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Dominic

L ooking over my security cameras at the Chophouse, I see nothing unusual. The liquor and restock are being unloaded at the club as expected. Leaning back in my chair, I run my hands through my hair, debating what to do about the little problem that surfaced last week.

As the king of this city, I handle the dirty work myself. Let’s just say I like working with my hands not in the traditional sense, but in the blood-covered, making-someone-beg-for-their-life type of way. There’s a rat somewhere in my operation, and I intend to find him soon.

The door to my office swings open, and Bash struts in before collapsing onto the couch against the opposite wall. His feet prop up casually, like he isn’t seconds away from me kicking his ass for dirtying my furniture. “Bash, the fucking shoes!” I snap.

He smirks but lowers his feet, knowing better than to push me too far. I hate things being out of place. I don’t tolerate disorder. No shoes on the couch. No messes left behind. Bash knows how to push my buttons he’s been doing it since we were ten, running the streets together. From selling pot in high school to running everything now, we’ve built this empire brick by bloody brick. There isn’t a corner of this city I don’t own.

“The drop didn’t go as planned,” Bash says, his tone edged with irritation. “He sent someone else to hand over the shipment. Fucker didn’t even show his face. As far as we can tell, he’s gone into hiding.” So, the rat thinks I’m stupid. Thinks I won’t rip his tongue out for getting high on my supply and disappearing without so much as a thank-you. That’s fine. When you own the whole kingdom, finding one lowly traitor isn’t hard.

“Alright, sounds like he wants me to play the game. He won’t like it when he loses,” I say, standing from my desk. It’s Saturday night, and the club brings in the real money on weekends. I have too much to do at the moment. I’ll send someone to dig into it later. Tonight, I’m running the club, but I also have a business meeting in the back. New buyers need protection. And that, I can offer. Violence is my specialty.

The night kicks off wild. More and more people pile in, some already stumbling over their own feet drunk off their asses. On the dance floor, women grind against men who already know they’re taking them home. The kind of guys who can’t fuck, but she’ll be too wasted to know the difference. She’ll wake up thinking it was the best night of her life.

I roll my eyes, amused. Taking a slow sip of whiskey, I let the burn settle in my stomach. Then, I make my way down to the main floor the bar area with the dance floor floating through the crowd, avoiding attention. I head to my booth at the back, where I have a perfect view of the whole place. From here, I watch.

Bash stands by the entrance, making his rounds, ensuring no idiot with a gun tries to get in. That’s when two women approach him, trying to get past. Who’s that? I know most people around here, and that face? I’d never forget it.

She stands beside Bash, dwarfed by his size. She’s smiling, laughing, while he makes eyes at the girls, she’s with. Both of them start to blush, their cheeks turning that soft pink rose color. Something about it has my blood pumping. She’s beautiful.

I watch as they slide past him and head straight for the bar, ordering some fruity drink, no doubt. They clink glasses and start drinking. I’m not the romantic type. I don’t bring flowers. I fuck you until you can’t walk, make you beg. I’ve had my fair share of women. Most can’t keep up. But her? She looks like a goddamn Barbie doll tight little black dress, heels, long blonde curls cascading over her shoulders, makeup flawless. She turns slightly, and our eyes meet. Blue. Bright, shimmering.

She’s like a real-life princess except for the ink peeking from beneath her dress, and that? That has me intrigued.

I watch her sip her drink, laughing with her friend, looking innocent as hell. A schoolgirl playing at being bad.

Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, and I have some clients waiting for my presence. I stand, grab my whiskey, and down it. Pulling out my cell, I text Bash that I’m busy for the next hour with business. Straightening my black button-up and dress pants, I head to the back.

There's a room in the back of the Chophouse I use for all of my meetings a round table with chairs in a concrete room. Sitting at the table, waiting for my arrival, is an older couple. They own a flower shop in town. Their business has been failing for quite some time now. They don’t make enough at the end of the month to make ends meet. That's why they are here to make a deal with me. A quick fix, with consequences. I supply them with the funds they need, but they are to supply me with a place to run my shipments out of.

Mr. Doza stands to shake my hand. I shake his and we sit. “Thank you for seeing us, Dom. We appreciate your time.” His wife next to him nods in agreement. “We have run out of options and don’t want to lose our business,” he explains. “I understand, but I do have some rules that will apply to this agreement,” I say slyly. He knows exactly what that means. He knew before making this meeting.

