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I burst out laughing. The idea’s absurd. Like she’s going to spill cartel secrets during a lap dance. That’ll never happen.

“You’re joking, right?” But the smirk on Fang’s face tells me he’s not.

“Figure it out. She’s your problem, brother. Fix it before she becomes the club’s problem.”

Before I can reassure him that I’ve got her under control, the foreman strides over. He interrupts our discussion with a question about the tech wiring. Fang turns his attention to the man, nodding along to the technical jargon I only half understand.

“I gotta go,” Fang says. “Good luck, brother.”

“I’ll find out what I can. Hurry this shit up, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard you the first time.” Fang turns his back, dismissing me.

Normally, he doesn’t pull that kind of shit, but I think I pissed him off. Oh, well. Maybe he’ll get the crew moving faster. The sooner this place is done, the better. With a sigh, I get on my bike and leave the construction site.

I ease off the throttle as I pull into the packed lot at Velvet. I find a spot on the far edge, next to the murky bayou. The familiar hum of my motorcycle fades into the background as I kill the engine. My boots crunch across the gravel as I survey the shadowy darkness, always on the lookout for danger. Maybe I should add a few more lights out here.

Walking past the men lined up waiting to enter, I stop in front of the bouncers guarding the entrance. Both sport the Underground Vengeance MC patch, their faces as hard as the steel they’ve got strapped to their hips.

“Evening, brothers.”

“Hey, Ice.” They part, making way for me. “Had to show one drunk fool the exit earlier. He got mouthy.”

“Appreciate you handling it.”

“Always,” one of them grunts, his face breaking into a rare grin. “Place is yours, we just keep the riff-raff in check.”

“Good man.” I clap him on the shoulder before pushing through the doors, the muffled bass of music greeting me like an old friend.

Inside, Velvet pulses with life, a beast feeding on lust and liquor. Neon lights wash over the sea of bodies, painting everything in shades of neon purple and pink. The scent of spiced rum and sweat hangs in the air, mixing with the raw heat of human desire. It’s business as usual.

Tank’s standing by the bar, towering over the regulars who sit on their usual stools. His long hair falls over his eyes, giving him that rock star look, but tonight, he’s all business.

“Everything running smooth?” I yell over the music.

“Smooth as a stripper’s ass,” Tank replies, his voice booming over the din. “The girls are cashing in big time tonight. Crowd’s eating it up.”

“Good to hear.” I give him a firm pat on the back. “Appreciate you keeping an eye out.”

“Anytime.” Tank’s ready smile tells me he means it. He’s loyal to the bone, even with whatever ghosts and graveyards lurk in his past. Tank never talks about his past, and we don’t push him for details. One day he might tell us about it, or maybe he won’t. Either way, he’s our brother for life.

“Thanks, brother,” I say, meaning every word. In this world, loyalty is the most important currency, and Tank’s as wealthy as they come.

I lean against the bar, allowing myself a moment to take it all in. This place isn’t just another club business. It’s one of thefew legit businesses we own. My job is to make sure we don’t lose it. It’s a duty I take seriously.

I stroll over to the VIP booth and find it occupied by two suits. They glance up and spot the UVMC patch on my cut. They slide out of the booth without a word and slink away to join the other patrons by the stage. It’s subtle, but it’s respect, and in this world, that’s gold. Now that people know who’s running the place, we never have to ask anyone to get the fuck out of our booth. They just do.

Sinking into the plush leather, I let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting and take in the scene before me. The club buzzes like a living organism, thriving on lust and liquor. My boys are on point, mingling with the crowd, keeping the peace.

Vicki, Tank’s little firecracker, guides one of the suits toward a private room, a glint in her eye. The guy probably thinks she’s genuinely into him, but it’s all about the money. Vicki’s good at faking interest. The more they think she likes them, the more she makes. It’s as simple as that.

Unlike Vicki, some of the girls do more than dance in the private rooms. I’ve heard grunts and moans through the walls. For now, I’m looking the other way. If the girls are doing it willingly, who am I to interfere with their hustle? But if the pigs ever show up and start shit, I might have to put an end to the “extra services.” Until then, I’m not worried about it.

The spotlight shifts, and Isabella takes the stage—gorgeous as sin, twice as dangerous. Her body moves to the rhythm with a grace that can’t be taught. It’s like she’s become one with the beat, owning it, and making it hers. I can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to have that kind of fire wrapped around me.

“Fuck, I can’t do that shit,” I mutter. Getting a lap dance from one of my employees, especially her, is just asking for trouble.

As much as I’d rather avoid it, Fang’s right. I need to talk to her. But not here. Not out in the open, where every pair of eyes could dissect our interaction. There’ve been some squabbles among the girls—territorial disputes over tips and clients—but nothing major yet. Favoring Isabella with special attention would be like tossing gasoline on a simmering flame. I don’t need that kind of drama.