Chapter 2 - The Club

By her second week at The Black Halo, Elena knows where the cameras are.

Not the obvious ones, the blinking domes meant to discourage amateurs and reassure drunk patrons. The other ones. The discreet lenses tucked into corners, angled just enough to catch movement without drawing attention. She maps their arcs while pretending to wipe tables, memorising blind spots created by lighting rigs and structural columns.

Old instincts don’t disappear. They adapt.

Friday nights are worse. The bass is heavier, bodies packed tighter, the air thick with perfume, sweat, and expensive cologne. Disorder exists here, but it’s curated - allowed to breathe only within parameters.

Elena moves through it with steady precision, tray balanced, posture relaxed. She doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t rush. She lets people underestimate her, because underestimation makes men careless.

“Elena.”

Carlo’s voice catches her near the bar. His jaw is tight. “Table six. Back corner. Important.”

She nods and adjusts the tray.

Table six sits half-hidden behind a privacy screen. Four men. Three loud enough to draw attention. One who doesn’t need to.

Matteo De Luca sits with his back to the wall.

He isn’t flashy. No jewellery. No wasted movement. His stillness gives the space around him weight, like everyone else is unconsciously orienting themselves around a centre of gravity.

Elena approaches with her eyes lowered.

She feels him register her anyway.

The loud one grins. “She new?”

“New enough,” Carlo says sharply.

“What’s your name, dolcezza?” the man asks, gaze dragging.

“Elena.”

“You don’t smile much.”

“I’m working.”

That’s when Matteo looks up.

It’s a subtle movement, barely there, but the effect is immediate. The grin falters.

“She works,” Matteo says calmly. “That’s why she’s useful.”

The word isn’t flattering. It’s exact.

The man scoffs. “Relax. I was just—”

Matteo turns his head slowly.

“You’re in my club,” he says softly. “You don’t talk about my staff like inventory.”

Silence cuts sharp and clean.

Elena steps back and leaves without looking back. She doesn’t need to. His attention settles and lifts like a hand she never asked for.

Later, the crowd grows sloppy.

A man at the bar smells like cheap whiskey and entitlement. His hand slides around her waist as she passes.

She stops.

“Let go,” she says evenly.

The grip tightens. “Relax. I’m just being friendly.”

She twists out of his hold cleanly, using his balance against him. He stumbles.

“Don’t touch me.”

Laughter ripples.

A presence settles behind the man.

“Is there a problem?” Matteo asks.

The drunk pales. “No. No problem. I was just—”

“You were touching my staff without consent,” Matteo says. “That’s a problem.”

Security appears instantly.

“Take him outside,” Matteo adds. “He’s done for tonight.”

The man protests as he’s escorted away.

Matteo finally looks at Elena. “You alright?”

“I had it handled.”

“I know.”

He doesn’t apologise. Doesn’t explain.

“Back to work,” he says quietly.

She does.

She thinks that’s the end of it.

It isn’t.

⸻

The shift ends late.

Carlo hands her two heavy rubbish bags. “Last thing,” he says. “Then you’re clear.”

Routine. Normal.

Elena drags the bags toward the back exit, the bass dulling as the door swings shut behind her. The alley is narrow and damp, lit by a flickering security light.

She hears it before she sees it.

A grunt. A sharp breath.

She sets the bags down silently and edges closer to the corner.

The man who grabbed her is on his knees.

Hands bound. Face bloodied. Two of Matteo’s men stand nearby, impassive.

Matteo stands in front of him.

Calm. Still.

“I was drunk,” the man sobs. “I didn’t mean—”

“That’s irrelevant,” Matteo says. “You touched someone under my protection.”

Elena’s stomach drops.

Protection.

“You don’t learn from apologies,” Matteo continues. “You learn from consequence.”

A gun appears in his hand.

The sound is sharp. Contained.

The man collapses.

Elena clamps a hand over her mouth, forcing herself to stay silent. Every instinct screams to intervene. She doesn’t.

Matteo hands the gun back. “Clean it up.”

He turns.

And sees her.

“How long have you been there?” he asks.

“Long enough.”

“You shouldn’t be back here alone.”

“You shouldn’t do that behind your club.”

A pause.

“You’re not afraid.”

“I am,” Elena says. “I’m just not stupid.”

Something like approval flickers.

“That man made a choice,” Matteo says. “So did I.”

“Was it because of me?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t ask if I wanted that.”

“No,” he says. “I decided he was a liability.”

“And me?”

“You are not.”

He steps closer, stopping short of touching her.

“You saw something tonight,” Matteo says. “That means you have a decision.”

“Which is?”

“Keep working here and keep quiet,” he says. “Or leave alive and never return.”

She nods once. “I’ll keep working.”

A slow smile curves his mouth. “Good.”

As she walks away, Elena knows one thing with terrifying clarity.

She hasn’t just entered his world.

She’s been acknowledged by it.