You're Slipping, Darling.
Conner
The city peels past the tinted windows in a blur of red lights and steel towers, and my driver is cutting through traffic like a man with something to prove. I barely register it. My head is already at Inferno. It’s one of my cleanest operations. High-end and discreet entertainment sealed over hundred-dollar shots and half-lidded glances. It’s also on neutral ground. There should be no fights, no blood and no feckin bullshit. So when Liam calls it “a situation,” I know it’s bad.
We pull up to the back entrance, a few blocks off the strip. The front of the club is already swarmed with people. Blue and red lights bounce off the mirrored facade, flashing so hard they draw a crowd. The usual Friday-night line is gone, replaced by uniforms and wide-eyed onlookers with their phones out. I spot two of our security guys working the edges, guiding civilians away while pretending they have nothing to do with this place. I step out into the night, my boots hitting the pavement with purpose. The cold wraps around me, and I adjust my cuffs and head straight for the staff entrance. Liam is waiting by the door. “Inside’s a mess,” he says quickly, walking with me. “A couple of our guys pushed back on a group flashing colours that claimed they were just customers.” I glance at him. “You don’t walk into Inferno dressed like that unless you’re looking for trouble.”
“Yeah, well, they found it,” he says. The music is still playing inside, the bass thumping hard, giving off the illusion that everything is fine, but I can feel the tension in the room. I scan the floor. There’s tables overturned and broken glass scattered everywhere. One of the dancers stands frozen on her platform, arms wrapped around herself and eyes locked on the far VIP section. Three of my men are holding the line, barely. Blood stains the collar of one’s shirt, and another has his hand hovering near the knife at his belt. I step into the middle of it. “Enough.” My voice cuts through the music clean and cold, and everything stops as heads turn my way. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. My name carries weight, and silence follows me when I enter a room.
One man in the corner takes his time to give me his attention. He’s probably mid-thirties, built heavy and has tattoos creeping up his neck. He watches me like he’s deciding something. I nod toward the dancer. “Apologise to the lady. Then get the fuck out of my club.” One heartbeat passes, then another, before he spits on the floor and steps closer to me. “I tried to play nice,” he says, glaring at my men. “Didn’t think your lapdogs were this soft.” That was the wrong answer. I move fast and grab him by the collar, slamming him back into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. His crew flinches but stays put, and I lean in close to his ear. “I don’t care what crew you ride with,” I say quietly. “This is my house. You bleed in here again, and I’ll send your bones home in a box so your mother has something to cry over.” Then I let go. He folds forward, coughing. “Get them out,” I say.
My men move immediately. The tension breaks as bodies shuffle and curses are muttered under breath. Blood and adrenaline hang heavy in the air, but it won’t for long. I’ll have it back in order within the hour. I turn to Liam. He looks as if he wants to smile, but knows better. “That could’ve gone worse,” he mutters. “Could’ve gone cleaner,” I say, brushing dust from my coat. I head for the VIP bar. I need a drink and a second to reset. There’s a napkin sitting at my usual spot; it’s folded neatly, with a set of red lipstick marks on the outside. I reach for it, unfolding it slowly to see the soft red lipstick words written on the inside. You’re slipping, darling. Heat spreads from my chest to my throat. The shade is hers. I know because I once found the exact colour smeared across a bullet casing that she left on my pillow months ago. I scan the room whilst tucking the napkin into my coat. She’s here in the chaos, in the crowd. For her to get here before me, she either has access to my cameras or she’s running her own. Either way, I know she’s always watching. I sweep the club again. The bar staff are wiping down sticky tables. Dancers disappear backstage. The crowd rebuilds itself piece by piece, the illusion clicking back into place. Then I see a flicker at the edge of my vision near the side door. Under a flickering exit sign, half hidden by a velvet curtain, is a figure. A small, hooded woman in black stands perfectly still, watching me. My breath catches. I’ve never seen her before, but I know immediately, it’s her. My ghost. She tilts her head slightly, and green eyes burn through me from beneath the hood. We lock eyes for just a second before she turns and slips through the side door, smooth as smoke. Gone. “Fuck.”
I’m moving before the word finishes leaving my mouth. I shove through the crowd, ignoring Liam’s voice crackling in my ear, ignoring the startled shouts as I burst through the exit and into the alley. Cold air hits hard as I look through the empty alley. I stand there, breathing, letting the fury crawl slowly and hot under my skin. Every time, she gets close enough to graze me, then disappears. She watches me chase, and she runs. I pull the napkin out again, smoothing it with my thumb. You’re slipping, darling. I shake my head. No. I’m just getting started, because now I know, she isn’t an idea anymore. She isn’t a rumour. She’s here, in my world and close enough to touch.
