Page 6

CHAPTER SIX

Nico

I watch the light catch the split in Jasmine’s lip in the dressing room mirror, a crimson slash against her olive skin that makeup can’t fully disguise. She winces as she dabs concealer over the purple bruise blooming beneath her right eye, her movements careful and practiced. This isn’t her first time covering evidence.

I stand in the doorway, watching her struggle, my irritation building with each passing second. Friday night at Purgatorio means capacity crowds, VIPs with six-figure tabs, and performances that need to be flawless. Jasmine is one of my best dancers, her aerial silk routine the highlight of the midnight show. Now she looks like she’s gone three rounds with a heavyweight.

“You can’t perform like that,” I say, my voice flat.

She flinches at the sound, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror before quickly dropping back to her makeup palette. “I can cover it, Mr. Varela. I’ve done it before.”

Before . The word hangs between us, heavy with implication. I step into the room, letting the door close behind me. The air smells of hairspray, perfume, and the particular scent of fear that I recognize over the years. Not fear of me, not exactly, but the fear of disappointing me. That distinction is a particular form of power, one I’ve cultivated.

“Stand up.”

She obeys instantly, rising from her vanity stool with the fluid grace of a trained dancer. But I don’t miss the slight hitch in her movement, the barely perceptible hesitation as she straightens.

“Lift your shirt.”

Her eyes widen fractionally before she complies, raising the hem of her cropped rehearsal top to reveal a constellation of bruises across her ribcage; some fresh and angry red, others fading to sickly yellow. The systematic pattern speaks of deliberate cruelty rather than a single loss of control.

Cold fury coils in my chest. Not because I care about Jasmine as a person, though she is valuable talent, but because this represents something I can’t tolerate: disorder in my domain.

“Your boyfriend,” I say. Not a question.

She nods, eyes downcast. “We had a fight last night. He thinks I’m cheating on him with Lenny, the bartender.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “As if I have the energy for that after dancing six hours a night.”

I study the bruising, calculating. The midnight show is the crown jewel of Purgatorio’s entertainment, meticulously choreographed and timed to the second. Canceling Jasmine’s act would disrupt the entire sequence, disappoint the high rollers who come specifically for her performance, and signal weakness. In my world, weakness invites challengers. But having her perform on stage damaged would be worse. It would advertise that I allow such things to happen to those under my protection. That violence against what is mine goes unpunished. The thought crystallizes with perfect clarity. Jasmine isn’t just an employee. She’s an asset. My asset. And someone has damaged my property.

“Who can replace you tonight?” I ask, observing her.

Relief flickers across her face, relief that I’m not firing her, that I’m focusing on the practical problem rather than her personal choices. “Selina could cover the aerial routine. She’s been understudying.”

I nod once. “Then that’s settled. You’re off until those ribs heal.” I turn toward the door, then pause. “Your boyfriend. What’s his name?”

Wariness replaces relief in her expression. “Michael. Michael Reeves.” She hesitates, then adds, “He’s a musician. Plays guitar at The Blue Note on Thursdays.”

“A musician,” I repeat, the word tasting like copper in my mouth. “How…creative.”

I leave without another word, ignoring her stammered thanks for not firing her. The backstage corridor hums with pre-show activity, such as technicians checking lighting cues, servers stocking the VIP bars, and security personnel getting settled at their posts. My club, my people, my orchestrated system of pleasure and profit. All of it requiring precise control.

The first staff member I see is a young woman sorting through costume pieces on a rolling rack. “Find Marco,” I order, not bothering to soften my tone. “Tell him I need him backstage. Now.”

She scurries away without question, abandoning her task mid-count. Smart girl. She understands priorities.

I return to the dressing room area, this time stopping at the door to the performers’ lounge, where several dancers are stretching before the first show. Conversations die as I enter, bodies straightening instinctively, eyes lowered in deference.

“Selina,” I call, locating the willowy blonde among the group.

She steps forward. “Yes, Mr. Varela?”

“You’re taking Jasmine’s aerial silk routine tonight. And for the foreseeable future.”

A flash of ambition brightens her eyes before she composes her features into an expression of concern. “Is Jasmine alright?”

“She will be,” I reply, the promise in my tone causing several of the dancers to exchange glances. They know what that means. They all do.

The heavy tread of steps approaches from behind me. Marco, right on time, as always.

“You needed me?” His voice is low, meant only for my ears despite the sudden silence in the room.

