Page 23 of Broken Honor

“No.”

“You’re the one who interrupted—”

“Doesn’t matter. If she wanted to get fucked in the corridor, she can find another job. Make sure you get your fill of her this night.”

Riccardo lets out a short, low laugh behind me. “You really are colder than before.”

I push through the side door and step into the night.

The air hits sharp—cool, with the faint bite of dew rising from the stone steps. The car’s already waiting near the garage, engine low, headlights dimmed. I slide in and shut the door behind me.

The cabin is clean, dark leather against steel trims. I press the dashboard interface, typing in the destination manually.

CLUB FIORI.

I start the engine. The gates slide open slowly ahead of me.

The gates groan open.

The road stretches ahead, long and smooth, flanked by black railings and tall trees swaying under the wind’s push. The hum of the engine is steady beneath me, a low growl pulsing through the steering wheel.

The city flickers into view in the distance—lights blooming across the skyline like embers glowing beneath ash. Concrete, neon, asphalt.

I pass under flickering streetlamps and faded signage, weaving between sleepy taxis and prowling motorcycles. Familiar intersections blur past, each corner carrying the weight of old blood, old deals, old ghosts.

Thirty minutes later, I pull up outside the club.

The building looms over the street—three stories of glass and chrome, velvet ropes already pushed aside for the night’s crowd. Heavy bass thumps from behind the tinted doors, the kind that pounds through the bones before it reaches the ears. A long line of high-heeled girls and half-drunk men crowds the entrance, but the doormen step back the second they see me.

Inside, the strobe lights pulse in fractured colors—violet, red, electric blue. Bodies move on the dancefloor in a blur of limbs and sweat. The air is thick with smoke and perfume and liquor. Some DJ is shouting something into the mic, but I don’t hear a word of it.

I walk straight in, past the bar, past the grinding couples, past the ones who turn their heads just slightly—sensing something different in the way I move.

I step right into the middle of the room. And pull the gun from beneath my coat and shoot into the air.

The sound of the first shot tears through the club like a bolt of lightning.

A scream follows.

The second shot is louder, closer—ripping into the ceiling tiles and making a shower of dust and debris fall over the chandeliers.

The crowd reacts all at once—scrambling, stumbling, chairs crashing, tables overturned in a heartbeat.

Panic floods the room.

Bodies press toward exits, heels clattering against tiles, voices rising in a confused, terrified crescendo. The music cuts off with a jagged screech, the DJ ducking low behind his booth, whispering frantic curses into his headset.

I stay exactly where I am.

The gun hangs in my hand, still warm.

Soon, the room empties. The scent of liquor lingers, the clatter of glass still echoes. Only the sound of shallow breathing remains—the kind that comes from men trying to stay still without showing weakness.

Seven men remain.

Security, clearly. Poor ones.

And the club’s owner storms out from the VIP corridor, his jacket unbuttoned, gold chain glinting at his throat. His expression is thunder—rage simmering beneath disbelief.

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