Lights flashed like warzones caught on repeat. The beat pulsed through the walls, bass like a second heartbeat. Riven had stepped away from the noise, a rare moment of privacy, heading down the quieter hallway toward the back restrooms.
He didn't get twitchy in clubs. That wasn't his style. You couldn't live this long being paranoid all the time—you had to know when to let the leash off.
So when he finished up and moved to the sink, he barely gave the five men who walked in a second thought. People came into bathrooms for all kinds of reasons—drugs, hookups, makeup checks, murder...
Wait.
The glint of metal was what did it. Just a flash in the mirror.
A hand slipping beneath a coat—too fast. Too quiet.
Click.
Riven moved before the gun came up. A shot rang out and shattered the soap dispenser inches from where his head had been.
"SHIT!" he snarled, hitting the tiled floor and rolling behind a sink stall as the echo of gunfire rang out.
No time to think. No time to breathe. Another one came from the side—an axe? Who the hell brought an axe to a club?—and swung at him like it was medieval hour.
Riven ducked under it, the blade splitting air above him. He twisted, gritting his teeth, and drove a boot into the attacker's shin, then slammed an elbow into the guy's throat. The man choked and staggered back—only for another to rush him with a switchblade.
"Where the fuck do you people come from?" Riven muttered, spinning to dodge the blade and throwing a brutal uppercut into the man's jaw. The guy went sprawling.
But the other three weren't slow. One kicked Riven in the side, hard enough to send him into the wall. Another grabbed him by the collar and threw him backward into a stall door. His shoulder cracked the metal.
Riven hissed.
"Nuh uh. I can't handle all five."
He dove between their legs, rolled out, and ran—boots pounding down the corridor, dodging staff and half-drunk patrons. The attackers followed, shouting, steel catching the light.
He needed to disappear. Fast.
A door loomed to the left—storeroom. Unmarked. Perfect.
Riven burst through it, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it just long enough to buy a breath.
Dim light. Stacks of liquor crates and cleaning supplies. A sharp smell of bleach. And—
Smoke.
Elias.
Leaning against a crate, cigarette between his fingers, hoodie off, tank top clinging to his torso with sweat. One eyebrow raised in pure annoyance.
"Oh my god," Elias drawled. "You're following me now? You really are a fucking creep."
Riven didn't waste time with ego.
"Shut the fuck up, kid," he snapped, scanning the room for another exit. "I'm not here for you. I'm here to not die."
"Wow, charming." Elias took another drag like he was judging Riven for sport.
Then—BAM.
The door burst open.
All five attackers flooded in, weapons out, eyes hungry.
Riven barely got his arms up before one of them slammed a kick into his chest, sending him flying into a shelf. Bottles clattered to the floor.
"What the—" Elias flinched, stepping back. He blinked. Looked at Riven. Looked at the men.
And then he sighed. Long. Dramatic.
Like this was the worst night of his life.
"Goddamn it," Elias muttered. "I just wanted a smoke."
He tossed the cigarette. Rolled his shoulders.
And moved.
Fast.
Like he'd been waiting for an excuse.
He spun forward, ducked under a knife swing, and slammed his fist into a guy's gut. The man doubled over—and Elias kneed him in the face so hard he went out cold.
"If you're done complaining," Riven groaned from the floor, struggling up, "HELP!"
"This is so above bartender pay," Elias snapped, dodging another punch. "Two grand. Upfront."
"I'll double it!" Riven yelled, kicking a guy in the back of the knee, sending him crashing down.
Elias grinned. "Deal."
He dropped another with a roundhouse kick that cracked through the air. One grabbed him from behind—Elias slammed his head back into the man's face, then twisted and elbowed him into the stack of crates.
Only one left.
The last one lunged for Elias with a knife—but Riven appeared from the side, shoulder-checking the guy into a shelf so hard the wood snapped.
Breathless. Bruised. They both stood in the wreckage.
Riven leaned against the wall, blood trickling from a cut above his brow.
Elias, panting, wiped his arm across his mouth. He looked at Riven, eyes wide.
