Alessia's POV.
"Angel, come on, it's just one night." Adrian's voice was low, almost pleading, as he trailed close behind me through the dimly lit hallway toward the dressing room. Jericho had slipped thirty minutes before my performance ended, and it didn't take a genius to figure out he'd put Adrian up to this.
"Adrian, I said no." My words came out sharper than intended, echoing off the walls as I pushed open the dressing room door. "I'm already a married woman working as a stripper. That's enough of a mess without adding this to it."
"Angel, hear me out," he said, stepping inside despite my obvious attempt to shut him out.
"It's not like I'm asking you to run away with me. It's a private gig, one client, big money. You'd be out of here in a couple hours, tops."
"Adrian…" My voice wavered, barely above a whisper.
"Angel, it's just a performance. Worst case, a few lap dances." He leaned against the dressing room doorframe, arms crossed, watching me closely.
I shook my head, grabbing a wipe to scrub off my makeup. "Still no."
"Twenty thousand dollars."
My hand froze mid-air, the wipe trembling. That was twenty times my nightly take—half our debt gone in one night. Twenty thousand dollars for my dignity.
"Adrian…" I started, but my throat tightened.
"You and I both know you need this money," he cut in, his tone sharp but not unkind. He wasn't wrong. God, I needed that money.
"Is it Jericho?" I turned to face him.
His expression told me everything. Maybe I would've considered it if it wasn't him. Anyone but Jericho. It wasn't a new thing that a mafia Don has been coming to our strip club every time I am on duty to ask for a night with me.
If he wasn't a man with blood on his hands, I might've found it flattering. But there was nothing flattering about the way he watched me from his private booth, like I was something he already owned.
I should've been used to it by now, the way his attention lingered like smoke, impossible to ignore. But every time I felt his eyes on me, I wanted to disappear.
And now, Adrian wanted me to say yes. Adrian would never let any man touch me without my consent nor force me into anything I don't want but when it came to the mafia boss, business always came before someone's life.
"He doesn't want a performance, Adrian. He wants to sleep with me. I'm sorry, but no."
"I can't force you into anything…" His voice faded, and I was grateful. He'd never forced me before. The other dancers would've jumped at the chance. Some even hated me for turning it down.
"But think about it again, Alesia. One night or months of dancing for lustful men?" He never called me by my name before. My hands trembled as I thought about it.
"One night, just one night. Antonio won't know if no one tells him".
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. I swallowed hard. My chest felt tight. One night. Just one night. But Jericho… no.
"I can't," I whispered. My voice barely carried. "Not him. Not like that." He didn't say anything more, just stared at me with pity in his eyes before nodding.
"Do know the offer is still up. Any day you're ready". With that he left the room. My hand stopped as I stared at my reflection in the mirror. This is cheating, I can't do that to Antonio, he has been nothing but faithful and helpful to me.
"Perhaps you can tell him first". A voice whispered at the back of my mind. I moved quickly—stuffing my things into my bag, changing out of my costume, and wiping away the last traces of glitter and guilt. My reflection looked empty. I didn't wait to think; I just grabbed my phone and ordered a cab. I didn't even bother removing the silver anklet around my leg.
"Maybe he'd understand," I murmured as the car sped through the city. Neon lights bled against the window, smearing colors across my face. "As long as I'm not sleeping with him… it's not cheating, right?"
I bit the inside of my cheek. "We need the money. It's one night."
The driver cleared his throat softly. "Uh, we're here."
I blinked, startled, and met his eyes through the rearview mirror. He looked curious but polite. I forced a smile, handed him the cash, and stepped out.
I slowed when I reached the gate. Three black cars were parked in front of the house, sleek and expensive, their dark windows reflecting the streetlights.
A chill ran through me. "We've never had visitors," I murmured. "Not ones who drive cars like that."
My hand trembled as I unlocked the door. It was already open.
The second I stepped in, I froze.
There were men—at least six of them—standing in the living room. Black suits, earpieces, expressionless faces. They turned toward me the moment I entered.
"Ma'am," one of them said, bowing slightly.
My stomach dropped. Guards.
I pushed past them, heart hammering, the sound of my anklet echoing against the room. "Antonio?"
Then I saw him.
He was on his knees in the middle of the room. Blood smeared across his face, one eye swollen shut, the other bleeding. His hands were bound behind him, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.
"Oh my God—Antonio!" I ran forward, but froze when I saw who was sitting in our only armchair.
Jericho.
Calm. Composed. Legs crossed, one hand resting lazily on the armrest, the other holding a gun pressed against Antonio's temple.
A small smile curved his lips when our eyes met, studying me like I was an interesting distraction.
"Ah," he said softly. "You're home."
My breath caught.
The room spun.
And then—
Click.