BETWEEN TWO MAFIA KINGS

Zyra's POV -

I should've known something was wrong the moment Marcus refused to look at me.

Three years bartending at Obsidian had made me an expert at reading people. The show-offs, the liars, the sweet talkers, the ones hiding something in their pockets or behind their smiles. But Marcus? He was the calm in the middle of the chaos. Predictable. Dry. Annoyingly unshakable.

Tonight, he looked nervous.

"Zyra." He appeared beside me as I was restocking glasses, his voice low. "VIP lodge needs a delivery."

My hands stilled on the shelf. "The lodge upstairs?"

A muscle in his jaw ticked. "Is there another one?"

The air between us felt suddenly cooler, despite the heat of bodies dancing under neon lights. Even the crowd seemed to fade into a distant blur.

"Why can't their bartender take it?" I asked, keeping my voice steady even as I felt my pulse rise.

"She called in sick." His gaze slid past mine. "Just go up, drop the drinks, and come straight back down. Don't stay. Don't talk. Don't look around."

A warning disguised as instructions.

"Marcus-"

"It's not a request." He walked away too quickly, like he didn't want to answer what he knew I was about to ask.

Something twisted in my stomach.

People came here for danger, not fun; everyone knew this place belonged to men whose names were spoken with lowered voices. But I needed the money. As long as I followed the rules, I was safe and Damien's education depended on it. But the fear still linger in me, my heart racing twice the normal.

Jen brushed past me, touching my arm. "You okay?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." I swallowed. "Has anyone ever asked you to deliver to the lodge?"

She went rigid. "God, no." Her voice dropped. "If they ever did, I'd quit on the spot."

"Why?" I whispered.

Her eyes darted toward Marcus, then back to me. "Nothing. Forget it."

But she'd already turned away, suddenly very interested in slicing lemons. I looked at the rest for an advise or something to prepare me but all I got was..... Silence.

No one looked at me. No one spoke. It was as if the question had never been asked causing a chill to crawl over my skin.

I gathered the Dom Pérignon, locked-up bottles meant only for the highest of high rollers and set them on the tray with hands that weren't as steady as I wanted them to be.

Just drop them off. Get your paycheck don't forget Damien needs new textbooks.

The staircase to the VIP lodge hid behind a plain door, quiet and heavy like it was guarding secrets. With every step, the club's noise faded, swallowed by thick carpet and dim amber lights.

Up here, the world felt... different. Thicker, expensive, like even breathing it cost money.

Four identical black doors lined the hall, each with a brass plaque I couldn't quite read. But the last one had a metal plate:

Knock twice. Wait for acknowledgment.

I knocked again still no word just Silence so I knocked again. This time I heard urgent voices from behind a second, heavier door inside the room.

The door wasn't fully latched. When I knocked the third time, it drifted open an inch.The voices were coming from behind it. Clear enough now that I caught fragments:

"-can't move it until-"

"-too many questions already-"

"-loose end-"

My breath caught. I should not be hearing this.The voices stopped. "Did you hear something?" My breath stopped.

"Check the door."

I stumbled backward, my hip catching the corner of a side table. The champagne bottles rattled as Footsteps, heavy and quick, moving toward the inner door.

Just as I was about to take another step, a hand closed around my wrist from behind.

There was a pause, then he breath against my ear, so quiet I almost didn't hear it: "Zyra, Leave now."

That was all it took.

Something in his tone sliced through me, deep, commanding, almost... protective?

I didn't see his face and I Didn't dare turn around.

I bolted, sprinting down the staircase, heart pounding like it wanted to break free from my chest. I didn't stop until I reached the noisy, crowded part of the club again, gasping for air, palms sweaty, mind racing.

My shoes skidded on the stairs, one hand gripping the railing as I half-fell down to the main floor. The music swallowed me whole.

I pressed myself against the wall near the staff entrance. My wrist still burned where he'd touched me, an imprint that felt too deliberate to be accidental.

But as the panic slowly faded, one thought kept drilling itself into my mind, louder and sharper with each heartbeat:

Those men behind the door never said my nam

So how did he know it? or rather who was that