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“Be sure to get back to me as soon as possible, okay?”
Liz pursed her lips, then slipped the key inside the lock rapidly. She went inside without saying another word, then leaned against the door.
She smiled widely, clutching at her chest like a superhero snapping their cape.
Chapter3
Ben
Benicio Moretti was a practical hardass. It was the only way he knew how to get anything done, and it had been reinforced throughout his entire lifetime as an authoritarian figure. So, when the role of head of security came to fruition, he thought of it as a sweet gig that he slipped into the way a hand slips into a silk glove.
He was a bustling hulk of a man that no one fucked with. Plus, he was afforded one hell of a view every single Friday and Saturday night, the sexiest chicks sliding on through the club in their low-cut tops and delicious thighs he liked to imagine his face between.
And he often would get his face between them, two, three, even four times a week. A different girl every weekend was how he liked it ... no attachments, no bullshit, just pure animalistic fucking.
But Benny didn’t have time for that tonight. He would have to store a few that he watched walking in ... high heels and legs and cleavage glistening under the neon lights ... in the reservoir of his mind for later satisfaction.
He was overseeing a high-stakes poker game that happened once a month in the secret suite at the back of the club. It was illegal, of course, but that didn’t stop the Moretti family or the elite clientele from participating. It was one of the few thrills the rich bastards had remaining in their lives. The majority of them had aged out of their beauty and, likely, highly unable to satisfy a woman should one actually come their way.
Even the paid ones, Benny chuckled to himself.
It was a highly organized event that ran smoothly because of Benny’s leadership. Benny even had a system of punishment when the contributors couldn’t pay up that would lead them to be escorted into a private room where their legs would promptly be broken.
They would either never show up again or show up with an abundance of cash on hand. Benny knew it was an addiction for some of them, but none of that shit was any of his business.
The clientele came in through a backdoor connected to the kitchen. They would be led in by Benny’s security detail, a few other sturdy men, who took their passwords and escorted them through the bustle of the active cooking area into a blood-red lit hallway.
It was then that they came face-to-face with Benny, his handsome but rough face making the younger ones wither with insecurity. He thought it was a good way to put them in their place, especially the newer men, who thought their shit smelled like roses.
“Good evening,” Benny said, staring down a newer play named Mason. “Raise your fucking arms for me, would you, boy?”
Mason Shannan, which was what his ID said anyway, shot his arms up into the air like a cop was pointing a gun at him. Benny proceeded to pat him down with an extra morsel of aggression to put the kid in his place. He wore a baseball cap and a blazer, the signature uniform of a spoiled brat.
Benny tapped the tip of his cap hard, making the boy shake.
“Get that fucking thing off your head,” he sneered. “What do you think this is, your buddies' poker game in his basement?”
Mason nodded, then moved, cap-in-hand, into the luxury suite where the game was set to take place.
Benny would watch them be greeted by some of the veteran girls who worked for the club. They wore their sleekest, tightest skirts and tops, flashing wide smiles and speaking in a high falsetto. All of this was intentional. Benny found attractive women were the fastest way to disarm anyone who was feeling ballsy.
He had hooked up with a few of them. Their shining skin and flowing curves were irresistible to his needy beast within.
The rest of the men who attended that night were regular customers, so Benny didn’t need to turn up the intimidation with them. He still patted them down, bantering with them in a way that was friendly but still firm enough for them to know precisely who was in charge.
On that night, and most nights, there would be eight to ten players, a dealer, two waitresses to tend to their cocktail needs, two security details outside the room in the kitchen, and Benny. He kept a radio on him at all times in case things got messy, but his glowing green eyes were usually enough to keep any scuffling at bay.
He watched over the men for the entire night, like a lighthouse scanning the shoreline for intruders.
On that night, things went as usual. The girls made the clients laugh and even made some feel somewhat attractive when they got the gorgeous specimens' attention. And many lost a lot of cash, but their identity was still wrapped within their wealth as their masculinity took a crushing blow.
Five hours later, at nearly three in the morning, things had finally come to a close.
“Goddamn it!” an older man said, smacking his hand against the card table.
The take for the night was massive, which would sometimes cause the vibe of the room to become insidious. But it was Benny’s job to gauge the mood, taking action when required, and leaning back when adding more macho energy to the situation would only make it more volatile.
At that moment, he stood still, hands clenched together while his blazer strained against his large shoulders. The big winner for the night was the newbie, Mason Shannan, the youthful-looking kid who likely was using money he’d inherited. A good old-fashioned daddy’s boy, as he and his security team liked to call them.
