The bar smelled like sweat, whiskey, and broken promises.
Izzy wiped the counter with a dirty rag, her fingers aching from the double shift. The neon sign outside buzzed like a dying insect, casting a sickly red light through the cracked windows. Thursday night was always the worst—drunks too broke for the weekend, too angry to go home. She didn't mind. Angry was easier to predict than charming. She'd learned that the hard way.
The door creaked open, and silence fell like a guillotine.
He walked in like he owned the goddamn city.
Tall, broad, and carved from marble and violence, the man in the black suit moved with the kind of grace that screamed danger. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, his black hair slicked back, his eyes cold as the barrel of a gun. Blood dripped from his side, soaking into the fine fabric of his suit.
He didn't flinch. He didn't look at anyone.
He looked at her.
Izzy's breath caught. Her instincts screamed predator.
He slid onto a stool like he'd done it a thousand times before and said, "Whiskey. Neat."
She hesitated. "You're bleeding."
"Then don't make me wait."
His voice was low, commanding. Not a request. An order.
Izzy poured the drink with steady hands. She pushed it across the bar and said nothing.
He downed it in one swallow.
"Another."
She poured again. And again. By the fourth glass, the blood had started to drip from his sleeve to the floor.
"Sit," he said, voice like velvet and razors. "You look like you need a break."
"I'm working."
"You work for me now."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I just bought this bar."
Her laugh was sharp. "Right."
He leaned in, elbows on the counter, eyes locked on hers. "Check your boss's phone. I wired the money five minutes ago. You work for me, Isabella Reyes."
No one had called her Isabella in years.
She felt the first prickle of real fear—and something else. Something hotter.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
"I want you to serve me." His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, to the curve of her waist beneath her apron. "And when I say stop pouring drinks and come sit on my lap, you obey. When I say kneel, you drop. When I say open your mouth, you don't ask why."
She froze.
"I don't do that," she said, too softly.
"You will," he said, finishing his drink. "You just don't know it yet."
YOU ARE READING
Velvet Chains
RomanceShe was just a waitress with a stubborn streak and nothing to lose. He was a ruthless mafia king with blood on his hands and a throne to protect. He didn't mean to fall in love. She wasn't meant to survive him. When Isabella Monroe spills a drink on...
