funhouse effect that warped their appearances, turning their vanity into something almost grotesque, a twisted parade of wealth.
We slipped through a door guarded by a massive man dressed all in black.
I felt his eyes on me, but he didn’t move a muscle.
As soon as we crossed the threshold, Gina pulled out her wallet and handed him some cash, quick and smooth.
Inside, the room felt like a cocoon, trapping us in its strange, soft silence.
The noise from outside evaporated into a thick cloud of smoke hanging above us, looking like a sky scattered with stars.
We settled in a secluded corner, a round, plush sofa that was the colour of dark plum.
I took a sip of my cocktail, feeling the cold glass in my hand, the condensation dripping onto my fingers.
The drink was sweet, almost too sweet. It tasted like candy, but the burn of the alcohol still hit at the back of my throat.
Gina flopped down beside me, her red bangs catching the glittering lights from above and reflecting them like they were part of the decor.
She lifted her almost-empty glass, a gleam in her eye.
“If I drink a couple more of these,” she said with a grin, “I won’t remember anything tomorrow.
And I’m not going to forget this place!”
She didn’t waste a second. Her phone was out, snapping pictures like she was documenting every corner of this bizarre wonderland.
A selfie with the drinks, another of the shimmering sofa, a close-up of the intricate sequins on the dress of a girl passing by.
One of the three of us, heads huddled close together, eyes wide.
A woman appeared next to us like a shadow.
She didn’t speak, just gave Gina a cold, stern look and pointed to a sign we hadn’t noticed before. No photography allowed.
“Why?” Gina complained once the woman had left, and she put her phone back in her pocket. “What kind of club forbids taking pictures?”
“This isn’t a normal club. Only people with important status know of its existence,” Enzo said, clasping his hands on his knees and leaning in to lower his voice. “It’s the only way to get in here. To be part of the elite.” He made a face. “Or, alternatively, to know someone who is.”
“Who do you know?” I laughed.
“I have my contacts,” he replied with a casual grin.
Gina’s gaze was fixed on three men lounging on a nearby sofa, flanked by women with silver trays laden with white powders. “Isn’t that illegal? Why isn’t anyone reporting it?” she wondered aloud.
Enzo shrugged, his expression nonchalant. As he did, his hand slipped down to rest on my bare thigh.
“It’s the one place where they can come and do whatever they please, free from any real consequences,” Enzo explained.
We could ask the waitresses for anything we wanted, and they’d bring it to… payment required, of course. Enzo ordered more drinks for us. I had more questions swirling in my mind: Who created this place? What was in the other rooms? What other rules did the club have?
“Excuse me for a moment, Vera. I need to go greet someone,” he said, giving my leg a squeeze and standing up. “Go wherever you want, explore the club.” He smiled at me. “See you later. Have fun.”
“Are you going to see your mysterious contact?” Gina shouted. “Hey!”
From a distance, he waved goodbye, ignoring the question.
“You know?” she turned to me. “I can’t decide.”
I took another sip. The cocktail Enzo had ordered was the same as before. Gina explained that Moutai is a baijiu, the most expensive Chinese liquor. I tried to taste it, to distinguish the notes of wheat and lemon juice. I’d never try it again.
“Gina, you can’t decide what?”
“Two things. First, whether he’s crazy about you or just crazy. Second, what I feel like doing.”
I almost spit my cocktail out through my nose. The burn of the alcohol mixed with a sudden jolt of laughter sent me coughing into my napkin, eyes watering.
“Alright,” I said, wiping my mouth and catching my breath. “How about we leave this room and see where the night takes us?”
Gina’s eyes lit up, her grin wide. “I’ve never tried hallucinogenic mushrooms. Or absinthe. Or good champagne. What else do you think they’ll sell in here?” She pushed herself to her feet, stumbling over my legs. “And what if we look for some food?”
I grabbed her by the shoulders to steady her. Gina’s small—barely five feet—and she wasn’t built to handle much alcohol. I could see it in the loose sway of her hips and the lazy blink of her eyes. She looked like a doll about to topple over.
“That sounds like a good idea,” I said, keeping my tone light. She giggled, and I caught her before she could teeter off in the wrong direction.
I checked the time on my phone—1:30 a.m. Enzo had said they closed at four. We still had some time. I followed Gina outside the room.