CHAPTER FIVE: GLASS SMILES AND GUNS IN BACK POCKETS

The second I walked into Club Viento, I knew I didn’t fit in.

The music pounded in my ears, so loud it shook my chest. Bright lights flashed, making my eyes hurt. The people looked too perfect, like they belonged in a movie. Women in short dresses and bright red lipstick moved like they owned the place. 

Men in fancy suits stood in dark corners, talking quietly, their eyes sharp and cold. This place felt dangerous, like a trap hidden under shiny decorations.

I took a deep breath and walked toward the bar, trying to stay calm. Remembered what Diego told me before I came here:

“Act invisible, but don’t look afraid. Smile, but don’t look like a whore. Listen more than you speak. And never—never—get caught in the VIP section—no matter what.”

Those rules sounded easy when he said them, but now, in this crowded club, they felt impossible. I was dressed like a bottle girl in a tight black skirt and a white shirt, my heart racing like it wanted to escape my body.

“Hey, newbie,” a waitress hissed at me. “You’re on glass duty. Booths and counters. No broken edges, don't leave any smudges.”

I nodded fast and grabbed a tray with cleaning supplies—a spray bottle and some rags. My hands shook a little, but I forced myself to move.

As I moved between tables, I kept my head down but my ears open. Every whispered word felt like a clue. Every fake laugh could be a warning.I needed to learn as much as I could about this place for Diego.

Some men watched me. Most didn’t care. Just another girl with tired eyes and a tight shirt.

But one man, sitting near the back with a gold ring on every finger, did care.

He stared.

Not like he wanted me.

Like he wanted to figure me out.

---

His name was Emilio. I’d heard it whispered by a drunk guy earlier.

He worked for Santiago Torres, the club’s owner— handled money, deals, and sometimes even threats. He was dangerous, but his smile looked friendly, which made him scarier.

I was wiping the glass table next to his when he leaned forward.

“You’re new,” he said, his voice smooth but sharp. 

I froze, my rag still on the table. 

“First night?” he asked, voice soft but sharp.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just here to clean.”

He looked at my name tag. “Maya.”

The way he said it gave me chills. Like he wanted to carve the name into something.

I forced a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Where’d they find you?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Friend recommended me,” I lied. “Said tips were good.”

He laughed, deep and slow. “Tips are good. If you stay pretty and quiet.”

I nodded again and turned to walk away, but he grabbed my wrist gently. Not hard, but firm enough to stop me. 

“Stay out of the VIP room, Maya.”

His voice changed. Quieter. More serious.

“It’s not for you.”

I stared at him. “Why?”

He released my wrist with a smile. “Because girls who get curious don’t come back.”

---

I hurried back toward the kitchen, trying not to panic.

My first instinct was to quit. Walk out. Never return.

But then I remembered my mom’s pale face, her hand shaking as she held her inhaler. I remembered the bills stacked on the kitchen counter. The envelope marked Final Notice.

I had no choice.

I stayed the rest of the night, pretending to clean while slowly memorizing doors, faces, and security routines.

There was a hallway near the back with a door that needed a code to open. That had to be where they kept the files Diego wanted. I couldn’t get near it tonight—but I would figure out a way soon.

By 2:00 a.m.,I was exhausted. Climbed back into Diego’s car. The driver didn’t speak. Just drove me home to my prison with clean sheets and locked doors.

When I entered, Diego was waiting at the top of the stairs, leaning on his cane.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“They have a keypad door at the back.”

His eyes lit up. “What’s the code?”

I shook my head, “I didn’t get close enough.”

He grunted. “Try harder.”

“I will,” I said. “But one of Torres’ men warned me to stay out.”

Diego’s jaw tightened. “Emilio?”

I nodded.

“I’ll handle him,” Diego muttered.

I stepped closer. “You’ll handle him? You want me to spy, but the second someone notices me, you go into attack mode.”

His gaze met mine, hard and cold. “I’m not protecting you. I’m protecting the plan.”

Liar.

I didn’t believe him. For a second, I saw something softer in his eyes, like he cared but didn’t want to admit it.

I folded my arms. “I’m risking my life for your plan. You could at least act like it matters.”

He stared at me in silence. Then he turned and limped away without another word.

---

The next night, I was back at the club.

This time, Emilio didn’t speak to me,but his eyes followed me sometimes. I tried to act normal while trying to blend in. 

But I noticed something else—a woman in a red dress entered the VIP hallway without using the keypad. She was tall, beautiful, and wore diamond earrings that caught the light.

She had clearance.

And I had an idea.

When she went to the bathroom, I followed.

“Your dress is amazing,” I said, pretending to fix my hair in the mirror.

She smiled, proud. “Thanks. Custom made.”

“I’m Maya.”

“Aleena,” she said. “Torres’ personal assistant.”

Bingo. She was exactly who I needed. 

I complimented her hair, her nails, her shoes. Then I “accidentally” spilled water on her.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”

She groaned and muttered something in Spanish.

“Let me help!” I said, handing her napkins, dabbing at the dress.

While she was distracted, I reached into her purse.

My hand touched cold metal—then a card.

I slipped it into my pocket.

Five minutes later, I slid the card into the keypad by the back hallway.

Green light. Door unlocked.

My heart pounded as I stepped into the hall. There were three doors. One was labeled Office.

I opened it slowly.

A huge desk. A locked drawer. Papers everywhere.

I moved fast, searching through folders, snapping photos with the burner phone Diego gave me. Every file was stamped with dates, names, payments—exactly what Diego needed. 

Then I heard it.

Footsteps.

I froze, phone halfway out of the drawer.

They were getting closer.

One set of footsteps.

Then another.

Then silence.

Then—click.

The office door began to open.