I turn, gesturing for him to follow me to a more private corner of the backstage area. The lighting is dimmer here, the sounds of the club a distant bass thrum through the walls. Marco waits, patient as always, his broad shoulders blocking the view from any curious onlookers.

“Jasmine’s boyfriend used her as a punching bag,” I say without preamble. “A musician named Michael Reeves. Plays at The Blue Note.”

Marco nods once, his expression unchanged. In the fifteen years he’s worked for me, I’ve never needed to explain the implications of such information. He understands immediately what is required.

“Find him. Bring him here tonight.” I check my watch—7:38 PM. “After the first show. I want a private conversation.”

“Of course.” Marco’s tone betrays nothing, but I catch the slight narrowing of his eyes, the only outward sign of the controlled violence that makes him so valuable to me. “Any particular condition you want him in when he arrives?”

I consider this. “Functional. Coherent. Unharmed.” A thin smile crosses my lips. “Make him think it’s a business meeting.”

Marco’s answering smile is hard. “Understood.”

I leave him to make the arrangements and head toward my private elevator at the end of the main floor, accessible only with a key card and fingerprint scan. As the doors close, sealing me into momentary silence, I allow myself the luxury of focusing on the night’s other appointment.

Lea Song. The journalist with the sharp eyes and sharper tongue, who walked into my trap thinking it’s her story. The convenient daughter of a woman with ties useful in my larger strategy. She’ll be the perfect pawn, if played correctly.

Alessandro’s warnings still linger in my mind as the elevator ascends to my office suite. My uncle rarely involves himself in my operational decisions, but Lea has triggered something in him.

“A journalist is never just gathering information, Nicolò,” he’d said, using my full name as he always does when delivering what he considers essential wisdom. “They are building weapons. The question is not whether they will use them, but when.”

Perhaps. But weapons can be redirected. And Lea Song, for all her education and ambition, is still painfully young. Inexperienced in the game I’ve been playing since before she entered kindergarten.

The elevator doors open directly into my private office, an intentional blend of luxury and functionality. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the Chicago skyline, though privacy glass ensures no one can see in. The furnishings are minimal but expensive: a custom desk of polished black granite, a leather executive chair, and a seating area.

Along one wall stands a bank of monitors displaying security feeds from throughout the club and its perimeter. Another shows real-time data on the night’s reservations, VIP arrivals, and bar sales. Everything I need to maintain a perfect awareness of my domain.

I cross to my desk, checking the time: 8:40 PM. Lea will arrive soon, assuming she follows instructions. The dress I’ve sent would have been delivered to her apartment hours ago. I’d picked a deep red silk that the designer assured will make her skin glow and her dark eyes seem bottomless. Revealing enough to ensure every man in the club will notice her, modest enough that she can tell herself she isn’t compromising her journalistic integrity by wearing it.

I picture her now, stepping out of a taxi, shoulders rigid with determination and uncertainty. Perhaps checking her phone one last time before surrendering to the night I have orchestrated. Will she be nervous? Excited? Both, I suspect. The combination looks good on her.

Alessandro is right about one thing: Lea Song represents a risk. But calculated risks are the foundation of empire-building. And I have plans that extend far beyond Purgatorio’s profitable nightlife business, plans that reach into the lucrative intersection of legitimate pharmaceuticals and their more profitable street alternatives.

Lea’s mother, the esteemed Professor Song with her convenient academic connections to East Asia, rumors are she’s the invaluable bridge in that equation. And Lea herself? A delicious distraction, at minimum. A potential asset to get to her mother at best.

My phone buzzes with a text from Marco. Target acquired. ETA 30 minutes.

Perfect timing. The first show will end just as our guitarist friend arrives for his command performance. And Lea will be here to witness it all. Her first glimpse behind the curtain she’s so eager to pull back.

I move to the wall of monitors, scanning until I find the camera trained on Purgatorio’s main entrance. The Friday night crowd is already forming. A line of eager patrons dressed to impress and ready to spend. VIP guests bypass the line, escorted directly inside by hosts who know which clients deserve special attention.

At precisely 9:00 PM, a taxi pulls up to the curb. Lea emerges, as I’d imagined her: back straight, chin lifted in defiance of whatever nerves she might be feeling. The dress hangs perfectly on her slender frame; the color transforming her from the professional journalist who’d confronted me at our first meeting into something altogether more intriguing.

