Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Alexa

I moved through the crowd with practiced ease, a beacon of composure, navigating between tables amid the bodies swaying to the rhythm. The red lipstick, now slightly smudged, clung to my lips as I offered reassuring smiles to patrons.

Until the moment shattered like glass against stone.

A thunderous intrusion of boots and shouts cleaved through the music. Armed men burst in, their movements a chaotic whirlwind that uprooted the fragile peace. Faces turned, terror replacing mirth, as the intruders brandished weapons with cold intent.

"Get down!" one of the men barked, his voice a snarl that clawed at the edges of calm. The patrons scrambled, screams weaving through the dissonant melody of panic. Glasses crashed to the floor, spilling their contents like blood across the polished surface.

My heart slammed against my rib cage, breaths coming in sharp gasps that mirrored the warning shots fired into the ceiling. Plaster rained down like confetti turned sinister. My hands, once steady and sure, betrayed me as they fumbled and twitched, the instinct to flee warring with the duty to protect.

From the edge of the room, Willow's form cut through the turmoil, her short brown hair a dark cap against the chaos. She herded the dancers toward the relative safety backstage, her plump lips pressed into a line. I caught the flicker of protective rage in Willow's eyes—a silent vow to shield us from harm.

Glass shattered overhead as another gunshot split the air. Men in dark attire prowled the floor, their steps deliberate, eyes cold and calculating beneath masks.

"Nobody move!" The command cut through the sobs and pleas, a bark that silenced the crowd more effectively than the bullet that had just lodged itself into the ceiling. With almost military precision, they took up positions, barricading exits and corralling the patrons into a tight cluster. One of them kicked over a table, sending glasses clinking across the floor, his sneer audible even without seeing his mouth.

"Phones out and on the floor, now!" a voice demanded, the muzzle of an assault rifle gesturing menacingly to enforce the order. The ominous click of weapons being cocked echoed throughout the room.

I huddled closer to the other women, bodies pressed together in a mosaic of desperation. The instinctual urge to nurture, to soothe, warred with the raw terror that clawed at my throat, threatening to unleash a scream I must not let escape. My hands clasped tightly in front of me, seeking solace in their own grip, but finding none.

"Line up against the wall!" The harsh directive sent a shiver down my spine, and I obeyed mechanically, the others following suit. Our collective breaths were shallow, the sound ragged in the heavy silence that settled after the frenetic movement paused.

As the shadow of a barrel swept past me, my gaze flickered upward involuntarily, searching for Dominic's form amid the turmoil. Would he intervene? Could he? His presence was a fortress in my mind, yet now it felt distant, an illusion that may not withstand the siege.

My thoughts spiraled, every scenario that played out in my head darker than the last. Lives hung in the balance, weighted by the cold metal in the hands of strangers. The uncertainty was paralyzing, a vise around my heart that tightened with every passing second. I prayed silently for a sign, a glimmer of hope that this nightmare would end before it claimed them all.

A brute of a man, muscles bulging, paced before the line of trembling women. "We're looking for information," he snarled, his voice a low rumble that reverberated through the stifling air of the club. "Information about Dominic Gambino. Spill what you know, or this gets ugly."

The name hung like a guillotine blade above my head, ready to sever me from any pretense of safety. My heart pounded, a frantic rhythm against my rib cage, as the man's gaze swept over us, predatory and cold. The other women shrank back, eyes wide with fear, their silence a testament to the power Dominic held—even in absence.

"Nothing to say? Maybe this will loosen your tongues," he sneered, and his hand moved menacingly to the other pistol at his hip. "Time's running out, ladies!"

The silence that followed the man's threat was dense, a suffocating blanket that smothered every whimper and stifled breath. It was in this taut quietude that a single act of defiance shattered the illusion of safety.

"Please, we don't know anything," pleaded one voice, tremulous yet laced with an undercurrent of courage.

Time slowed as the armed man turned, his gaze locking on to the source of resistance. The club's erratic lights cast ominous shadows across his face, distorting his features into something monstrous. The swift arc of his arm was brutal; the sound of flesh meeting flesh cracked through the air like a gunshot. The woman crumpled, her cry cut short by the force of the blow.

I flinched, feeling the echo of that violence in my bones, a visceral reminder of our shared vulnerability. Stunned gasps rippled through us, each one a thread pulling tighter around the fear that constricted my chest. No one dared to speak again; the message was clear—cooperation was not optional .

My eyes darted upward involuntarily, seeking solace or perhaps salvation. The windows were dark, the world beyond our gilded cage oblivious to the terror within. Yet somewhere in that impenetrable blackness, I searched for a sign of Dominic. Was he there, hidden among the shadows, watching with those intense, calculating eyes?

The mere thought of him infused me with a dangerous cocktail of hope and trepidation. If Dominic was indeed observing this, would he intervene? Or would he deem the risk too great, leaving us to the mercy of these merciless men?

A cold shiver traced the curve of my spine, yet I clung to the fragile notion that Dominic's protective instincts would prevail over caution. His presence, even unseen, provided a slender thread to cling to—a lifeline in a sea of dread. But as the seconds ticked by, unanswered prayers piling upon one another, doubt began to gnaw at the edges of my resolve.

His absence was a silent scream in the chaos, a void where once I felt certain he would stand. And so I waited, we all waited, suspended between the violence of reality and the whisper of a promise that Dominic Gambino might just be our savior in the darkness.

A girl beside me, her mascara bleeding down her face like the trails of some twisted harlequin, clutched my hand with a viselike grip. Her nails dug into my skin, anchoring herself to something solid, anything real amid the nightmare.

"Everyone here has one chance!" The leader's voice cut through the panic, each syllable a hammer striking the walls of our makeshift sanctuary. His words hung heavy in the air, laden with an ultimatum that promised violence. "Spill it now, or we start making examples out of you pretty things—one by one."

In the stifling closeness, a shiver rippled through the group. The threat loomed over us, a guillotine waiting to drop. Whispers of pleas and prayers tangled in a cacophony of despair, but none dared to voice the truth that could save or condemn us all.

Each woman seemed to shrink smaller, wishing themselves invisible, knowing full well that invisibility was a luxury none of us could afford. With each passing heartbeat, the likelihood of bloodshed grew more palpable, as if the grim specter of death itself hovered just above our heads.

For a moment, time itself seemed to pause, the question hanging unanswered amid the collective terror. Confess to involvement with Dominic? But at what cost? And who among us would pay the price of silence?

"Time's ticking," growled one of the men, his finger caressing the trigger with a lover's touch. "Tick-tock, ladies."

As the seconds ticked away, the room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in on us with the suffocating certainty of a tomb. One of the women whimpered, her eyes meeting mine in a silent plea for salvation.

"Please," she mouthed, the word a ghostly whisper lost in the cacophony of our collective dread.

There was a crack in the facade of our captors' confidence—an impatient tap of a foot, a glance exchanged, a weapon brandished with more bravado than before. They were waiting for the dam to break, for one of us to crumble beneath the unbearable pressure and spill the secret that would either damn or deliver us.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as dust, my lips parting ever so slightly as if poised on the precipice of confession. Would I be the voice that shattered the silence? Could I bear the burden of being the catalyst for catastrophe or salvation?

A shadow passed over the club's windows, fleeting and formless, but enough to stoke the embers of hope within me. Was it Dominic, come to shield us from harm? Or was it simply the cruel trick of a mind teetering on the edge of despair?