Ryker's POV
Leaning against the doorframe of Room 39, I watched the aftermath unfold. The cheap, cloying scent of perfume and spilled liquor hung in the air, underscored by the sharp tang of blood. Vick stood there, a tissue pressed to the side of his head, his face a contorted mask of fury as he glared into the hallway where the girl had fled.
Pathetic, I thought. A pack Alpha, brought low by a single, desperate woman with a bottle.
I'd observed the entire encounter from a shadowed alcove, drawn by the commotion. It was a sordid little scene, but within it, I'd seen something unexpected. Not in Vick, whose predictable rage was as dull as it was volatile. But in her. The way she'd moved, the fire in her eyes before it fractured into fear. It wasn't the performance of a seasoned stripper; it was the raw, untamed reflex of a cornered animal.
Vick muttered darkly to himself, wiping blood with a shaky hand before stalking out. He moved like a thug through his own club, all bluster and wounded pride. I let him pass, a ghost in the gaudy darkness of Club Kill. My interest had already shifted, its focus narrowing with lethal precision.
For months, Vick had been a useful, if grating, associate-a blunt instrument in a city of scalpels. But now, he was compromised. His petty vendetta was a distraction, a messy variable. And I dealt in control.
I already knew more than Vick could possibly imagine. The dossier on my tablet wasn't about a stripper. It was about Lucia Castellano, the last surviving heir to a fortune buried under layers of legal obfuscation and tragedy. She was hiding in plain sight, a diamond covered in the grime of this pathetic underworld. And she had no idea.
My phone vibrated silently in my pocket. A brief, coded text confirmed she'd taken the bait, using the back exit. Vick's men, like obedient dogs, would give her a scare. It served my purpose-to soften her, to make her world feel even more unstable. But they'd been given strict parameters. The asset was not to be damaged.
An hour later, I stood before the polished oak of Vick's suite door. I could hear the restless pacing inside, the clink of a glass. He was waiting for his validation call, his pathetic hit of power. I didn't knock so much as let my presence announce itself. The pacing stopped.
When he opened the door, his attempt to mask his agitation was laughable. The swelling on his temple, the wild look in his eyes-he was a boy playing at being a king.
"Can I come in?" I asked, the question a formality that was anything but.
He stammered an affirmation, scrambling aside. The room smelled of cheap cologne and cheaper ambition.
I poured myself a drink from his bar, the rich amber of the whiskey a stark contrast to the room's tawdriness. I let the silence stretch, feeling his anxiety spike. He was so easy to read.
"Are you sure everything is alright?" I finally asked, watching him over the rim of my glass.
He nodded, a jerky, bird-like motion. He was lying, of course. But his lies were irrelevant.
"Lucy," I said, letting the name hang in the air. It had the desired effect. He froze, his knuckles whitening around his glass. "That's her name?"
"What about her?" he deflected, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably.
"She's interesting."
His brow furrowed, confusion battling with possessiveness. "She's just a stripper."
I allowed a low chuckle. "Is that what you think?" I took a slow sip, watching the gears turn-or rather, grind-in his head. "I've seen her file. She's not poor, Vick. She's an heiress. The last living Castellano."
The glass in his hand jerked. Whiskey sloshed over the side, staining his cuff. The shock on his face was pure, undiluted. It was almost satisfying. "You said what?"
"Hidden in plain sight," I confirmed, my voice calm. "Smart move. She came here thinking she was invisible."
His mind was racing, I could see it. The calculation, the sudden, terrified reevaluation of his petty revenge. Lucy was no longer a toy to break; she was a prize he'd almost shattered.
"She doesn't even know I've found out yet," I continued, moving closer. My gaze pinned him. "And that's why I'm here. I need her."
His eyes narrowed. "For the program?" The surrogate program. My legacy required certain... arrangements. Genetic excellence was paramount.
"Among other things," I said, giving a slow, deliberate smile. "As my surrogate, she'll be mine for the next nine months."
He laughed then, a bitter, hollow sound. "Good luck with that. She's not exactly cooperative."
"She will be." My tone left no room for doubt. "Especially once she understands the alternative. I'm prepared to clear her brother's medical debts. In full."
The silence this time was absolute, thick with his dawning realization. I was not just stepping in; I was rewriting the entire game board with a single stroke.
"What?" he hissed, the word barely audible.
"I'll have her sign the contract quickly. The moment she realizes her body is the currency that buys her brother's life, refusal becomes a luxury she can't afford."
His jaw clenched, fists curling at his sides. He was fighting the urge to snarl, to lash out. But he knew better. "She'll fight it," he insisted, a last, weak protest.
"Of course," I said, finishing my drink and setting the glass down with a soft, final click. "That's the fun part."
I watched the conflict rage behind his eyes. Possession, rage, and a sliver of cunning. He was thinking of ways to undermine me, to turn this to his advantage. He might even be foolish enough to try.
"You're sure she doesn't know?" he asked, a new, scheming tone seeping into his voice.
"Not yet," I confirmed. "And I intend to keep it that way. Knowledge is power. If she knew, she'd run. We both know she has a bite." I fixed him with a look that was both a directive and a threat. "Your role is simple. Keep an eye on her. But don't touch." I let the warning settle deep, a cold weight in the room's warmth. "Is that clear?"
He nodded, the motion tight. The resentment poured off him in waves, but it was shackled by fear. Good.
I left him then, standing amidst the ruins of his own plot, already working on a new, more treacherous one. It didn't matter. He was a minor piece now.
In the quiet hallway, the hum of the club felt distant. The picture was crystal clear. Lucy Castellano was no longer a stripper, or even just an heiress. She was the solution to a dynastic equation, a vessel of superior bloodline, and a fascinating puzzle of defiance. Vick saw a threat and a pawn.
He wasn't entirely wrong.
But he failed to see the most important truth: she was now mine. And I always took care of what belonged to me.
