The Atlas Lyons Club: Roaring Ambitions

Shadows and secrets

The night deepened as Oren Oberman and JDoms descended from the platform, the weight of their declaration still hanging in the air like a fog. The club seemed to absorb their words, but beneath the silence, something stirred. It always did. The Atlas Lyons Club was never truly still.

As they moved through the room, eyes followed them—some curious, some wary, others guarded. Deals had been made in these shadows for years, and the men and women who filled the club's darkened corners knew the game well. Tonight was only a shift in the board. The pieces still needed to be played.

JDoms caught Oren's eye, a silent nod passing between them. The message was clear: the speech had landed, but the real work was just beginning. The future of the club wouldn't be secured by words alone. It would be secured by control—by making sure every corner of this place answered to them.

"Keep an eye on Fifty," JDoms murmured, just low enough for Oren to hear. His voice cut through the hum of the club like a knife. "That man doesn't blink unless there's something in it for him."

Oren's lips barely twitched into a smile. "Oh, I've got him clocked."

They moved deeper into the club, past the grand piano, where the music had shifted into a low, melancholic melody. The chanteuse, Becca Thornhill, sang softly, her voice haunting, wrapping the room in a veil of shadows. At the piano, Lady Evelyn Sparkes played, her fingers gliding over the keys with a graceful ease, matching the room's mood with her music.

The farther they moved, the quieter the club became. The regulars and sycophants stayed near the entrance, close to the action, but the back halls—the real guts of The Atlas Lyons Club—were a different story. This was where the secrets were kept.

Oren's shoes echoed softly as they entered the hallway leading to the private rooms. The door to one of them stood slightly ajar, light spilling out in a narrow beam across the floor. Inside, the faint click of glass on glass sounded, and hushed voices murmured.

"Thought you'd be back here," JDoms muttered, his hand resting on the handle of the door as he pushed it open.

Inside, a small group had gathered around a circular table. The air was thick with cigar smoke, the amber glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across their faces. These weren't the ordinary members. These were the ones with real power—the kind that didn't need a speech to flex their influence.

At the center of the group sat Marcus Lane, one of the club's longest-standing Board Members. He was tall, lean, with silver streaks in his hair and eyes that seemed to see more than he ever let on. He didn't look up when Oren and JDoms entered. He didn't need to. He knew who had just walked in.

"Well, well," Marcus drawled, his voice as smooth as the whiskey in his glass. "If it isn't the new blood. Come to see how the old dogs play?"

Oren didn't flinch. Marcus had a reputation for needling people, testing them, especially the ones he thought might be a threat. But Oren was ready. He'd been expecting this.

"We're not here to watch, Marcus," Oren said evenly. "We're here to play."

Marcus finally lifted his gaze, a slow smile curling at the corner of his mouth. "That so? I hear you've got big plans for this place. Changing the guard is one thing, but you two..." His gaze flicked between Oren and JDoms. "You want more than that, don't you?"

JDoms stepped forward, his voice low, controlled. "We want this club to reach its potential. To go beyond what any of you have imagined."

There was a brief silence. Then Marcus chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. "Big dreams for young men. But let me give you some advice." He leaned forward slightly, the light catching the edge of his sharp features. "The Atlas Lyons Club doesn't belong to anyone. Not really. It moves on its own. Men like you... and me? We're just here to guide it."

Oren met Marcus's gaze, not blinking. "Maybe it's time for someone to give it a push in the right direction."

The room grew tense, the weight of the words sinking into the air between them. The others at the table shifted slightly, glancing at each other. They weren't used to being challenged like this.

Marcus's smile widened, but there was no humor in it. "Careful, Oberman. This place chews up men who think they can steer it. But... I like your fire. We'll see how long it burns."

Without another word, Marcus leaned back in his chair, taking a slow sip of his drink, as though the conversation had never happened. The others around the table followed suit, their interest waning as the tension broke.

Oren exhaled slowly. The warning was clear. Men like Marcus weren't going to give up their grip on the club easily. But Oren and JDoms weren't here to ask for permission.

As they turned to leave the room, the door clicked shut behind them, the conversation resuming at the table. JDoms glanced over at Oren. "Think he's going to be a problem?"

Oren's jaw tightened. "Not immediately. But men like Marcus don't get comfortable unless they know they're safe."

JDoms nodded. "We need to figure out where his weaknesses are. Everyone's got one."

Oren's eyes narrowed as they moved further down the hall, past doors that were locked tight, hiding whatever deals were being made behind them. Maxwell Fifty might have been the face of tonight's subtle threat, but Marcus Lane was the real power behind the shadows. He knew more than he let on, and Oren was certain that in the coming days, Marcus would be watching their every move, waiting for a slip-up.

But Oren wasn't planning on slipping. Not yet.

As they left the private halls and re-entered the main room of the club, the weight of the encounter with Marcus still hung in the air, though they didn't speak of it. The chanteuse, Becca Thornhill, was still singing, her voice low and sweet, though now it sounded like a lament, echoing through the room as the night wore on.

A man approached them from the crowd, his sharp suit and polished shoes marking him as one of the high-rollers of the club. Holmes Radcliffe, another Board Member. Unlike Marcus, Holmes wore his wealth with a smile—too wide, too polished. He extended a hand toward Oren.

"Oberman," Holmes said, his tone smooth, "I've been waiting for a proper introduction. Word has it you've got plans for the club. Big ones."

Oren took the offered hand but didn't smile. "Plans for the club's future, yes. Ones I hope we can all agree will make this place stronger."

Holmes's grip was firm, his smile still too practiced. "Strength, of course. But strength only works when it's handled carefully, wouldn't you agree?"

JDoms gave a quiet nod from Oren's side. "We're careful. But that doesn't mean we don't move slow."

Holmes chuckled softly, releasing Oren's hand. "I like you two. Ambitious. We'll have to talk more about those plans. After all, I'd hate to be left out of the fun."

"Everyone will have their part to play," Oren said, his voice even. "The club thrives when everyone contributes."

Holmes winked. "And when everyone knows their place, right?"

Oren's expression didn't shift, but the meaning wasn't lost on him. Holmes was smiling, but like everyone else tonight, he was testing the waters, feeling out the new power structure. Everyone wanted to know just how far Oren and JDoms were willing to push. And how far they were willing to let others push back.

"Enjoy the rest of your night," Oren said coolly, stepping past Holmes without another glance.

As Oren and JDoms moved toward the exit, the weight of the night settled in. The tension in the air hadn't faded—it had thickened, hanging over the club like a storm cloud waiting to burst.

"You think we're ready for what's coming?" JDoms asked quietly, his eyes scanning the room one last time.

Oren's gaze was steady as he pushed open the heavy door to the alley. "Doesn't matter if we're ready. It's coming either way."

The door closed behind them with a soft thud, the club's shadows folding back in on themselves. Outside, the air was colder now, the night darker. Oren paused, his breath visible in the chilled air.

The Atlas Lyons Club was theirs now. But the price of power was always steep. And Oren knew better than anyone that nothing stayed clean for long.