Chapter 2— “The Lucky Charm”

Nina pov

The club announces itself before you see it.

Bass leaking through brick. A low, constant thud that settles in my chest and makes my ribs vibrate. The line outside is short tonight, men in jackets that cost more than my rent, women balanced on heels that look like weapons. Ricky walks like he belongs here. Like the place owes him something.

I follow half a step behind. Always half a step.

The bouncer barely looks at me. His eyes skim over my body and slide away, uninterested. Ricky gets a nod. A clap on the shoulder. He grins like that means something.

Inside, the air is thick with smoke and perfume and money pretending it isn’t dirty. Lights cut through the dark in slow sweeps. Tables are crowded with men leaning too close, voices low, laughter sharp around the edges. I know this place. I know which corners smell like desperation and which ones smell like blood you don’t see.

Ricky’s hand lands on my lower back. Not gentle. Possessive. Steering.

“Smile,” he mutters. “You look miserable.”

I don’t smile. I keep my face neutral, the way I’ve learned to. Smiling makes him think I’m enjoying things I’m not supposed to enjoy.

We move deeper into the room. Every step feels heavier, like the floor is pulling me down. I can already feel the aftermath waiting—later, at home, when whatever happens here becomes my fault.

That’s how it works.

Mariela is near the bar.

She’s impossible to miss if you know what to look for. Not loud. Not flashy. Her presence sits solid, unmovable, like the room adjusted itself around her years ago and never changed back. Dark hair pulled into a low knot, sharp eyes that don’t waste time pretending. She wears black, tailored and simple, the kind of outfit that says she doesn’t need to prove anything.

Her gaze lands on Ricky first.

“Well,” she says, voice dry. “Didn’t think you’d show your face here again.”

Ricky laughs like they’re old friends. He always does that—acts familiar to cover fear. “What can I say? I’m an optimist.”

Mariela’s eyes slide to me.

They stop.

Not in the way men usually look. Not greedy. Not dismissive. Assessing. Her gaze catches on my arm, where the sleeve has shifted just enough to show the faint yellow edge of an old bruise. Almost healed. Almost gone.

Her jaw tightens. Just a fraction.

Ricky feels it. He always feels when attention shifts.

“This?” he says, pulling me closer by the waist. “My lucky charm.”

His hand squeezes, warning me without words.

I don’t react. I let my body go still, heavy. He hates that more than flinching.

Mariela doesn’t smile. “Lucky,” she repeats, flat.

Her eyes lift—not to Ricky, but past him.

I follow her gaze without meaning to.

There’s a man sitting at a table along the upper edge of the room, slightly removed from the noise. No crowd around him. No show. He doesn’t look like he’s waiting for anything, and somehow that makes the space around him feel owned.

He’s dressed simply. Dark jacket. Clean lines. His posture is relaxed, but there’s nothing careless about him. He’s watching the room the way you watch water when you know something’s swimming underneath.

His eyes meet mine.

The contact is brief. Barely a second. But it hits differently than the rest of the room. Not hungry. Not judging. Intent.

My stomach tightens, sharp and sudden.

I look away first.

Ricky shifts beside me, restless. “We gonna stand here all night, or—”

Mariela doesn’t answer him. She keeps her eyes on the man above.

He doesn’t move much. Just a slight tilt of his head. A single, deliberate nod.

That’s all.

Mariela straightens. Her attention snaps back to Ricky. “Come with me,” she says. Not a request.

Ricky blinks. “What?”

“Now,” she adds.

He hesitates, pride warring with instinct. Then he smiles, too quick, and pats my hip. “See? Told you. Lucky.”

Mariela turns, already walking. Ricky follows, dragging me along with him.

As we move through the crowd, I feel it again—the sense of being pulled into something already decided. Conversations dip as we pass. A few heads turn. I don’t know why, and that scares me more than being ignored.

We reach the stairs.

I glance back once, against my better judgment.

The man is still there.

Watching.

And for the first time since we walked in, I have the strangest thought:

Not that something bad is about to happen.

But that something inevitable is.

The stairs curve upward along the wall, carpet worn thin down the center like too many people have walked this path hoping for the same thing. Ricky climbs them with a confidence that feels borrowed. His hand never leaves my arm. Not protective. Possessive. Like if he lets go, I might vanish—or worse, choose not to follow.

The room upstairs is quieter.

Not silent. Controlled.

The bass is muted here, a distant pulse instead of a blow to the chest. The lighting is lower, warmer. The tables are spaced farther apart, each one its own small island of power. Men sit differently here—backs straight, voices low, movements economical. No one wastes energy.

I feel too loud just breathing.

Mariela stops beside a table near the railing. She steps aside without ceremony.

The man is closer now.

