Addicted 2 Moni

Marked By Anthony

Diamond POV

<Same day - 7:40 PM>

I swear I told myself I would never do no shit like this.

But a mf is broke as hell out here.

Every person I ever loved or trusted is gone. Except for Damion. My little brother. Fifteen, with Down syndrome, and my whole world.

Ain't nobody ever understood him but me. And now they threatening to take him away from me. Talking about overdue medical bills and state intervention. I just wanted to get him into a proper facility—one that would actually care for his needs. But that kinda help costs money I just don't got.

So here I am.

Desperate ain't even the word. A friend of mine told me about a powerful man named Anthony. Said he runs all of Chicago—mafia boss, ruthless as hell, with his hands in everything from drugs to politics. She told me he recruits girls sometimes. Fast money, she said. Not easy, but it pays.

I told her no at first.

Now look at me.

Walking into a place that smell like sex, money, and heavy perfume, and looking like a piece of meat on display.

The "playroom," that's what they call it. And I get why.

Dim lighting. Heavy bass vibrating the floor. Trap music fills the air like smoke. There's a bar to the left, couches and beds lined up along the walls, and private rooms on the right for those with more specific...appetites.

It's like a luxury brothel had a baby with a strip club, and raised it in the projects.

I glance around and feel my stomach tighten. Some of the girls are already being touched, fucked, tossed money like it grows out their backs. I ain't judging nobody—we all got our reasons. But I know damn well I didn't come here for that. Not yet, at least.

"Aye new girl, put these on," an older woman with sharp cheekbones says, snapping me out of my head.

She tosses me a lace-front wig, a gold chain fishnet top, nude thong, and a pair of sky-high pumps.

"I don't see a bra," I raise an eyebrow.

"Honey, you won't need it. Trust," she smirks before handing another girl her outfit.

I nod and head off to change, heart pounding the whole time.

The mirror don't lie.

The outfit leaves nothing to the imagination—titties out, nipples barely hidden under the chain top, thong riding high, and the heels giving my ass that perfect curve. I fix the wig, lay my baby hairs, add some lotion to my skin, and spritz on some generic-ass perfume from the vanity.

"Make that money. Don't let it make you," I whisper to myself, quoting Diamond from The Players Club.

One last breath.

Then I step back out into the room.

I see everything in more detail now. Girls on beds, some laughing while being thrown money. One girl giving head while the man she's with throws cash over her head like confetti. I'm not ready for all that. I need time to feel this place out.

So I head to the bar and sit next to the older lady.

"It gets easier, honey. Trust," she says, sliding me a shot.

"I hope so," I mutter, downing it in one go.

Then I hear it.

"Aye, come fuck with me, baby."

A man behind me. Tall, handsome, smooth as silk. Light complexion and tattoos peeking from under his shirt. But before I can answer, the older lady cuts in.

"She's spoken for," she says with a smile.

He sucks his teeth, eyes me one last time, then walks away.

I blink. "I don't recall anyone speaking for me."

She smirks and holds up the necklace around my neck—a heavy gold chain with an insignia.

"As long as you wear this, you are."

My eyes narrow. "Meaning?"

"The boss chose you. That's his mark. Nobody else touches you. And if they do? They die. Simple."

I look down at the chain. The metal feels heavier now.

"And how the hell am I supposed to make money if I'm off-limits?"

She chuckles. "Baby, he is the money. That chain can get you anything you want in this place."

Before I can respond, a shadow looms behind me. A man with broad shoulders, dark eyes, and the kind of walk that says he don't ask twice.

"The boss wants to see you."

My breath hitches. The older lady nods at me.

"Remember what I told you: do whatever he says, always look him in the eye, and never question him."

I nod, take another drink for courage, and follow the man.

He walks me to a sleek office, all dark wood and gold trim. Then points to a private elevator tucked in the back.

"Just go up."

"Okay. Thanks," I say.

He lingers a moment. Hazel eyes softening just enough to give away something human beneath the soldier mask.

Lowkey, he fine.

But this ain't the time.

I step inside the elevator and press the only button there.

As the doors close, I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls.

I look expensive.

I look dangerous.

And I look like a girl who just walked into the lion's den—and liked it.