No Way Out

The wire itched.

Cedric stood in the club's bathroom, full of black marble and gold fixtures that probably cost more than his entire existence, and stared at his reflection. The crisp white shirt they'd given him was tailored within an inch of its life, tucked into black slacks that actually fit for once.

His ribs didn’t hurt as much anymore. His hair was styled back, his face had healed enough that makeup covered the worst of the bruising, and he looked hot as hell, like someone who belonged in a place like this.

The wire was taped to his chest, a tiny microphone no bigger than a button, and the transmitter pack was clipped to his back beneath his shirt. Marcus's voice echoed in his head from the briefing two hours ago: “Don't take it off. Don't compromise the equipment. We need everything.”

Cedric's fingers found the edge of the tape, then he ripped the wire off in one sharp motion, gasping at the sting, before dropping the whole setup into the trash and burying it deep under paper towels.

"Fuck the police," he muttered to his reflection.

He'd figure this out his own way. He always did.

The club was called Elysium, which Cedric thought was pretentious as hell, but he had to admit, it was stunning. Three floors of pure excess, each level even more exclusive than the last.

The ground floor was where the beautiful people danced and got wasted, their bodies pressed together under trippy lights that turned everything into a fever dream. The second floor was VIP with private booths, bottle service, and clientele who dropped thousands without a second thought.

The third floor was invitation-only. And that's where he was working tonight.

"Table seven needs another bottle of the Armand de Brignac," his manager, Alessandro, with a thick Italian accent, snapped his fingers in Cedric's direction. "And smile, tesoro. You look like you're at a funeral."

Cedric grabbed the bottle. Fifteen thousand dollars, the price tag had said, for champagne that probably tasted like every other champagne. He rolled his eyes and made his way through the crowd, ignoring the suggestive looks and cat calls from the people he passed.

Sure he wanted some old rich guy to take him somewhere, show him a good time and make him a sugar baby or something. Cedric was always down for a little fun, but not tonight, otherwise Marcus would probably nag his ears off.

Focus, Cedric told himself. You’ve got this, what could possibly go wrong?

The third floor was much darker and more intimate. Booths lined the walls, each one occupied by men in expensive suits and women in designer dresses. You could smell practically the money in the air.

Table seven was occupied by three men in their forties, already drunk and already handsy. Cedric poured their champagne, dodging a grab at his ass, smiling the smile that said you could afford me, but you're not worth my time, before collecting a crisp hundred-dollar tip.

He only had twelve more nights of this, playing servant to greedy old fucks who wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire. Twelve more nights to figure out how the hell he was going to get five hundred thousand dollars.

"You, pretty boy."

Cedric turned. Alessandro was gesturing frantically. "The owner's booth. They need service. Go. Vai, vai."

"Which booth…"

"The black one, in the corner. And for the love of God, be professional. No flirting, no attitude, just pour and disappear. Understand?"

The black booth. Cedric's eyes tracked to the far corner of the third floor, where a semicircular booth sat slightly above the rest, with sheer black fabric curtains creating an illusion of privacy while still allowing its occupants to survey everything. He could see silhouettes behind the fabric, and for some strange reason, he felt eyes on him.

Someone’s gaze had been burning into the back of his neck ever since he step foot in the third floor.

"Who…"

"Just go!"

So Cedric went.

He grabbed a tray, loaded it with glasses and a bottle of expensive whiskey, and made his way across the floor. Each step felt heavier than the last. The music was loud enough to feel in his bones, but somehow the corner seemed quieter, as though all sound died before it reached that booth.

He pushed through the sheer curtains.

Five men sat in the booth, but Cedric's eyes went immediately to the one in the centre.

And oh, fuck.

He was younger than Cedric expected, maybe early thirties, with the kind of face you only saw on magazine covers. Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, dark hair pushed back from his forehead in a way that was so hot, it was actually unfair.

He wore a black suit that was clearly custom-made, moulded to broad shoulders and a muscled frame, the crisp white shirt open at the collar revealing a glimpse of his perfectly sculpted chest.

And the way he sat, relaxed but alert, with one arm draped across the back of the booth, legs spread in a way that screamed confidence and raw power. So much so that Cedric wanted to turn his brain off and kneel so this guy could put a leash on him and tell him what to do.

Gianni Falcone.

Had to be.

The other men were talking, laughing about something, but Falcone wasn't listening. His attention was on his phone, his fingers moving across the screen with quick efficiency, his expression unreadable.

"Gentlemen," Cedric said, his voice steady despite the fact that his heart was trying to escape through his ribs. "Compliments of the house."

He tried to do his job, listen for anything that sounded important or interesting, but it was impossible. The music was way too loud, and anytime he went near anyone to serve them they would lower their voices. Clearly, they knew better than to trust the help.

He started pouring, working his way around the table. The men barely acknowledged him; to them, he was just another piece of furniture or decoration, not worthy of their notice. All except one.

Cedric could feel Falcone's attention shift; he could feel those eyes on him, the same intense gaze he felt a while ago, watching his movements closely as he poured champagne into crystal glasses.

Don't look at him. Pour and leave. Just do your job and get out.

But Cedric had never been good at following instructions, and so when he reached Falcone's glass, he couldn’t help it.

He looked up, their eyes met for just a second, and Cedric forgot how to breathe.

Dark brown eyes, almost black in the dim light that made Cedric's stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the terrible realisation that this man was possibly the most attractive person he'd ever seen in his life.

Which was inconvenient, considering said man was a killer probably wanted him dead.

Cedric forced himself to look away, finishing the pour with hands that were absolutely, definitely shaking now.

"Will there be anything else?" he asked everyone at the table.

"No, we're good," one of the men said, waving him off.

“Get us another bottle of whiskey. The night is long, just one won’t be enough.” Another one said, before taking a puff on his cigar and blowing out smoke.

“Uh huh. Got it. Be right back.”

Cedric turned to leave, already counting the steps to the curtain, to freedom, to anywhere that wasn't in the direct line of sight of that beast of a man.

One….

Two…

"Wait." Falcone commanded.

Everyone at the table went silent, the whole booth seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what the Don would say next.