Dangerous Obsession of Mafia

JORDAN'S POV

“So who are these people coming tonight?”

I call out to Lindsey, my roommate, while dragging the mascara wand through my lashes one more time.

The mirror reflects back the glitter on my cheekbones, lips painted the kind of red that screams available but not emotionally, and my hair curled into perfect waves that took forty minutes and a YouTube tutorial.

“I don’t know too much.” Lindsey appears in my doorway, bra on and no dress yet, phone in one hand while she scrolls with her thumb. “They are big-shot businessmen from Romania, I guess. Taylor’s all nervous about it and wants his best girls on it.”

She tosses her phone onto my bed and shimmies into a dress that leaves nothing to speculation. The fabric clings to every curve, black and expensive-looking even though I know she got it at the secondhand store down the street.

“Can you zip me up, please?”

I cap the mascara and spin around. My fingers find the zipper and pull it up her spine while she holds her hair out of the way.

“Taylor’s always nervous,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t know why he has these people come to his nightclub.”

The zipper catches on the fabric for a second before sliding up. Lindsey drops her hair and turns, already digging through her purse on my dresser.

“Who the fuck knows. Money, I guess.”

She pulls out a little blue vial, the kind that costs too much and promises too little except a few hours where reality gets softer around the edges. I’ve watched her pull that thing out more and more lately, the intervals getting shorter between uses.

“Want some?”

“No thanks.” I turn back to the mirror and start organizing my makeup, dropping brushes into their holder, and look up at her in the mirror. “And you should be careful with that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Relax, Jordan. It’s not that bad. Makes me feel like I’m ready to party.”

She tips the vial back, throat working as she swallows. She licks her lips and then grabs her phone. She looks at her screen and swears under her breath.

“Shit, we’re late. Come on,” she says and stomps out of my room. “I’ll call the Uber.”

I stand and grab my purse as my heels dangle from two fingers while my phone gets shoved into my bag. We’re out the door before I can second-guess the length of my dress or the fact that my rent is due soon and tonight’s tips need to cover it, plus groceries if I feel like eating next week.

Our fourplex building sits on a street just off Sunset.

The stucco needs repainting and the pool hasn’t been cleaned since summer started, but we’re close to the strip and nothing in this city is cheap, even if it should be.

Our Uber arrives in four minutes. It’s an all-black Camry whose driver is named Marcus. He’s got a four-point-eight rating and, judging from the smell in the car, he might like to drink cologne.

“You ladies going somewhere fun tonight?”

He adjusts his rearview mirror, eyes lingering.

“Work.” I keep my tone flat, staring out the window.

“What kind of work looks like that?”

The kind that pays rent,” I say.

Lindsey giggles from beside me, already loose and floaty from whatever was in that vial.

“Please excuse my friend here,” she says and leans forward between the seats, her perfume mixing with his cologne until the car smells like a department store. “You ever been to Omnia?”

“Can’t say I have,” the driver says, sneaking glances at her in between lights.

“You should come by sometime,” she says, flirting and touching his shoulder. “I’ll get you in.”

Finally, we pull up to the club and there’s a long line of people. I hop out as Marcus tries for Lindsey’s phone number.

She gives him her Instagram instead, with a promise to respond to his DMs.

The side entrance is propped open with a cinder block, our usual way in that bypasses the line and the bouncers who pretend not to know exactly what we do upstairs. The back hallway reeks of stale beer as we walk past empty kegs and bottles.

Taylor intercepts us before we make it to the employee room.

“You’re late.”

He’s sweating already, despite the industrial AC pumping cold air through the vents. Taylor always looks like he’s one audit away from a heart attack, perpetually nervous, perpetually checking his phone like it holds the secrets to not fucking up his life.

“Are they here yet?” I ask.

“No, but get to the VIP section and make sure it’s ready. Everything needs to be perfect.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He just turns and walks away, phone pressed to his ear, barking orders at someone else.

Lindsey and I exchange a look.

“Everything needs to be perfect,” she mimics in a whiny voice, and I laugh as we push through the door into the main club.

Music slams into us. The DJ’s mixing something with too much bass and not enough melody, lights strobing across the dance floor where bodies press together in ways that almost look like fucking. We navigate the edge of the crowd, past the main bar where shot girls in lacy corsets pour expensive tequila down throats, up the stairs to the VIP section.

It’s behind solid doors that block the music, so it’s always nice to get up here.

We walk past the velvet ropes and leather couches. The main tables in the center are already set with bottles of vodka that cost a car payment.

Marissa and Tasha are already there, checking their makeup in compact mirrors.

They smile when we walk up.

