Velvet and Violence

The bass in *Velvet* wasn't a sound; it was a physical assault. It vibrated through the gold-leafed walls, the plush leather of the VIP booths, and the hollow cavity of Dante Russo’s chest.

Dante sat at the head of the table, a king on a throne of ice and silicone. A bottle of Belvedere—his third of the night—sat sweating in a silver bucket. On his left, a model whose name he couldn't remember was whispering something about Paris. On his right, a minor cartel lieutenant was trying to impress him with stories of border crossings.

Dante smiled. It was his best smile, the one that had graced the cover of *GQ* and the police blotter in equal measure. "Fascinating," he drawled, checking his Rolex. 2:00 AM.

He felt nothing. The vodka hadn't touched the cold knot in his stomach. Earlier that evening, his father, Don Salvatore Russo, had looked at him across the dinner table with eyes like shark glass and said, *You are becoming expensive, Dante. In money and in reputation.*

Dante stood up, the room swaying pleasantly. "Bathroom," he announced.

His shadow, a gargantuan bodyguard named Rico, stood up instantly.

"Sit down, Rico," Dante snapped. "I can piss without an audience."

He wove through the crowd, ignoring the hands that reached out to touch his silk shirt. He pushed into the private VIP restroom, a sanctuary of black marble and infinity mirrors.

He splashed cold water on his face. He looked at his reflection. Dark curls, sharp jaw, eyes that looked haunted despite the dilated pupils.

* You are expensive.*

The lights cut out.

It wasn't a flicker. It was a total, plunging darkness. The thumping bass outside cut off instantly, replaced by a sudden, terrifying silence.

"Rico?" Dante called out, reaching for the door.

The door opened before he touched it.

A beam of tactical light cut through the dark, blinding him. Dante stumbled back, shielding his eyes.

"Do you know who I am?" Dante shouted, the fear spiking through the vodka haze. "My father will skin you alive!"

A figure stepped into the bathroom. He was massive, dressed in tactical black, his face obscured by a balaclava. He didn't speak. He moved with a terrifying, fluid silence.

Rico, or what was left of him, slumped into the doorway behind the intruder. He was unconscious, a syringe protruding from his neck.

Dante scrambled back against the marble sink. "Money? Is that it? I have ten grand in my pocket. My father will pay double whatever you're asking!"

The intruder stopped. He reached up and pulled off the balaclava.

The face underneath was a ruin of handsome features and violence. A jagged scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, cutting through an eyebrow. His eyes were pale grey, devoid of panic, devoid of greed. They were the eyes of a wolf looking at a trapped rabbit.

"Double?" the man asked. His voice was gravel grinding on steel.

"Triple!" Dante pleaded, his hands shaking. "Whatever the contract is, I'll beat it."

The man stepped forward. He reached out, his gloved hand cupping Dante’s jaw with a shocking, possessive gentleness. He tilted Dante’s head back, studying him like a collector inspecting a rare artifact.

"Your father already paid, little prince," the man whispered.

Dante frowned, the words not processing. "Paid for what?"

"For your exit."

The man produced a syringe. Before Dante could scream, the needle slid into his neck. The world tilted. The black marble dissolved into grey fog. The last thing Dante felt was the mercenary’s arm catching him before he hit the floor, holding him tight against a chest plated in Kevlar.