You're Slipping, Darling.

The city peeled past the tinted windows in a blur of red lights and steel towers, my driver weaving through traffic like a man with something to prove. I barely registered it. My mind was already in the chaos ahead. Inferno was one of my cleanest operations, a high-end club, sleek and discreet, where deals were sealed over hundred-dollar shots and half-lidded glances. A neutral zone. No fights. No blood. No bullshit. So when Liam called with “a situation,” I knew it was bad. We pulled up to the back entrance, a few blocks off the main strip. A crowd had already formed near the front, flashes of blue and red bouncing off the mirrored glass façade. The usual Friday-night line had scattered, replaced by uniforms and wide-eyed onlookers with phones out. I spotted two of our security boys trying to keep a low profile, ushering civilians away while pretending not to be associated with the scene at all. Smart. I stepped out into the night, my boots hitting the pavement with purpose. The cold wrapped around me like an old friend. I adjusted my cuffs and headed straight for the staff entrance, Liam already waiting by the door.

“Inside’s a mess,” he said without preamble. “Couple of our guys tried to push back on a group that came in flashing colors. They said they were just customers, but you don’t walk into Inferno wearing that shit unless you’re looking for something.”

“And they found it,” I muttered, brushing past him.

The music was still going, muffled and pulsing, trying to keep the illusion alive. But the tension in the air cracked like static. I stepped onto the floor and scanned the room. Tables overturned. A broken glass glinting like a dropped diamond. One of the dancers stood frozen on her platform, arms wrapped around herself, eyes flicking to the group of men in the far left VIP section. Three of mine were holding them off, barely. I could see blood already staining the collar of one’s shirt. Another had a knife at his belt, fingers twitching like he wanted an excuse to use it. I stepped into the fray.

“Enough,” I said, voice cold and carrying.

It cut through the music like a blade. All eyes turned. I didn’t yell. I didn’t have to. My name had weight. And when I walked into a room, it demanded silence.

The man in the corner, mid-thirties, bulked up, tattoos creeping out from under his collar, didn’t move right away. His gaze locked on mine, challenging. Testing.

“Apologize to the lady,” I said, nodding toward the shaken dancer. “Then get the fuck out of my club.”

One heartbeat. Two. Then he spat on the floor and stood.

“Tried to play nice,” he said, glaring at my men. “Didn’t think the Don’s lapdogs were this soft.”

Wrong move. I stepped forward, lightning fast, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed him back into the wall so hard the plaster cracked. His boys twitched, but none moved. I stared into his face, close enough to smell cheap whiskey and sweat.

“I don’t give a shit what crew you ride with,” I said through gritted teeth. “This is my house. You bleed in here again, and I’ll send your bones back in a box so your mother has something to cry over.”

I let him go, and he crumpled forward, coughing. He didn’t argue.

“Get them out,” I ordered.

My men moved fast. Efficient. The tension broke with the shuffling of feet and muttered curses, the scent of blood and adrenaline thick in the air. I turned to Liam, who looked like he wanted to smile but knew better.

“That could’ve gone worse,” he muttered.

“Could’ve gone cleaner,” I replied, brushing dust from my coat.

I started toward the VIP bar, needing a moment, a drink, anything to wipe the tension off my skin. That’s when I saw it. A napkin. Folded neatly. Placed right where I usually sat. My steps faltered for half a second. I picked it up, slowly unfolding it. Written in lipstick, a soft, deep red, three words stared back at me.

"You’re slipping, darling."

I stared at it, a slow burn spreading from my chest to my throat. The letters were clean, elegant. The lipstick was her favorite shade. I knew because I’d found it smeared across a bullet casing once. She’d left that on my pillow, months ago. I glanced around the room, pulse steady but sharp now, every sense on edge.

She’s here. In the chaos. In the crowd. I folded the napkin carefully and slid it into my coat pocket like it meant something, because it did. That message wasn’t just a tease. It was a warning. A taunt. A confession. For her to get here before me… she either had access to my cameras or worse, she had her own. That thought settled uneasily in my gut. She’s always watching. Everything. Every move. Every crack in my armor. My gaze swept the club again, but nothing looked out of place. Just bar staff wiping down sticky tables. Dancers slipping backstage. The crowd slowly recovering, the music finding its pulse again. The illusion of normalcy reassembling itself, brick by brick. But then...there. A shift in my periphery. By the side door, just beyond corridor and exit sign flickering like a dying star. Tucked into the shadow of the velvet curtain. A figure. Small. Hooded. Black clothes that clung to her curves like a secret. She stood perfectly still...watching. Watching me. My breath caught, not fear, not surprise. Something heavier. A wire pulled tight between us. Even at a distance, I knew. The way she held herself. Relaxed, unreadable, deliberate. The way she tilted her head slightly, like she already knew what I was thinking. Green eyes. Barely visible beneath the shadow of her hood. But burning. Alive. Our gazes locked. Just for a second and then, she turned. Slipped through the side door like smoke. Gone. “Fuck.” I was moving before I realized it. I shoved through the crowd, ignoring Liam’s voice crackling in my earpiece, ignoring the calls of startled dancers and staff as I barreled through the exit and into the alley behind the club. The cold hit like a slap, sharp and unforgiving. The alley was empty. A single dumpster. A lingering trail of cigarette smoke. No footsteps. No echo. Just silence. She’d vanished again. I stood there a long moment, breathing in the stillness, letting the fury crawl under my skin like fire ants. Every damn time, she got close enough to graze me, then disappeared before I could even reach for her. She was teasing me. Daring me. Leaving crumbs and watching me chase and I was chasing. I pulled the napkin from my coat pocket again, smoothing it out with a thumb.

"You're slipping, darling."

No. Not slipping. Just sharpening because now I knew. She wasn’t some abstract fantasy anymore. She was real. She had eyes on my operations, on my club, on me and she was here. In my city. In my world. In my reach.