"You okay?"
Riven nodded once, gruff. "Yeah."
Elias turned to say something else—then froze.
His eyes widened.
"Shit. We need to go. Now."
"Why?"
"Because one of those guys had a comm piece." Elias grabbed Riven's arm, dragging him toward a back exit. "Which means there's more of them. And I am not fighting ten dudes over someone else's drama."
They burst into the alley behind the club, neon strobing faintly from high windows.
A sleek black motorcycle waited by the wall. Elias threw a leg over like he'd been born on the damn thing.
"Get on."
Riven raised a brow. "You ride?"
"I also punch and run and swear a lot. Get. On."
Riven slid on behind him. Elias tossed a helmet at him, didn't wait to see if he used it. The engine roared, and they shot off into the night, tires screeching over the wet pavement.
Riven clung to Elias's back—reluctantly, tightly.
And just like that—they're gone. Tires squealing. Rain in their wake. The club shrinking in the distance.
And Riven? He's never been so confused… or so interested.
The engine dies with a deep purr, and all that's left is the hum of overhead fluorescents and the tick tick of cooling metal. The road is empty, a few moths flitting around the light posts like doomed souls.
Riven hops off the back of the motorbike, breath still shaky, limbs bruised and stiff.
He grunts, yanking the helmet off and handing it back to Elias with a casual flick of the wrist.
Elias doesn't take it immediately.
He just stares.
Still seated on the bike, slightly turned, legs long and planted. His expression unreadable.
Eyes cold.
Not tired. Not scared.
Just done.
Riven tilts his head. Frowns.
"…What?"
Elias still doesn't answer. Just leans slightly forward now, elbows on his knees, helmet in his lap, chin tilted up.
Even sitting, he's nearly eye level with Riven. But once he stands?
Oh boy.
"What??" Riven repeats, blinking, genuinely confused for once in his over-confident life.
"Oh—right. Thanks for, uh… saving my life back there," Riven says, like he's allergic to the sentence.
Elias raises one eyebrow. Doesn't blink.
Still waiting.
Riven shifts awkwardly. Looks him up and down, defensive now.
"Okay, seriously. What—?"
Elias slowly stands up.
And it's like a building rising.
He towers over Riven. Not cartoonishly tall—just enough to be intimidating, especially when Riven's all scraped up, half-limping, and used to being the one who looms.
Now?
He's looking up.
Just a little.
And it's killing him.
Elias stretches out his hand, palm up.
"The money."
Riven blinks again.
"What?"
Elias doesn't move.
"The. Money.
Two thousand. You promised."
"I said I'd double it later, not—"
Elias taps his palm impatiently.
Riven actually laughs.
"You think I carry cash to nightclubs? Give me your phone. I'll put my number in, send it to you when I get home."
A slow smirk curls on Elias's lips. One that does not reach his eyes.
He chuckles—low, amused, dangerous.
"You think I'm stupid, Mafia Barbie?"
Riven frowns.
"Mafia—Barbie??"
Elias takes one step forward. Riven instinctively takes one back.
"Yeah. With your gelled hair, bloody designer jacket, and that weak little 'thanks for saving me' apology? You look like a Ken doll who got dumped in a blender."
Riven scoffs.
"You've got jokes, huh?"
"You've got debt, sweetie."
The two lock eyes. The air? Thick.
Elias holds out his hand again, but this time there's a tilt in his chin—daring him.
"Send. The. Money."
Riven hesitates. Then sighs, dramatically, digging into the inner pocket of his ruined jacket.
He pulls out his phone—screen cracked but still working—and opens the banking app with a couple of practiced swipes. Holds it up.
"Number?"
Elias doesn't take the phone. He leans in instead—close—and types it in himself. Slow. One finger. Real smug.
The contact name?
"Debt Collector " with a face throwing a kiss emoji
Riven glares.
"You're enjoying this way too much."
"Oh, I live for this."
Ding. Transfer complete.
Elias immediately pulls out his own phone and checks it.
Refreshes the screen.
Then again.