“Romanians tonight?” Marissa snaps her compact shut and drops it into her bag.

“Apparently,” I say. “That’s what Lindsey said.”

Lindsey shrugs. “Taylor told me.”

“Well, I heard they tip better than the Bulgarians who Tony downstairs said are also coming,” Tasha says.

“Everyone tips better than the Bulgarians,” Marissa mutters, adjusting her push-up bra.

We laugh and then fall into the familiar prep work: straightening bottles, arranging glasses, making sure everything looks untouched and expensive.

The VIP section is all about the illusion. The illusion that these men are special, that their money makes them different, that us girls laughing at their jokes actually find them charming rather than calculating how much we can extract before the night ends.

About fifteen minutes pass and people start arriving. Our VIP section is split into two sections. The left side is for the people that probably spent money they don’t have to be here. This section is normally filled with college kids or those young professionals that want to feel rich but have to pool their money together to get a table. The right side, the side I’m on, is where the real players sit, and it’s this section where the men we’re catering to tonight reserved.

The Bulgarians arrive first.

I recognize them immediately. They are in here all the time with their gold chains, designer clothes, and, like Marcus our Uber driver earlier, wearing cologne that arrives five seconds before they do.

They’re VIP regulars and they expect the full experience. They’re the kind of men who expect hands on their thighs and our arms around them as we whisper promises in their ears that we never intend to keep.

I hate it all, but a girl’s got to live.

My face must show my feelings because Lindsey leans in, breath warm against my ear.

“Remember, easy money tonight. And if you’re lucky, you can make even more with a handjob.”

She’s laughing when she says it.

I hit her arm.

“Fuck off.”

But she’s not wrong. They’ll pay for it, and in this city, that’s all that matters most nights.

I paste on a smile and approach their table, already falling into character, the version of Jordan who doesn’t think about how this wasn’t supposed to be her life, who doesn’t remember signing with a legitimate modeling agency three years ago, who doesn’t replay the moment she said no to the wrong person and watched her career dissolve into thin air overnight.

No time to think about it now.

Taylor appears again, seemingly from nowhere like he does when he’s extra stressed.

He nods for me to walk over to him.

“They’re here,” he says, his voice low.

I nod. “Okay.”

“Remember, anything they want. Just do it.”

“We got it,” Lindsey says, coming up next to me. “Don’t worry, boss.” She salutes him.

He doesn’t smile, just spins around and walks away.

I turn, scanning the entrance to the VIP section, and spot them immediately.

A group of men stand in the doorway, conversation flowing in a language that sounds nothing like I expected. I guess I didn’t really know what Romanian sounds like. It’s not quite Italian, not quite Russian, something in between.

At the front stands a man who makes everyone else look like they don’t belong around him.

He’s tall with dark hair styled with just enough product to look deliberate without trying too hard. He’s got slight stubble on his face, but it doesn’t hide his jawline, which is sharp and something most men in LA would kill for.

He’s dressed in all black and his suit looks like it was made just for him.

He looks over in my direction and I look away.

“Holy shit, do you see that guy? The tall one?” Lindsey whispers beside me, fingers gripping my arm. “I’d do him for free.”

“Easy, Lins. He may be good-looking, but remember, these men are dangerous.”

The words come out automatically, a warning I’ve given before and will give again because Lindsey doesn’t listen. She never listens.

The tall man approaches, flanked by six others who stay close to him while looking around the room in a way that makes my stomach tight.

They flow past us speaking rapid Romanian, and the tall one glances down at me, but I can’t seem to hold his gaze, so I look down at the floor.

They converge with the Bulgarians near the center table.

They all start speaking in English, making introductions and giving handshakes. They seem to know each other, or kind of. I can’t tell. Either way, some of the men are definitely measuring up the others, deciding who’s more dangerous, who has more to lose, or who has more testosterone.

The night begins and the girls do what we do best.

The Bulgarians are their normal handsy selves, ordering drinks, pulling Marissa onto someone’s lap, sliding hands up Tasha’s dress while she giggles and pretends to be shocked. Lindsey works the room like she was born to do it, touching shoulders, laughing at jokes that aren’t funny, making every man feel like he’s the only one she’s interested in.

The Romanians, however, are different.

They don’t want anything, not even water. They’re dismissive when we approach, just curt nods or hands waving us away, attention fixed on their conversation rather than the girls in short dresses orbiting their table. It makes the VIP area feel off-balance, tension creeping in where there should be indulgence and excess.

There goes our tips, I think.

They act like we’re not even there, all except the tall one.

He looks at me.

Not constantly or obviously, but I feel his gaze tracking me across the room, landing on me when I’m pouring drinks or laughing at something one of the Bulgarians said.