She approaches the entrance, where Tony checks her name against the VIP list before recognizing her with an embarrassed grin. Very unusual for my top bouncer and gatekeeper. The right dress makes all the difference. I watch as she’s escorted inside, bypassing the envious gazes of those still waiting in line. The camera follows her progress through the main floor, capturing the heads that turn as she passes, the appreciative glances from men and women alike.

A dark possessive thrill courses through me at the sight— mine , walking into my domain. She belongs to no one in that room. Only I know why she’s here, what she hopes to achieve, and how thoroughly I intend to control the narrative she thinks she’s writing.

I switch to another camera as she’s led up the private staircase to the VIP level, then to the even more exclusive corridor leading to my personal lounge. Her posture remains rigidly composed, but I don’t miss the way her eyes dart around, taking in every detail, memorizing faces, cataloging information for the story she believes she’s researching. Let her look. Let her remember. By the time she understands what she’s really seeing, it will be too late.

I move away from the monitors and position myself at the small bar in the lounge’s corner. The space is designed for intimate meetings with soundproof walls, subtle lighting, comfortable seating facilitated conversation while maintaining appropriate distance. No windows, no obvious cameras, nothing to suggest that every word spoken here is recorded and analyzed.

A soft knock precedes the door opening. One of my security team, Blake, a former military man with impeccable discretion, shows Lea inside before withdrawing, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

She stands just inside the entrance, taking in the room with those quick, assessing eyes. The red dress clings to her curves, the hemline stopping just above her knees. Conservative by club standards but still showing enough leg to draw attention. She’s applied makeup with a skilled hand, enough to enhance her natural beauty without appearing overdone.

“Ms. Song,” I greet, my voice neutral as I pour two glasses of water. “You’re punctual, as always. I appreciate that.”

“Mr. Varela.” She steps further into the room, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. “Thank you for the dress. It’s beautiful. It…it wasn’t necessary.”

“I disagree.” I hand her one of the water glasses, our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. She doesn’t flinch, but I catch the slight increase in her breathing rate at the contact. “Appearance matters in my world. The right look opens doors that would otherwise remain closed.”

She takes a small sip of water, using the moment to gather her thoughts. “I brought my notebook,” she says, reaching for her small clutch purse. “I thought we could start by discussing?—”

I raise a single finger, cutting her off mid-sentence. The immediate way she falls silent sends a wave of satisfaction through me. Already learning.

“This isn’t a conventional interview,” I remind her, moving to circle behind where she stands. “It’s not a negotiation. It’s a privilege I can revoke at any time.”

I complete my circle, coming to stand behind her. She remains perfectly still, though I can sense the tension radiating from her body; the fight-or-flight response held rigidly in check by her determination to get her story.

“Tonight,” I continue, placing a hand on her bare shoulder, “is about establishing parameters.”

She stiffens at my touch, her skin warm beneath my palm. I let my hand remain there for three heartbeats, long enough to make my point, before stepping around to face her again.

“Your phone,” I say, extending my hand. “Give it to me.”

Her eyes widen, her free hand instinctively moving to the small clutch where her phone presumably rests. “My phone? Why?”

“Because I asked for it,” I reply. “And because while you’re in my world, your communications are my concern.”

I watch the internal struggle play across her face. The journalist’s instinct to protect her source material, the woman’s natural resistance to surrendering her privacy, the pragmatist’s calculation of how much she’s willing to sacrifice for access.

“I need my phone for work,” she says finally. “For notes, for recording?—”

“All of which can be accomplished with this.” I reach into my jacket pocket and withdraw a sleek smartphone, nearly identical to the model I’ve seen her using during our previous meeting. “The latest model. All the functionality you need.”

She stares at the offered device, suspicion clear in her expression. “And what’s been added to it?”

A smile tugs at my lips. She isn’t stupid. Good.

“Security measures,” I answer truthfully, if incompletely. The phone does indeed have enhanced security, along with custom software that will allow Marco to monitor her communications, track her location, and access her data. “For your protection as much as mine.”

She doesn’t believe me. That much is clear from the skeptical arch of her eyebrow. But she’s calculating again, weighing her options, recognizing the inherent power imbalance in our arrangement.

“My contacts,” she says. “My photos.”

“Will remain private,” I assure her. Another partial truth. I have no interest in her personal relationships or family vacation pictures. Only in who she speaks to about me, and what she says.

She hesitates another moment before opening her clutch and extracting her phone. Her fingers curl around it, a last moment of resistance before she finally extends her hand.

I take her phone, replacing it with the new one. “Your number will be transferred within an hour,” I tell her. “Your contacts as well. Consider it a professional courtesy.” I hand her original phone to Blake, who has reappeared at the door.