Then…
"Hmm. You're not a complete liar."
He turns toward the bike again, straddles it like he owns the night.
Riven eyes the stretch of Elias's long legs, the way his shirt rides up just a bit at the waist.
"You always this dramatic over a couple grand?" Riven mutters.
Elias flips the helmet onto his head and snaps the visor down.
"Only when I have to save an ungrateful mafia gremlin from getting chopped up in a bathroom stall."
Riven snorts.
"I could've handled it."
"Mhm. Sure. From the floor? Looked like you were doing great."
Riven opens his mouth—then closes it.
Elias revs the engine.
"Don't call me unless someone's bleeding. And you're paying me first."
And just like that—he peels off into the night, tires screeching against the pavement, a blur of black and sarcasm.
Riven stands there, blinking, watching him go.
A grin creeps up slowly—against his will.
"bastard."
The night air was heavy, thick with the scent of motor oil and flickering neon. Riven stood by the curb as headlights sliced through the darkness. Within minutes, a convoy of sleek black cars rolled up, tires hissing against the concrete. The first door swung open before the engine even stopped.
"Boss! Are you okay?" one of his men asked, rushing out with tense eyes and a hand already near his holster.
Riven nodded coolly, brushing dust off his shoulder.
"Yeah," he said, voice low and calm. Then, with a slow smirk curling his lip, he added, "Just met someone very interesting tonight."
He slid into the back seat, the door shutting with a solid thud as the car peeled off into the night.
Meanwhile, across the city, Elias parked his bike in the shadowed lot behind his apartment complex. He climbed the stairs two at a time, boots echoing through the stairwell. He reached the door—unlocked.
Odd.
He stepped in cautiously. The place was dead silent. No lights. No TV. No Mathias sketching at the kitchen table, no hum from the old kettle.
Gone.
"Uncle? Mathias?" he called out.
Nothing.
His stomach dropped. He grabbed his phone and called Mathias. It rang once.
Twice.
Then—
"ELIAS!" her voice broke through the speaker, panicked, shaking, wrecked.
He tensed. "Breathe. Breathe. Talk to me—where are you?"
"We... we're at the hospital," she sobbed. "They came again... the men from last time. The ones Uncle owes money to. They came to the apartment. They—Elias, they beat him up—he was bleeding—"
Elias didn't wait for more. He cut the call, heart slamming against his ribs as he bolted back down the stairs. Seconds later, his engine roared to life.
The hospital lights were sterile and cold, humming faintly as Elias stalked down the hallway. He spotted them instantly—his uncle sitting, shoulders hunched, blood drying at his temple while a nurse gently dabbed at his bruised cheek. Mathias sat beside him, her face pale and drawn, eyes red from crying.
Elias rushed to his uncle's side.
"Uncle—are you okay?" he asked, voice strained with fury and guilt.
His uncle looked up, eyes tired but kind. "I'm fine, son. Just some bruises. Takes more than that to put me down."
Elias clenched his jaw, fists tight. "I should've been there. I should've protected you. Those fucking bastards—"
He turned to Mathias to ask more, but then he saw it.
The bruise.
Faint, blooming purple beneath her cheekbone.
His expression snapped.
"What... what the hell is this?" he hissed, stepping closer. "Did they hit you?"
Mathias avoided his eyes. Elias grabbed her chin gently but firmly, turning her face.
"Mathias. Answer me."
She winced, trying to pull away. "I tried to stop them from hurting Uncle... I got in the way. It's nothing. I'm fine."
Her smile was forced, cracked like cheap porcelain.
Elias stared at her for a long moment, then slowly let go.
He didn't say a word. He turned around and walked out of the room, his boots echoing like thunder on the tile.
"ELIAS!" Mathias shouted, standing up. "Where are you going?!"
But he was already gone.
Storm in his veins.
Fire in his lungs.
His hands were shaking—but not with fear.
He didn't need comfort.
He needed names.
And blood.
Because tonight?
He wasn't just a bartender. He wasn't the charming boy with a smirk and a shaker.