His dark eyes are unreadable and his attention makes my skin prickle with awareness I don’t want.

Time stretches in a weird way in the club. Could be an hour, could be three. The music changes, the crowd below shifts, bottles get emptied and replaced.

Then two of the Romanians stand.

They approach Taylor where he’s hovering near the VIP entrance. He’s always hovering. One of them hands him a thick wad of cash that Taylor accepts with shaking fingers and a nod that’s too eager, too grateful.

He clears the opposite side of the VIP section from the men we’re entertaining tonight.

“Everyone out. Private event,” he tells them. Some of the people protest, but Taylor’s insistent, practically shoving people toward the exit until it’s just us girls, the Romanians, and the Bulgarians.

The atmosphere shifts immediately.

Conversations turn louder. Each side clustering with their own men, English fading as Romanian and Bulgarian take over, rapid-fire exchanges that sound increasingly aggressive. Shoulders square. Postures stiffen. The tall Romanian’s expression hardens.

I edge toward the tables against the wall where my purse is, instinct screaming that something’s not right.

Lindsey doesn’t notice. She’s still trying to charm one of the men, hand on his arm, lips near his ear.

The tall Romanian stands.

He says something I don’t understand and then his men pull out guns.

BANG.

BANG.

Gunfire explodes through the VIP section.

Bullets fill the air as glass shatters.

Screams come next. First from others, and then from me.

Something warm hits my face and I drop to the ground.

I put my hands over my head, body folding into the smallest possible target, forehead pressed against the sticky floor that reeks of spilled alcohol.

My heart slams against my ribs and my pulse roars in my ears underneath the gunfire.

I’m screaming, but the sound gets swallowed by bullets tearing through the air above me.

Then silence.

Ringing silence that feels worse than the noise because now I can hear bodies hitting the floor, someone gurgling, the wet sounds of death that I’ve only heard in movies.

I don’t want to look up, but it’s like I need to see it.

Bodies are sprawled across the floor. Blood pooling on leather couches. The Bulgarians are dead, all of them, faces I’d seen laughing and drinking minutes ago now empty, motionless.

I hear the crunch of glass and look to my right.

The tall Romanian approaches and stops.

He crouches beside me, gun in his left hand, still holding it casually. His dark eyes lock onto mine and I stare back because what else can I do? I’m shaking, I know I am, I can feel the tremors running through my entire body, but I can’t hide it, can’t control it, can’t do anything except wait for whatever comes next.

He raises his hand.

I flinch.

His fingers brush my cheek, thumb swiping across my skin. When he pulls back, his thumb is red. Blood. Not mine, someone else’s.

I look down at the ground, hoping he’ll just leave.

Instead, he slides his gun under my chin and raises my head to meet his eyes.

“That yours?” he asks, looking at my purse.

I nod in fear.

Then he reaches across me.

My purse hangs from the hook under the table, the same hook Marissa showed me on my first night, told me to keep my valuables there because drunk men don’t look down. His fingers close around the strap and he pulls it free, unzipping it with his free hand while the gun stays steady in the other.

I want to say something, to object. Ask what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, but this man literally just killed people and his gun is right there.

He rummages through my purse until he finds my ID. He pulls it out and studies it.

He looks at the photo where I’m smiling like I still believed Los Angeles held anything except broken promises and overdue rent.

He then looks at me, looks back at the ID, and then slides it into his jacket pocket.

I start to push hair out of my face and he catches my wrist.

He turns my hand over and rotates it until the inside of my right wrist faces him. His thumb traces over the small blue butterfly tattooed there.

It’s simple line work, something I got when I first moved here, thinking I was being deep with the whole butterflies mean transformation and new beginnings.

He stares at the tattoo for a while and then looks up at me.

“Fluture.” [Fluture (FLOO-too-reh) — Butterfly.]

The word rolls off his tongue, heavy and intimate. I don’t know what it means, but the way he says it makes me nervous.

He releases my hand and stands.

He takes one last look at me like he’s assessing or maybe calculating. I can’t read him.

Then he turns to his men and says something that even to me sounds like a command, and they leave.

All of them.

Just walk out of the VIP section like they didn’t just execute a room full of people, like my ID isn’t in that man’s pocket, like he didn’t touch my face and trace my tattoo and say a word I don’t understand.

I stay on the floor.

Shaking.

Blood cooling on my cheek where he didn’t quite wipe it all away.

The music still thumps from below, oblivious to what just happened.

Lindsey scrambles toward me, her mascara running, hands shaking so hard she can barely grip my arm. “Get your shit. We have to get the hell out of here. Come on!”