Chapter 2 - The Crimson Lounge
The Crimson Lounge was one of those exclusive subterranean clubs where the wealthy elite rubbed shoulders with organized crime syndicates under the hypnotic pulse of neon lights and heavy bass. Located deep in the heart of the entertainment district, it was a neutral zone protected by strict underworld codes. Usually, no one dared bring violence inside its velvet-draped walls.
That code was about to be violently rewritten.
A sleek black convoy of armored Maybachs pulled up to the curb with terrifying precision. The valet parking attendants took one look at the insignia embossed on the lead vehicle’s grill and scattered instantly, knowing better than to question the arrival of the Costa syndicate.
The heavy oak doors of the lounge swung open, and Vincent Costa walked inside, flanked by Aleandro and six elite enforcers dressed in immaculate black suits. The music cut out instantly. The terrified DJ fumbled with his decks, while the bartender dropped a highball glass, watching it shatter into a thousand glittering pieces across the polished concrete floor.
At a VIP booth in the back corner, four men sat draped over leather couches, surrounded by expensive bottles of crystal champagne and laughing loudly. At the center sat Viktor Petrov, Anton’s arrogant nephew, a heavy gold chain hanging thick around his thick neck, his knuckles still sporting purple bruises from where he had shoved Charmian against a concrete pillar just days ago.
Viktor looked up, annoyance flashing across his bloated features as he saw his private booth blocked by a wall of silent, menacing enforcers.
"Hey! What the hell do you—" Viktor started, stumbling to his feet, before his drunken eyes finally focused on the man standing at the front of the formation.
The color drained entirely from Viktor’s face. His jaw went slack.
"Costa," Viktor stammered, his bravado evaporating in a single microsecond as he recognized the most dangerous man in the city standing less than ten feet away. "I... I didn't know you frequented this establishment. We can clear the VIP section immediately if—"
Vincent did not speak. He walked slowly toward the booth, his leather-soled shoes clicking rhythmically against the floor like a countdown to execution. He stopped right in front of Viktor, towering over him by half a foot.
"You have a very bad habit, Viktor," Vincent said, his voice deceptively calm, carrying easily across the dead silence of the entire club.
"I... I don't know what you mean, Mr. Costa," Viktor swallowed hard, sweat beading instantly along his hairline.
"My maid," Vincent said simply. "A nineteen-year-old girl named Charmian who works three jobs, goes to college, and tries to build a decent life in this city. You and your thugs cornered her in a garage. You bruised her face. You split her lip. You made her scrub your floors."
Viktor’s eyes widened in sheer panic. He cast a frantic glance toward Aleandro, looking for any sign of mercy. "It was just a collection! Her loser brother owes forty grand—"
Before Viktor could finish the sentence, Vincent’s fist lashed out with the speed of a striking viper.
The punch landed squarely on Viktor’s jaw with a sickening crack that echoed through the silent lounge. The younger man spun backward, crashing heavily through a glass-topped table and sending bottles of champagne flying in every direction.
"She is under my protection," Vincent roared, his voice finally breaking through its icy veneer with volcanic fury. "Which means every insult, every bruise, and every drop of blood she shed is a direct insult to me!"
Viktor’s enforcers scrambled to reach for the concealed firearms inside their jackets, but Vincent’s men were faster. Within a fraction of a second, six Glock barrels were pressed firmly against the foreheads and temples of the Russian thugs, cocked and ready to end their miserable lives right there on the sticky club floor.
"Try it," Aleandro smiled coldly, pressing his gun harder into the temple of the nearest enforcer. "I haven't had a good target practice all week."
Viktor groaned, dragging himself up onto his hands and knees, blood dripping freely from his split lip onto the ruined carpet. He looked up at Vincent with a mixture of terror and unadulterated hatred.
"My uncle Anton won't let this stand!" Viktor spat out, wiping blood from his mouth. "You're breaking the treaty over a hired servant? You're going to start a turf war over a nobody?"
Vincent crouched down until he was eye-level with the trembling Russian. He reached out, grabbed a fistful of Viktor’s expensive silk shirt, and hoisted him up until their faces were inches apart.
"Tell your uncle that if I ever see him, or any of his dogs, within five miles of Charmian Flannery—or her brother—I will personally peel the skin off your bones and feed it to the stray dogs down at the docks," Vincent whispered softly into his ear. "And as for the forty-thousand-dollar debt? Consider it paid in full with interest. In fact, consider your entire operation living on borrowed time."
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Vincent shoved Viktor back onto the floor with absolute disgust, standing up and dusting off his cuffs as if he had just stepped in filth.
"Let's go, boys," Vincent commanded, turning his back on the cowering Russians. "We have a message to deliver to Anton."