Tonight, he was a weapon.
And someone was going to pay.
The study was a cathedral of wealth and power—mahogany-paneled walls, golden sconces casting a low glow, shelves lined with dusty tomes no one had read in decades. A massive fireplace crackled softly beneath the crest of the Virelli family, carved into the stone like a warning. The kind of room where empires were plotted over brandy and bloodshed.
Andrew Virelli, the patriarch, sat like a king in his leather armchair. One leg crossed over the other, pinstripe trousers razor-creased, a velvet robe draped over his shoulders like war regalia. His silver hair was slicked back, gleaming in the firelight. The cigar between his fingers smoldered, the smoke curling in the shape of old lessons.
"You were attacked," he said flatly, not looking up from the paper he was folding. His voice was smooth, but there was steel beneath it.
"Yes," Riven muttered, closing the door behind him as he walked in. The click of it echoed like a gunshot.
His suit jacket was wrinkled. One side torn. A bruise already darkening along his jaw. But he walked like nothing hurt—like pain was something he'd long since made peace with.
Andrew finally looked at him.
"You see?" he said, gesturing vaguely toward the whiskey decanter as if it proved his point. "This is the essence of a personal bodyguard. I have told you—countless times. Pick one. Any one of the men I've trained. They would die for you without question."
Riven ignored the bottle at first and moved to the shelves, tracing a gloved hand across the spines of old strategy manuals and records of wars his family had secretly funded. He exhaled, slow.
"I don't need a babysitter," he said.
Andrew lit the cigar with a single snap of the silver lighter offered by the butler. A hiss. A flame. A breath of smoke.
"You are an heir," he said, voice tightening now. "To more than just this estate. You are the future of the Virelli empire. You have power, money, enemies—most of them unseen. They lurk in every shadow, every whisper. You walk through a battlefield every day, Riven, even if you pretend it's a nightclub."
Riven finally turned. Poured himself a double shot of the aged whisky, crystal glass catching firelight.
"Here we go again with the speech," he muttered, knocking the drink back like it was nothing.
Andrew's eyes narrowed. "And what if they had succeeded tonight? What if I was planning your funeral instead of this lecture?"
Riven didn't answer at first. Just exhaled, jaw tightening, tongue running over the inside of his cheek.
Then—
"I've already found someone," he said casually, pouring another drink.
Andrew's eyebrow rose.
"What?"
Riven swirled the amber liquid in his glass, smirking slightly.
"A bodyguard," he said. "Of sorts."
Andrew leaned forward, lips tightening around the cigar.
"Who?"
Riven took a long sip, then tilted his head—his smirk growing lazy, cocky.
"Bartender," he said.
Andrew blinked.
Riven grinned.
"Fast hands. Sharp mouth. Knows how to handle himself in a fight. Saw him take down three men like he was born in the back alley of a war zone."
"You mean to tell me," Andrew said slowly, "that you're entrusting your life to some bar brawler with a temper and a pretty face?"
Riven walked to the window now, looking out into the endless black gardens of the estate.
"No, Father," he said quietly. "I'm entrusting it to someone who doesn't worship me. Who doesn't fear me. Someone who doesn't care about my name or my money."
A pause.
"He saved me tonight. Not because I paid him. Because he decided I was worth the effort."
Andrew leaned back in the chair, exhaling smoke like a dragon withholding judgment.
"Sounds dangerous."
Riven looked over his shoulder, eyes gleaming.
"He is."
Then he smiled—a slow, razor-sharp smile that promised more than just admiration.
"But I've always had a taste for danger."
"Well," he says slowly, "if you insist on gambling with your life, at least make sure the one guarding it doesn't fold under pressure."
Riven downs the rest of the whisky, the glass landing with a muted clink.
"Oh," he says with a grin. "He doesn't fold."
Then he turns, heading out of the study, his coat trailing behind him like a shadow with purpose.
Andrew watches him go. And though he doesn't say it aloud—there's something flickering behind his eyes.
A mix of worry.
And pride.
And perhaps the faintest spark of curiosity.