3-ETHAN

The tension in Dirty Angels coiled tighter than a garrote wire as the night deepened. The bar wasn’t some dive with sticky floors and cheap beer; it was high-class sleaze, polished brass rails, leather booths that cost more than most people’s rent, crystal tumblers catching the amber glow of pendant lights. Velvet ropes at the VIP section. A dress code enforced with a single raised eyebrow from the doorman.

Money flowed here like the bourbon, smooth, dark, and never quite clean. Everyone who mattered knew the truth, even if no one said it out loud. Dirty Angels laundered cash for the right people. Mafia money, old family money, the kind that came in duffels and left in wire transfers labeled “consulting fees.”

Ethan had been connected since before he married Lila, loose threads at first, then tighter knots. Favors traded for protection, protection traded for silence, silence traded for profit. The bar was the perfect front: busy enough to hide volume, exclusive enough to keep questions at bay.

Marisol didn’t know the half of it when she walked in. Or maybe she did, and that was why her leather pants looked like armor, and her smile looked like a blade. Nosy little reporter, he hated her with every part of his being.

She crossed the floor like she owned it, because the will said she did, at least on paper. Heads turned. Conversations dipped. Remy paused mid-pour, eyes flicking to Ethan. The air shifted, heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and unspoken threats.

Victor and Lorenzo intercepted her before she reached the bar. Words were low, civil, lethal. Marisol’s chin lifted. She laughed once, short, sharp, dismissive. Victor’s expression never changed. Lorenzo simply stepped closer, a wall of muscle and ink, until the space between them felt like a cage. Ethan watched from his stool, bourbon untouched now. His pulse thrummed steady, dangerous. He didn’t care how it happened. Consent wasn’t part of the equation tonight.

Victor leaned in, murmured something against Marisol’s ear. Her smile faltered for the first time. She glanced at Ethan, pure venom, then something else. Fear? Resignation? Didn’t matter.

Lorenzo’s hand settled on her elbow. Not hard. Just firm. Guiding. She stiffened, tried to pull away once. He didn’t let go. Victor nodded toward the back hallway. They moved as a unit, Marisol between them, heels clicking faster now, posture rigid. The crowd parted without realizing why. No scene. No raised voices. Just a woman being escorted out of her own bar against her will, flanked by two men who looked like they’d done this before. The hallway door closed behind them.

Ethan exhaled slowly. Victor reappeared alone ten minutes later. Lorenzo stayed gone. So did Marisol. Victor slid back onto the stool beside Ethan. His suit was still pristine, but there was a faint flush along his jaw, a tightness around his eyes. Victory, but the expensive kind.

“She’s not signing,” Victor said quietly, voice pitched for Ethan alone. “Not tonight. Not willingly.”

Ethan’s mouth curved. “Good.”

Victor raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want her signature,” Ethan continued. “I want her gone. Scared. Silent. If she comes back, if she talks, if she breathes too loud about any of this.” He gestured vaguely at the bar, at the invisible web of money and power beneath it. “she disappears. You and Lorenzo make sure she understands that.”

Victor studied him for a long moment. Then nodded once. “Lorenzo’s taking her home. Or somewhere. She won’t be back tonight. Or tomorrow. He’ll explain the… consequences of pushing this.” Ethan felt the knot in his chest loosen fractionally. Not relief, something darker. Satisfaction.

“She’ll fold eventually. Or she won’t. Either way, the bar stays mine.”

Victor signaled Remy. She brought the bottle this time, no glasses. Just the bourbon and two fresh tumblers. She set them down, fingers brushing Ethan’s wrist again, then Victor’s. A silent acknowledgment. She knew exactly what kind of night this was.

“Office,” Ethan said. Victor followed without a word. The door locked behind them.

The sounds of the bar dulled to a low throb through the walls, music, laughter, clinking ice. Safe distance. Ethan dropped into the chair behind the desk.

Victor leaned against the edge, arms crossed, watching him. The room smelled faintly of sex from earlier, Remy’s perfume, Ethan’s release. Neither mentioned it.

Ethan reached into the bottom drawer, pulled out a small mirrored tray, a razor blade, and a tiny plastic baggie of fine white powder. He tapped out two generous lines with practiced ease. The mirror caught the overhead light, throwing sharp reflections across their faces.

Victor didn’t blink. “You sure?”

Ethan met his eyes. “Never more.” He rolled a hundred-dollar bill, crisp, fresh from the night’s take, into a tight tube. Bent over the desk. Inhaled the first line in one clean pull. Fire raced up his sinuses, then exploded behind his eyes. Clarity. Power. Rage distilled into something usable. He passed the bill to Victor.

Victor took it, leaned down, and did his line without hesitation. Straightened slowly. His pupils dilated almost instantly. The flush on his jaw deepened.

They stared at each other across the desk. The air between them crackled again, same charge as earlier, but sharper now, chemical.

Ethan’s heart hammered in triple time. Victor’s breathing matched it, shallow, deliberate. Ethan leaned back in the chair, legs spread, cock already thickening against the denim again. He didn’t hide it. Didn’t need to.

Victor’s gaze dropped, lingered, then lifted again. No shame. No apology.

“You’re still wound,” Victor said, voice rougher from the burn in his throat.

“Yeah,” Ethan rasped. “And you’re still hard.”

Victor didn’t deny it. He stepped closer, until his thighs brushed the edge of the desk. Close enough that Ethan could smell the bourbon on his breath, the faint metallic tang of coke, the expensive cologne underneath. Neither moved to close the last inch.

The line was still there, thinner now, fraying, but neither crossed it. Not yet.

Victor’s hand came up, rested on the back of Ethan’s chair. Fingers brushed the nape of his neck, light, almost accidental.

Ethan didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

“You want me to stay?” Victor asked, low.

Ethan held his gaze. The coke sang in his veins, stripping away pretense.

“I want a lot of things tonight,” he said. “Question is, how far are you willing to go to keep this bar mine?”

Victor’s mouth curved, just the barest hint.

“Farther than you think.”

Silence stretched. Heavy. Electric. Outside, the bar pulsed on, high-class, dirty, untouchable.

Inside, two men stood on the edge of something irreversible, hearts racing, pupils blown, the taste of powder and bourbon and unspoken want thick on their tongues. The night wasn’t ending. It was only just beginning.