The club…
Beneath its shining chandeliers and nauseating cheap perfume, darkness lived in plain sight. Girls danced in barely dressed bodies. Men smoked cigars like kings while speaking in tongues only the criminal understood. A jazz-laced beat played over slow synths, making the whole place feel calm but with keen sight you would see cage decoration and girls dancing in it.
Greg and Elliot stepped inside with masks not literal ones, but social, seductive. In their casual clads and clean smiles, they looked like high-stakes men dangerous, rich and bored.
A waiter brushed by and Elliot took two glasses of amber liquid from the tray taking a shot while handling the other to Greg. The scent alone could burn a hole through steel.
"Relax your shoulders," Greg whispered under his breath, eyes flicking toward the back of the lounge. "They're watching."
Elliot didn't answer, frowning from the bitter taste still lingering from his throat. Greg eyes were locked on the man sitting like a god at the centre of it all. Marko Delvene. He was draped in velvet and ego, his arms flanked by muscle and misery. A girl sat on his thigh, young, too quiet and eyes too sharp for someone pretending to be drunk.
She noticed Greg before Marko did and her gaze clung to him like smoke curious, desperate, and cautious all at once. She whispered something to Marko and pretended to go get a glass of water. Greg had the faintest smile, Polished and Dangerous.
And then it began.
Girls began drifting toward him, drawn like moths to a flame. Some touched his arm, others tried to sit on his lap, but he only glanced at them, his attention drifting until she came.
Every step was deliberate. Her hips swayed like she was trying to impress him or distract him, maybe both
Her small hands smoothed her short red dress, and approached Greg...
"Mind if I sit?" she asked, voice honeyed but hollow.
Greg leaned back in the plush seat, spreading his arms across the backrest.
"I'd be offended if you didn't." Elliot took another shot envious that ladies didn't even look his way, 'I blame it on the damn mask' he was also man with needs but his good friend always stole the best ones. He shifted to the next seat nearby, watching the room while keeping one hand under the table.
Greg looked down at the lady in his arms while she smiled, straddled him, and tilted her head. Her perfume was subtle almost too clean for this place.
The girl's hands roamed Greg's chest, but her eyes scanned the room nervously. She was pretending to seduce, but her pupils screamed help. He felt her fingers tremble once. Her naïve eyes reminded him of sage when he first met her.
Although she pretended to be tough she was still vulnerable and had a stubborn look on her face. Thinking of sage, he suddenly felt uncomfortable with the woman on his arm and turned cold.
"Your name?" he asked softly but with a stern expression.
"Whatever you want it to be," she replied with a trained smirk. Before he could say more, a voice broke through the tension.
"I see my woman has eyes on you, stranger?"
Marko stood, wiping invisible dust from his wine-dark shirt. His voice was oily, stretching to fill the room.
"She's not for sale," he added, walking over. "But I do like a good game… what do you say?"
Greg looked up, uninterested but still "Then we play."
Marko chuckled, motioning to one of the back rooms behind a velvet curtain. A dark booth sat inside, a small round table in the centre. Two old revolvers lay across it weathered, heavy, and real. Casino-style gunplay, Russian roulette, but crueler.
They sat while girl stood to the side, lips trembling now. Greg noticed how she flinched when Marko placed his hand on the gun.
"One shot… One spin… You win, she's yours. You lose, I shoot the bitch. Simple."
Elliot's jaw clenched from across the glass divider, hidden but watching. Sable's voice came through the earpiece.
"Greg, don't take that risk. Abort."
Greg didn't respond he had seen this type of games before, and by the look of the table and marks on the gun, it was played a lot.
He picked up the gun.
Marko smirked. "Didn't peg you for the suicidal type."
Greg spun the chamber, cocked it, and placed it to his head. His face unreadable and Click.
Empty.
He placed it on the table and slid it to Marko, eyes never leaving his. The man laughed, pleased. "You've got guts."
Marko took the gun, spun the chamber again, and pointed it at the girl.
"Wait-" she breathed. Like a gust of wind, he kicked the table into Marko's gut, the gun firing into the ceiling. Elliot rushed in; tackling the guard at the door, gun drawn and Chaos erupted.
Greg grabbed the girl and pulled her behind the booth, shielding her as Sable and Knox stormed the room from the kitchen hallway.
"Everyone down!" Sable barked.
Marko reached for a second weapon beneath the table, but Greg was already on him, slamming his fist into his jaw so hard the fake beard tore off with blood. The man crashed into the floor, dazed.
The girl clung to Greg, crying. Not loudly just quietly, like someone used to holding in pain.
"You're safe now," he whispered.
Taking the opportunity, "I know where they're keeping the others and we have to move fast before they are transported to other places" Greg froze, loosened his grip on her throwing her into sables arms as he looked toward Elliot.
"This wasn't the main hideout."
Elliot nodded grimly. "Then let's burn through the rest."