❛You're mine. And If I don't get you, no one can.❜
In which our little psycho protagonist somehow makes the world's 𝙨𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 most dangerous criminals develop an unhealthy obsession for her.
➻ Alternative Universe
➻ Crime Noir Fiction
➻ Action...
The smell of liquor was putrid, topped with the intense stench of expensive cologne, sweat and citrus. Wooden stools were lined up along a counter with a bar edged with costly booze.
You could hear people talking. Complaining about their spouses, arguing over games, and stressing over life.
The clink of ice as a person stirred their drink was not clear due to the music playing in the background but if you paid close attention, you could hear the murmurs. The whispering of people who did not want anyone else to hear what they were talking about.
The club was eccentric tonight, everyone feeding off of the smiles and fast dancing. They could go like this all night long, feet moving to the crazy beat like they belong to the music.
They move in their dress like their hips were made to sway, the sequins catching the disco ball light that twirls above - launching every shade of the rainbow into the darkness.
All kinds of lavish people were present at the extravagant niterie, still in the mood for New Year Parties. Drug Dealing, Trafficking, Burglary, undeclared work, etc were commonly seen at a place as big and expensive as the Dionysus Night Club, where you could do anything illegal without getting caught.
In other words, this was asweet heaven made for criminals.
There was something dark and mesmerising about the well-dressed billionaire seated in the nightclub he owned, tension hugging the atmosphere that surrounded him.
He sat alone in the dimly lit VIP section, the faint hum of conversation and music muffled as though even the sound dared not disturb him. His long fingers curled loosely around a crystal glass filled with freshly poured vodka, its clarity catching the soft glow of overhead lights.
Draped in a perfectly tailored Cesare Attolini suit, every inch of him exuded an effortless elegance, his frame poised and commanding even in stillness. With one leg crossed over the other, he was the epitome of detached sophistication, a man both visible and untouchable.
There was something uncanny about him, a magnetism that compelled a second glance from anyone who passed by. His presence didn't demand attention—it commanded it, quietly, insidiously, like a whisper in the dark that refused to be ignored.