She glances down at the device in her hand, then back up at me, her dark eyes unreadable. “Is this how all your interviews begin? Confiscating personal property?”

“You’re not here for an interview,” I remind her, watching Blake pocket her phone before retreating again. “You’re here to observe. To understand. To witness how my world functions.” I gesture toward the seating area. “Please, make yourself comfortable. We have a full schedule tonight.”

She moves toward one armchair, perching on its edge rather than settling back, ready for flight, maintaining what little control she can. I give myself a moment to appreciate the picture she makes: the red dress against the black chair, her dark hair framing features that are both delicate and determined.

“So, what’s it about?” she asks, her reporter’s instinct for direct questions reasserting itself.

“Business,” I reply, taking the seat opposite her. “Some pleasure. Lessons in consequences.”

Her eyes narrow. “Consequences?”

Before I can elaborate, a sharp knock at the door interrupts us. Marco. Perfect timing, as always.

“Enter,” I call, not taking my eyes off Lea.

The door opens to admit Marco, followed by two of my security team escorting a thin man with disheveled hair and the particular mix of fear and defiance common to those who abuse those weaker than themselves. Michael Reeves, Jasmine’s musician boyfriend.

He stumbles slightly as Marco propels him forward, his eyes darting frantically around the luxurious space before settling on me. Recognition dawns in his expression. He knows who I am. Good. That will save time.

Lea has gone completely still, her attention riveted on the unfolding scene. I can see the questions forming behind those keen eyes. The journalist in her is already constructing narratives, seeking connections, hungry for understanding.

I rise unhurriedly, buttoning my jacket. “Mr. Reeves,” I greet, my voice carrying the same polite indifference I might use with a waiter or valet. “Thank you for joining us this evening.”

The man swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny neck. “I had little choice,” he mutters, shooting a resentful glance at Marco.

“Few of us do in the end,” I reply philosophically. “Choices, consequences. Cause, effect. The fundamental mechanics of existence.”

I gesture toward the center of the room. “Please, stand where I can see you properly.”

Marco gives him a not-so-gentle shove forward. Reeves stumbles again before righting himself, his posture a study in barely contained panic.

“I hear you’re a guitarist,” I say conversationally, circling him slowly. “A virtuoso, even.”

Confusion flickers across his face, momentarily displacing fear. “I…yeah. I play at The Blue Note. Other places too.”

“How long have you been playing?”

He blinks rapidly, clearly struggling to follow this unexpected line of questioning. “Since I was a kid. Fifteen years, maybe? I practice six hours a day.”

I nod, as if this information is what I’ve been seeking. “Dedication. Admirable.” I stop in front of him. “Left or right-handed?”

The question hangs in the air, its significance dawning on Reeves with terrible clarity. His eyes flick in terror toward Marco, then back to me, then toward the door where the security team stands blocking any escape route.

“Right,” he finally admits, his voice a whisper. “I use my left hand to chord the guitar, and the right to strum.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Lea shift in her seat, her breath catching as she realizes where this is heading. I turn, meeting her wide-eyed gaze for a brief, charged moment before returning my attention to Reeves.

“Good,” I hiss. “Then you only need the left hand to keep your career. I mean, you can always strum with a guitar pick glued to your right hand, right?”

What happens next unfolds with the precision of a well-rehearsed performance. At a nearly imperceptible nod from me, Marco moves forward, gripping Reeves from behind, immobilizing him with practiced efficiency. I step closer, taking the guitarist’s right hand in mine, examining it with clinical detachment. Long fingers. Callused tips from finger picking. The hands of someone who has dedicated thousands of hours to mastering an instrument. Hands that have also been used to strike a woman under my protection.

“Your right hand contains twenty-seven bones,” I inform him, my tone conversational despite the tension vibrating through the room. “Fourteen phalanges, the bones in your fingers. Five metacarpals in the palm. Eight carpal bones in the wrist.” I grasp his index finger, the skin clammy with sweat, and bend it sharply backward. The resistance gives way with a satisfying snap of bone beneath my hands. His scream resonates through the soundproofed room, high and thin with shock more than pain. That will come later.

“That’s one,” I say calmly.

The middle finger follows, then the ring finger, each break executed with precise, controlled pressure. Reeves is sobbing now, his knees buckling so that only Marco’s grip keeps him upright. The sound of his distress fades into background noise, irrelevant to the task at hand.

