COMMAND | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ubiquitous club music segued into deathly silence, the thunderous bass beneath our feet suspending into nothingness. I stared at the concrete floor, the nonplussed doormen, an even more puzzled-looking Nate. If it were not for the sudden rowdiness of partygoers echoing indoors, I'd doubt Club 11 was open for business.

Nate's neck craned as he looked over the guards' heads into the dark entrance hall. "Who fucked with the DJ?"

Terry, Vincent's recently hired bouncer, touched his earpiece to listen to updates. "Local power cut."

I eyed the functioning streetlights. "I suppose the club is the only business affected by tonight's failed electrical power supply, huh?"

"I have reason to believe it's a vicinage issue."

I pointed to the brightly lit takeaway down the street. "What is that?"

Terry's throat cleared. "It's a kebab shop, sir."

"A well-lit kebab shop," I corrected, and his cheeks flushed. "This is a club issue, Terry Boy. It has nothing to do with our vicinage. Not once, in all the years I have worked for the boss, have I experienced electrical failures and blackouts here. Get back on your earpiece and find out what the fuck is going on."

Security dispersed to fix the problem.

I headed inside, the alcohol spillage on the floor sticking to my shoes. "Is our commercial electrical certificate up to date?"

Nate took out his phone and loaded a PDF file. "The unit is compliant. No damage to the electrical systems. No defects, malfunctions or deterioration in the electrical equipment. In actual fact, Warren had the entire building rewired less than three years ago." He showed me the phone screen. "And he upgraded the panel board."

Pushing through the double doors, entering the blackened room, I shoved throngs of obstreperous customers aside and, without vision, headed toward the bar.

Bright lights suddenly flashed across the entire club.

I stopped, the club's unruliness soaring to unpredictable heights. "What is going on?"

"At least the lights are back on." Nate's wide eyes sent threats to the DJ. "He better get back to work."

Adjusting his headphones, the DJ raised a hand, utilised two turntables and, bright lights be-damned, blared Roll Deep's "Good Times" throughout. People stood still, slack-jawed, pie-eyed and utterly deflated. But our dancers did what they do best. They embraced unprecedented conditions, returned to their stations and entertained until everyone overlooked the blinding lights to have a good night.

Nate's inked hand clasped his grimaced lips.

Flashing lights threw everyone off balance until sporadic strobes overpowered, and darkness soon crawled up the walls.