“You will work for me from this point on. You will house the guns and the drugs I supply at your store. I will send clients to your shop to meet with my men to make the deals there. And no one will ever know of this deal and the money that I loan you,” I say blankly, waiting for his response.

“Yes, of course. We agree to any terms you have,” they both assure me. With a few more terms and conditions set in stone, I send the money to their bank accounts and make it very clear what kind of hell they will live through if any terms are broken until my money is paid back. We shake hands and close this up.

I have a certain blonde I’m trying to see. Making my way back to the main floor, I spot her the second she comes into view. She’s dancing, moving her hips like a goddess, trying to seduce every man in this club.

It’s working. Even on me. Her dress is tight, accentuating her curves in all the right places. The hem rides up her thigh as she moves, revealing a glimpse of ink an intricate tattoo teasing just beneath the fabric. Her hands glide through her hair, her body swaying effortlessly to the pulse of the music.

Maybe this princess has a story. Another tattoo peeks from her wrist a rose wrapped in thorns. Well now. How about that? A sweet little flower with a taste for ink.

She steps off the dance floor, breathless and glistening with sweat, and leans against the bar. Ordering another drink, she doesn’t acknowledge me at first. But when she turns, her face aligns perfectly with my chest. We lock eyes. She freezes. I catch the scent of vanilla and lavender subtle, intoxicating. Her gaze stays on mine, unwavering, until her friend crashes into her from the side.

“Gwen, come on! I love this song!” The dark-haired girl grabs her arm, yanking her back to the dance floor. Gwen. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. Sliding back into the shadows, I make my way to my office. Settling into my chair, I pull up the club’s security feed, zeroing in on her. Those eyes they were made to look up at me. Preferably from her knees. We’ll get there.

She has no idea the kind of trouble she’s in. She’s going to be mine. Poor girl. I watch her closely, noting the shift in her demeanor. Her body tenses, her expression flickers she’s nervous. Good. I make her nervous. Just how I like it. She should be scared. The thoughts running through my mind, the ways I’ll break this perfect princess… She has no idea. I’ll watch her tears fall as I fill her up. She will never look at another man the way she’ll look at me. Her crystal blue eyes caught my soul off guard. Set it on fire. It’s closing time.

I stand in the parking lot alone, smoking my cigar, watching the last stragglers leave. The cool brick wall presses against my back, one foot propped up, smoke curling lazily from my lips. Laughter spills from the club’s doors. There she is. She stumbles slightly, her friend right beside her, their arms looped together. Drunk, but not too far gone. I watch as she fumbles with the car door, her fingers slipping over the handle. It doesn’t open. I take one last drag of my cigar, then step forward.

She stiffens before I even say a word. She knows I’m here. Reaching around her waist, I pull the door handle, swinging it open with ease. She turns just enough, and I meet those ocean-blue eyes, slicing through me like ice. She’s looking at me. “Thank you,” she murmurs, barely above a whisper. “You’re welcome, princess.”

Her cheeks flush instantly, that delicate pink creeping up her skin. “What’s your name?” she asks, her words slightly slurred. I chuckle. “Dominic.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Well, Dominic, I could have gotten the door. It was just… difficult.” That bratty little look she gives me sets my blood on fire. Still holding the car door, I lean in, closing the space between us.

“You should get in the car, princess. There are bad men out here. I’d hate for one to get the wrong idea.” My voice drops low, a whisper meant only for her.

Then, before she can say another word, I press my hand against her back and guide her into the seat, shutting the door behind her. One more second of looking at her, and I’d be tempted to take her home. Show her exactly what happens to brats like her. The BMW pulls away, taillights fading into the night.

Bash steps up beside me, his gaze following the car. “Who was that dark-haired girl you talked to when they first arrived?” “Maddie Skylark. Her father owns Skylark Industries,” he replies, his tone clipped, like he doesn’t want to discuss her.

I’m not interested in Maddie. “The blonde,” I say. “I heard her friend call her Gwen. I want to know about her. Find out where she’s staying and who she is.” Bash nods, then turns and heads back inside. I stay out here, alone with my thoughts. I haven’t had many dealings with the Skylark men. They move in different circles than I do. But that doesn’t matter. There’s a new girl in town. And I’m taking her as mine.