Chapter 6 - Blood on the Linen Cloth
The Velvet Room was drenched in crimson velvet, smoky dim lighting, and the rhythmic thump of low-frequency jazz. Behind the velvet rope, high-rolling businessmen and political figures rubbed shoulders with dangerous men wearing silk shirts unbuttoned to the chest.
I arrived at 9:00 PM, carrying a leather executive portfolio. Frankie Varga was waiting in the back VIP office—a heavyset man with slicked-back gray hair, gold rings on four fingers, and teeth that looked like they had chewed through gravel.
"Little Miss Brooks," Frankie purred, leaning back in his leather chair behind an enormous mahogany desk. "Dominic must really be running out of real men if he’s sending waitresses to check my numbers."
"Mr. Vane believes in operational transparency, Mr. Varga," I replied, sitting down across from him and opening my laptop without asking for permission. "Your beverage shrinkage is up forty percent, and your VIP table turnover has mysteriously halved despite record foot traffic."
Frankie laughed, a grating sound like grinding stones. "Liquor spills, sweetie. Girls drop bottles. High rollers sit longer. That's hospitality. You want a drink while you stare at those fake numbers?"
"I don't drink on company time," I said. "Now, please hand over the physical register printouts for the past four weekends, or I will flag this venue for an immediate inventory lockdown."
Frankie’s smile vanished. He stood up slowly, planting both heavy fists on the desk. "Listen to me, you little college brat. You tell Dominic that if he wants to count my money, he can bring his own gun down here and count it himself. Now pack your toy computer and get the hell out of my club."
"I don't need Dominic's gun, Frankie," I said, looking him dead in the eyes. "Because while you were lecturing me about hospitality, my portable drive just finished cloning your wireless point-of-sale terminal. Including the encrypted cloud sync routed to an offshore account in Grand Cayman under the name 'Lucenti Distribution'."
Frankie froze. His face turned a dangerous, mottled purple.
He reached toward the drawer beneath his desk, but I didn't wait. I grabbed the heavy crystal decanter from his desk and smashed it across his knuckles with all the force my two years of restaurant tray-carrying had built into my arms.
Frankie roared in agony, clutching his shattered hand as scotch and blood sprayed across his leather blotter.
I snatched my laptop, bolted through the office door, and burst into the crowded VIP lounge.
"Stop that girl!" Frankie’s scream tore through the music.
Two bouncers immediately moved to intercept me at the corridor exit. Panic surged through my throat—then the double doors of the club were kicked off their hinges with a thunderous boom.
Dominic Vane stepped through the smoke and shattered wood, flanked by four men in tactical gear. He didn't look like a businessman anymore. He looked like an avenging angel of death.
With swift, brutal efficiency, Dominic’s men neutralized the bouncers before they could take another step. Dominic moved through the chaos like a ghost, his eyes locked solely on me. He reached my side, pulled me behind his shoulder, and turned his firearm directly onto Frankie, who had stumbled out of the office clutching his bleeding wrist.
"You violated my hospitality code, Frankie," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register that made the entire room freeze.
"Antonio will hear about this, Vane!" Frankie wheezed, terrified. "The whole family will tear you to pieces!"
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"Antonio already knows," Dominic replied coldly. "Because while Nadia was securing your ledger, Marco took your southern warehouse. You have two minutes to leave this city. If I see your face in Illinois by sunrise, I will bury you under the foundation of table nine."
Dominic turned, wrapped his arm firmly around my waist, and ushered me out into the crisp autumn air.
