The Crimson Club loomed ahead, bathed in blood-red neon, its towering structure standing as a monument to the city's underworld. The bass-heavy music pulsed through the air, mixing with the chatter of high-rollers and criminals dressed in silk and steel.

  Billy didn’t slow his pace. If he hesitated now, he was already dead.

  Two bouncers stood at the entrance, massive and dressed in black. Their eyes locked onto him the moment he approached. One reached for a concealed earpiece, likely confirming Billy’s presence.

  The other blocked his path. “No weapons inside.”

  Billy gave a humorless smile and pulled open his coat, revealing his sidearm, a combat knife, and a handful of gadgets. Slowly, he unholstered the gun, flipping it in his grip before handing it over.

  The bouncer took it but didn’t move. “The knife.”

  Billy’s fingers tightened around the hilt. A long second passed. Then, he sighed and handed it over.

  The bouncer nodded. “Go in. Boss is waiting.”

  Billy stepped through the velvet curtains, and the Crimson Club unfolded before him.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The main hall was a palace of excess—gold-trimmed furniture, crystal chandeliers, and a long, winding bar lined with the finest liquor. A live jazz band played on stage, setting the mood. People were laughing, drinking, making deals that would shape the city’s fate.

  And at the heart of it all, at a private booth overlooking the entire club, sat Darius Blackthorn.

  Billy’s eyes locked onto him immediately. Blackthorn was as dangerous as the rumors suggested. A man in his early forties, draped in a tailored black suit with a crimson tie. His dark hair was slicked back, his chiseled features sharp enough to cut glass. But it was his eyes—calm, assessing, utterly predatory—that set him apart.

  Billy made his way toward the booth. Every step felt like walking through a web, unseen eyes tracking his movements. He reached the table and stood across from Blackthorn.

  A smirk played on the crime lord’s lips. “You made it. Good.”

  Billy didn’t sit. “You have something to say. Say it.”

  Blackthorn chuckled and gestured to the empty seat across from him. “No need to rush. Have a drink.”

  Billy didn’t move. “I don’t drink with dead men.”

  The smile on Blackthorn’s face didn’t fade. Instead, he tapped a finger against the table, amused. “That’s funny. Because I was about to say the same thing.”

  Silence.

  Then, Blackthorn leaned forward. “Let’s talk business, Billy. You have a decision to make.”

  Billy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not interested.”

  Blackthorn raised an eyebrow. “Not even if it’s about who really wants you alive?”

  Billy froze.

  Blackthorn’s smirk widened. “Sit, Knight. We have much to discuss.”

  With every instinct screaming at him, Billy finally took the seat.

  The real game had just begun.