Chapter 3 No.3

Eric Butler's Perspective

I sat back, my eyes scanning the room. The place pulsed with red lights and heavy bass, filled with bodies swaying to the music. Women danced on poles that stretched to the ceiling, their movements slow and hypnotic. Their clothes barely covered them, their laughter mixed with the smell of cigars and spilled alcohol.

A blonde woman approached me, her hair tied high, her green eyes locked onto mine. She smiled, her teeth bright under the dim lights. She was eager, but I felt nothing. The routine had become dull-a cycle of easy conquests and predictable encounters.

As she knelt between my legs, I let her do her work, but my mind wandered. It always did. The thrill was gone; no woman had managed to challenge me in years. I wanted something different. Something more.

The vibrations of my phone jolted me out of my thoughts. I glanced at the screen. Father.

I answered without hesitation. "Yes," I said, gripping the woman's hair.

"Has the package been delivered?" my father's voice was calm but carried the weight of expectation.

"Yes, it's been handled. They said the money will arrive tomorrow."

"And if it doesn't?"

I smirked, leaning back into the chair as smoke curled from the cigar between my teeth. "They'll pay. And if not, I have... other ways to ensure compliance."

A short pause, then: "Fine." The call ended.

I slipped the phone into my pocket and pushed the woman away. Her face was flushed, her breath shaky, and tears glistened in her doe-like eyes. "One more chance," I murmured, twisting her hair in my fingers. "Mess up again, and I'll send you to someone who won't be as kind. You don't want that, do you?"

She nodded quickly, fear in her eyes.

But before she could respond further, the doors to the club slammed open, and a rush of cold air swept through the room. The sound of heels clicking against the floor cut through the music. My gaze shifted to the entrance, where a woman stepped inside.

She wasn't like the others-she wasn't here to please anyone. Her posture was sharp, her steps deliberate. A sleek black coat draped over her shoulders, and her face carried an expression of disdain, as though the scene before her disgusted her.

Her presence was electric. Heads turned, conversations stopped, and even the music seemed to fade.

I straightened, intrigued for the first time in months.

The woman walked directly toward me, ignoring the dancers and drunk men reaching out to her. She stopped just short of my chair, her dark eyes locking with mine.

"Eric Butler," she said, her voice calm but laced with authority.

I raised an eyebrow, taking a drag from my cigar. "Who's asking?"

She leaned closer, her tone dropping to a whisper only I could hear. "You've made a mistake. One that could cost you everything. I'm here to fix it, whether you want my help or not."

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I nodded, gripping the blonde's hair tightly. "Good. Now zip me up." She complied without a word, and as I stood, I left her behind for the others to handle.

Adjusting my black gloves, I walked through the pulsing crowd, nodding at my people as they fell into line. Outside, we climbed into the sleek black car waiting at the curb under the flickering neon sign: Palm. My empire, built for men who couldn't fend for themselves but served my purpose well.

I settled into the backseat and motioned for one of my men to drive. As the car pulled away, I snapped, "Out." They hesitated briefly but obeyed without question. Once alone, I slid into the driver's seat, slamming the door and flooring the accelerator.

The city blurred as I sped through the streets, unnoticed by police. Then I saw it: a glossy black car I recognized instantly. Hers.

I followed it out of the city to a sprawling, floodlit estate. Two men in black suits exited the car, followed by her. Even in the shadows, Rita Sokolov was commanding-tight leather jeans, high boots, and a black top. Her golden-brown hair was tied back, and dark glasses concealed her eyes.

She had executed a task that was meant to be mine, flawlessly and with ruthless precision, as though mocking me. The thought both irritated and intrigued me.

I slipped through the gate before it closed and ducked into the bushes. Music drifted from the mansion as guests arrived. I spotted an open second-floor window and climbed the wall, the vines barely offering grip. Loose pebbles clattered into the pool below, but I made it inside.

Her room was sharp and minimalist, with gray walls and black-and-white decor. A wall of Russian books, a sleek desk with a loaded .40 caliber handgun, and a wardrobe full of bold, high-end outfits reflected her calculated and dangerous nature.

The faint scent of vanilla and rose lingered in the air, her signature. Water ran in the bathroom-she was in the shower. Perfect.

I scanned her books, unimpressed by the Russian classics. Tossing one aside, I rifled through the cupboards: neatly arranged dresses, silk lingerie, and more signs of her meticulous, powerful presence.