Inside, people lounged on oversized, velvet couches, some swaying lazily to a beat that was completely different from the music in the main area. Others stood in an aimless line, waiting for something unseen. The whole place felt chaotic, as if a black-market bazaar had collided with a nightclub, and neither was fully in control of the result.
Enzo led us to one of the bar-like stalls. He nodded at the guy behind the counter, who walked over, his expression impassive. “Well, assistant,” Enzo said, letting go of my hand and pointing to the wall of bottles. The music in this section was quieter, a steady pulse that let me hear him clearly. “Pick whatever catches your eye.”
The bartender eyed me up and down, his face hard to read. He seemed sceptical, like he’d seen too many first-timers walk through these stalls, and I wasn’t quite passing the test. After a moment, he stepped aside, giving me a better view of the bottles.
I squinted, trying to make sense of what I was looking at. I half-expected to find the usual: rose-coloured gin, that dirt-cheap vodka they sell at corner stores, maybe a bottle of Jack Daniels tucked somewhere in the back. But no. Every single label was foreign to me, names scrawled in French, Thai, Russian, some in scripts I couldn’t even place. Some bottles were tall and slender, others short and squat, a few shaped like skulls or serpents.
“What… are they?” I asked, more to myself than anyone, my fingers hovering over a bottle with a label in a delicate, looping Cyrillic script. A soft laugh from Enzo caught my ear. He was watching me, a knowing glint in his eyes, like he’d been waiting for this moment—waiting to see how far I’d go into this twisted rabbit hole.
“I can’t let you form a line, girl,” the man said, looking at his nails. “Need any help?”
Indeed, two groups of people had gathered behind us. Gina came to my rescue.
“We’ll have two Kweichow Moutai, however you prefer,” she announced, before turning to Enzo. “Anything for you?”
Enzo had an amused expression. “Royal Salute.”
Gina snapped her fingers at the man.
“That’s all.” He served us two wide-bottomed glasses with a red liquid he called “red sky at night,” and a short glass with a yellowish liquor and ice.
“Here, it doesn’t matter if you pay in cash,” Enzo said. “No one will ask questions.”
I paid almost three thousand pounds. I watched as the man passed my money through a machine, counting and verifying it was real. My heart leapt to my throat. This was not a place for dirty business. Green light. I swallowed. One less doubt, the money wasn’t fake. My hands held the glass with a trembling grip.
“What the hell?” I muttered, leaning in close to Enzo’s ear to make myself heard over the low thrum of music. “Club Montari’s in Cutnam, the student district. Why have I just paid a king’s ransom for three drinks?” The more I looked around, the less sense any of it made. It wasn’t a complaint, really. Enzo had brought me to the right place. Just… what was this place?
“I’ll explain it to you soon,” he shouted back, steering me down another alleyway. We entered The Peak. Suddenly, I couldn’t ignore the signs that Montari was more than just a club—it was an entire world of its own. The atmospherechanged again. Everything seemed to be dusted with glitter and polished to perfection. The people we passed were draped in designer clothes like armour, their gold chains and gemstones catching the light as they moved. They strutted through the space, chins raised, necks stretched tall, scanning the room as if everyone was a rival to be outdone. The mirrors along the walls reflected them endlessly, creating a funhouse effect that warped their appearances, turning their vanity into something almost grotesque, a twisted parade of wealth.
We slipped through a door guarded by a massive man dressed all in black. I felt his eyes on me, but he didn’t move a muscle. As soon as we crossed the threshold, Gina pulled out her wallet and handed him some cash, quick and smooth. Inside, the room felt like a cocoon, trapping us in its strange, soft silence. The noise from outside evaporated into a thick cloud of smoke hanging above us, looking like a sky scattered with stars.
We settled in a secluded corner, a round, plush sofa that was the colour of dark plum. I took a sip of my cocktail, feeling the cold glass in my hand, the condensation dripping onto my fingers. The drink was sweet, almost too sweet. It tasted like candy, but the burn of the alcohol still hit at the back of my throat. Gina flopped down beside me, her red bangs catching the glittering lights from above and reflecting them like they were part of the decor. She lifted her almost-empty glass, a gleam in her eye. “If I drink a couple more of these,” she said with a grin, “I won’t remember anything tomorrow. And I’m not going to forget this place!”
She didn’t waste a second. Her phone was out, snapping pictures like she was documenting every corner of thisbizarre wonderland. A selfie with the drinks, another of the shimmering sofa, a close-up of the intricate sequins on the dress of a girl passing by. One of the three of us, heads huddled close together, eyes wide. A woman appeared next to us like a shadow. She didn’t speak, just gave Gina a cold, stern look and pointed to a sign we hadn’t noticed before. No photography allowed.
“Why?” Gina complained once the woman had left, and she put her phone back in her pocket. “What kind of club forbids taking pictures?”
“This isn’t a normal club. Only people with important status know of its existence,” Enzo said, clasping his hands on his knees and leaning in to lower his voice. “It’s the only way to get in here. To be part of the elite.” He made a face. “Or, alternatively, to know someone who is.”
“Who do you know?” I laughed.
“I have my contacts,” he replied with a casual grin.
Gina’s gaze was fixed on three men lounging on a nearby sofa, flanked by women with silver trays laden with white powders. “Isn’t that illegal? Why isn’t anyone reporting it?” she wondered aloud.
Enzo shrugged, his expression nonchalant. As he did, his hand slipped down to rest on my bare thigh.
“It’s the one place where they can come and do whatever they please, free from any real consequences,” Enzo explained.
We could ask the waitresses for anything we wanted, and they’d bring it to… payment required, of course. Enzo ordered more drinks for us. I had more questions swirling in my mind: Who created this place? What was in the other rooms? What other rules did the club have?
“Excuse me for a moment, Vera. I need to go greet someone,” he said, giving my leg a squeeze and standing up. “Go wherever you want, explore the club.” He smiled at me. “See you later. Have fun.”
“Are you going to see your mysterious contact?” Gina shouted. “Hey!”
From a distance, he waved goodbye, ignoring the question.
“You know?” she turned to me. “I can’t decide.”
