Chapter 7 - The Trap Springs
The following evening, Clara finished her shift at the Obsidian Lounge slightly later than usual. The club was unusually quiet, the heavy bass of the jazz band echoing softly through the empty corridors. Julian gave her a sympathetic wave as she grabbed her coat from the back office and headed toward the alleyway exit.
She pushed open the heavy metal door, stepping out into the cool, damp night air. But something was wrong. The usual hum of city traffic was missing, and the alleyway was completely devoid of pedestrians.
Before she could turn back, heavy footsteps echoed from the shadows behind her.
"Going somewhere, sweet cheeks?" a raspy voice sneered.
Clara spun around. Three burly men in heavy winter coats blocked the mouth of the alley. They weren't Lorenzo’s guards; their faces were scarred, and their cold, dead eyes radiated brutal violence. Russian Bratva enforcers.
Clara’s heart slammed against her ribs, but her survival instincts kicked into overdrive. She reached instantly into her tote bag, her fingers wrapping tightly around the canister of pepper spray.
"Back off," Clara warned, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to sound brave. "You have the wrong person."
"We have exactly who we need," the lead enforcer grinned, stepping forward with a malicious glint in his eye. "Boss wants to send a message to Moretti. Starting with his favorite little toy."
He lunged forward, grabbing for her arm. But Clara didn't hesitate. She whipped out the canister and sprayed a concentrated stream directly into his eyes.
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The man shrieked, clutching his face in blinding agony, stumbling backward into his comrades. "Get her!" he roared, blinded and furious.
Clara turned and bolted deeper into the dead-end alley, her cheap flats slapping frantically against the wet pavement. But her path was cut off by a towering brick wall. She spun around, her back pressed against the cold masonry, her chest heaving as the two remaining enforcers closed in like wolves cornering a lamb.