Up close, the first thing I notice is his stillness. Not rigid. Intentional. Like nothing in his body moves unless he allows it. Dark hair, neatly cut. Stubble along his jaw, kept short, deliberate. His eyes are darker than I expected. Not sharp. Not cold.

Focused.

He looks at Ricky like he already knows how this ends.

“Sit,” he says.

One word. Calm. No room for debate.

Ricky laughs, a little too loud. “Sure, man. No problem.”

He pulls out a chair and drops into it, the sound of it scraping against the floor too harsh for the room. I stay standing, unsure where I belong. My hands curl at my sides.

The man’s gaze shifts to me.

“Sit,” he repeats.

This time, it’s for me.

I hesitate. Ricky feels it and tugs my arm, yanking me down into the chair beside him. The seat is upholstered, soft, expensive. I sink into it more than I want to.

The man studies me for a beat longer than necessary. Not my body. My face. My hands. The bandage on my palm.

Something unreadable passes through his eyes.

Then he looks away, as if I’ve already been accounted for.

“Play,” he tells Ricky.

Cards appear on the table as if summoned. Chips follow. Neatly stacked. Orderly. The dealer doesn’t speak.

Ricky cracks his knuckles. “Feeling good tonight,” he says, trying for charm. “Real good.”

The man across from him doesn’t respond.

The first hand goes fast. Ricky wins just enough to puff up, to lean back in his chair and grin like he knew this would happen. He glances at me, smug.

“See?” he murmurs. “Told you.”

The second hand takes longer. Ricky loses. He shrugs it off.

The third hand bleeds him slowly. Chip by chip. His knee starts bouncing under the table. I can feel it through my own leg.

I keep my eyes on the felt. On the clean lines. On anything that isn’t his face.

By the fourth hand, his breathing has changed.

He leans forward now, elbows on the table, jaw tight. He throws more chips in, too fast. Like speed might scare the loss away.

The man across from him watches without expression. Hands folded. Patient.

The room feels smaller with every card turned.

Ricky swears under his breath. Reaches for more chips.

Mariela steps in smoothly, blocking his hand.

“That’s enough,” she says.

Ricky scoffs. “I’m good for it.”

The man finally speaks again.

“No,” he says. “You’re not.”

Ricky freezes.

The dealer stills. The air tightens.

Ricky forces a laugh. “Come on. You don’t even know me.”

The man’s gaze lifts slowly. When he looks at Ricky now, it’s direct. Unblinking.

“I know exactly who you are,” he says.

My pulse stutters.

Ricky straightens. “Then you know I’ll pay it back.”

The man’s eyes flick to the stack in the center of the table. What’s left of it. Not much.

“You already owe more than you can afford,” he says. “And that was before tonight.”

Ricky’s mouth opens. Closes.

“How much?” he asks finally.

The man names a number.

It lands like a physical blow.

Ricky pales. I feel his arm tense against mine. His fingers dig into my thigh, hard enough to hurt.

“That’s—” He swallows. “That’s not right.”

The man tilts his head slightly. Almost curious. “It is.”

Ricky’s chest rises and falls faster. His eyes dart—around the room, to the door, back to the table. Calculating. Cornered.

Then he does something that makes my stomach drop.

He turns to me.

Not all the way. Just enough that the man across from us can see the gesture.

“I can make it right,” Ricky says quickly. “There are… other ways.”

My blood runs cold.

Ricky’s hand tightens on my leg, claiming. Offering.

“I brought company,” he adds, voice oily now. “She’s— she’s good. Quiet. Worth something.”

The room goes very still.

I don’t move. I don’t speak. My body knows this moment. Knows the way the floor can disappear beneath you without warning.

The man’s gaze snaps to Ricky’s hand.

Then to me.

Something in his expression changes.

Not anger.

Decision.

He leans back in his chair, slow, controlled. One hand rests on the table, fingers relaxed.

“You misunderstand,” he says.

Ricky licks his lips. “Look, I’m just saying—”

The man cuts him off without raising his voice.

“You don’t get to sell,” he says calmly, “what you were never entitled to in the first place.”

Ricky stiffens. “I’m her boyfriend.”

The man’s eyes lift again, dark and steady.

“Not anymore.”

The words land heavy.

The man’s gaze shifts to me, and this time it doesn’t slide away.

“I’ll take her,” he says.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Final.

The room exhales all at once.

Ricky jerks back. “You can’t—”

The man leans forward, just enough that the light catches the sharp line of his eyes.

“If you argue,” he says quietly, “I will kill you. Not here. Not tonight. But soon. And you’ll know it’s coming.”

Ricky goes silent.

I feel his grip loosen. His hand slips off my leg like it never belonged there.

The man turns his attention fully to me.

And for the first time tonight, I realize something worse than fear is settling in my chest.

I’ve been chosen.