I pause before breaking the pinky, glancing toward Lea. She sits rigidly upright. Her face is pale, one hand pressed against her mouth as if stifling a wave of nausea. It’s her eyes that catch my interest, though. Her eyes are wide, fixed on the scene with a disturbing blend of horror and fascination. Not looking away. Not even trying to. A thrill of satisfaction stirs within me. She’s not averting her gaze. She’s absorbing it.

I return my attention to Reeves, completing the set with his little finger. Four clean breaks, each one deliberate, each one a message written in pain and bone.

“Listen,” I tell him, leaning close to ensure my words penetrate the haze of his agony. “If you ever lay a hand on Jasmine, or any of my women again, I will ensure that every bone in your left hand suffers the same fate. And then I’ll start on the ones that keep you walking upright. Do you understand?”

He nods frantically, tears and mucus streaming down his face. Pathetic. Men who prey on the vulnerable always are once stripped of their imagined power.

“Good.” I step back, straightening my cuffs. “My associate will arrange medical attention for you. The doctors are very discreet. Very skilled, too, though I’m afraid you might have to cancel a couple of gigs at the Blue Note, just like I had to replace Jasmine in my act for the next week or two, thanks to you.”

I nod to the security team. “Escort him out via the service entrance. And make sure he understands that tonight’s conversation remains private.”

They move forward, taking the sobbing man from Marco’s grip and half-dragging him toward the door. As they exit, I turn back to Lea, studying her reaction with genuine curiosity. She remains seated; her knuckles are white where she grips the arms of the chair, her eyes fixed on the spot where Reeves had stood.

“Think carefully,” I tell her, my voice dangerously soft, “about how much of that you want to put in your article.”

She looks up then, her composure fragmenting before forcing itself back together through sheer will. “Was that supposed to scare me?” she asks, her voice steadier than I might have expected.

“No,” I reply honestly. “It was supposed to educate you.” I move closer, noting how she tenses but doesn’t retreat. “You wanted access to my world, Ms. Song. This is it. Not the champagne and VIP tables. Not the music and beautiful people. This.” I gesture to the space where Reeves had stood. “Order maintained through consequence. Respect enforced through example.”

She swallows hard, her reporter’s instinct fighting against what she’s just witnessed. “He deserved punishment,” she says finally. “What he did to Jasmine was wrong. But this?”

“Was efficient,” I finish for her. “He won’t touch her again. He won’t touch any woman again. One moment of discomfort for preventing future violence.” I tilt my head. “Isn’t that a fair trade?”

“Discomfort?” She almost laughs, the sound strangled in her throat. “You broke his hand. His career.”

“I broke the hand he used to hurt someone under my protection,” I correct. “His left hand remains perfectly functional for chording. Perhaps he’ll develop a new style. Adversity breeds innovation, after all.”

I can see her struggling with the moral calculus, the part of her that recognizes the justice in Reeves facing consequences warring with her socialized understanding of acceptable punishment. The conflict makes her even more fascinating to watch.

“You could have called the police,” she suggests, though her tone lacks conviction.

This time I do laugh, the sound genuinely amused. “And what would they have done? Taken a report? Held him overnight? Released him with a warning?” I shake my head. “The system you believe in fails women like Jasmine every day. My system doesn’t.”

She has no immediate response to that, her eyes dropping to the new phone still clutched in her hand. I watch her processing, recalibrating, adjusting her understanding of exactly what she’s walked into when she agreed to my terms.

“Our schedule for the evening continues downstairs,” I say after allowing her a moment to collect herself. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet; someone who might provide a valuable perspective for your article.”

Lea rises, her movements careful, controlled. Whatever she’s feeling, she’s determined not to show weakness. I admire that, even as I recognize it as the same pride that will eventually bring her fully into my world.

“And if I decide I’ve seen enough for one night?” she asks, an ultimate test of boundaries.

I smile, not bothering to hide the predatory edge. “Then our arrangement ends. You walk out with a partial story and limited understanding. Enough to write something, perhaps, but not enough to matter.” I step closer, close enough to catch her perfume, something subtle and floral that suits her perfectly. “But you won’t. Because you need this story more than you’re disturbed by my methods. Don’t you, Lea?”

Using her first name, deliberate and intimate, lands as intended. A flush creeps up her neck, her pupils dilating despite her efforts to maintain professional distance.

“I need the truth,” she counters, lifting her chin. “Whatever it is.”

“Then follow me,” I say, gesturing toward the door. “And prepare yourself. The night is just beginning.”