Page 14 of Submitting to Daddy
As I pass by yet another security guard, I make my way into the back of the club. I turn the corner into the staff corridor and freeze mid-step when I hear what sounds like a rather heated conversation coming from down the hall. Nikolai’s voice is the first I recognize—deep and slightly irritated. Ensuring I’m quiet, I move closer toward the light. Heavily-accented voices spill through the slightly cracked door at the end of the hall.
Enzo answers in the same short tone I heard earlier, —“We are the ones taking all the risks. If the cops were to stroll in here right now, we’re going to jail, and you’re just some poor drunk bastard that wandered into the wrong room.”
Nikolai adds, “The minute you’re out the door, I’ll scrub the security footage and erase any evidence you were ever here.”
The way they talk—like they’ve done this a dozen times—tells me this isn’t a fluke. Whatever this deal is, it isn’t some one-time risk. It’s a system—efficient and clinical.
“Just the weapons this time?” Cillian asks, his tone sounding more a confirmation than a question. I don’t hear an answer before he continues, “Half rifles. Half compacts. Mix of US and Russian stock. One crate of suppressors. All of it clean—no scratches, no serials, no heat.”
“Unfortunately, an accident on the FDR has delayed tonight’s delivery. It’ll be about an hour later than we had planned,” Nikolai informs the room.
“I informed our security the moment we knew,” Cillian’s familiar voice flits into the hall. “They’ll keep the staff and our guests away from the deal.”
“You guys okay to wait an hour?” Enzo asks.
Shoes scuff against the floor, and I suck in a startled deep breath, worried I’m going to get caught somewhere Idefinitelyshouldn’t be. A deep, mature voice—with an accent I can’t quite place—mutters something in Spanish and chuckles deeply before responding, “I’m sure we can find something to occupy the time.”
“What’s your poison?” Nikolai asks, his voice moving closer to the door.
I step away as he receives his answer. “Thin, good fucking tits, pretty, brunette, and young.”
They pull open the door as I step into the side hall that leads toward the dancers’ dressing room. I lean against the cool wall, close my eyes, and let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Their footsteps echo in the confined space as they walk toward me as Enzo chirps, “I’m pretty sure you’ll loveRav?—”
“No,” Cillian barks his interruption before clearing his throat and softening his tone. “She wasn’t feeling well and went home early.”
Nikolai glances down the hallway I’m standing in. A smirk pulls at his lips, and he arches an inquisitive brow when his gaze falls on me. He slaps Cillian on the back, drawing his attention to where I stand. Fighting back laughter, he teasingly scoffs, “So, Raven went home sick, huh?”
My heart hammers as I breathe through my nose and scrunch my face in faux confusion. Cillian stares at me, striding past without so much as flinching at being caught in his own lie. He’s so calm, moving through his dark world, like a man who doesn’t have to answer to anyone. It’s a stark contrast to the way he interacts with me—impulsive and reckless. I wait for their footsteps to disappear into the noisy depths of the club before pushing myself from my perch against the wall.
Tucking my hands into the curve of my waist and keeping my head down, I rush down the short corridor. I step into the bright glow of the dressing room, avoiding eye contact with the guard posted just inside the door when I pass through. Quickly, I take a seat at my station and lift my tube of red lipstick, only then do I notice that my hand is trembling. I squeeze the gold tube harder and wrap my other hand over it in an attempt to steady my nerves.
Everyone assumes the danger in a place like this comes from the men who touch too long or don’t take no for an answer. They don’t see the ones who arealwaysthe real threat—the quiet ones in charge. The ones who never raise their voices because they don’t need to. The dangerous men running back-alley deals in secret.
Regaining my composure, I touch up my lipstick and reapply a fair amount of shimmer to my cheeks and collarbones. I stare at my reflection and swallow hard as I take a deep breath. Exhaling, I watch my face morph—my fake smile spreading across it like a mask.
The rest of my shift passes like usual—lap dances, wandering hands, inappropriate offers, and one surprising marriage proposal, promising to give me a better life. The latter is a lie I’ve never once seen turn out well for any of the girls who’ve accepted such an offer.I am beyond ready to leave for the night by the time two a.m. rolls around. I briskly walk down the hall to change and grab my things. Half the hallway lights have already been turned off, and the narrow corridor is much darker than usual. But I don’t need the glowing overhead flourescents to see Cillian is there—I can feel him.
He steps from the shadow like he’s been waiting for me. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t smile. His gaze holds mine for a moment before his eyes rake down my body. I’m far too tired, physically and mentally, to play with him tonight. I keep walking without the faintest ease of my pace, not wanting to give him my attention. As I pass, his fingers brush along the small of my back, light, almost absent, but completely intentional.
I tense briefly—unsure if it’s a warning for eavesdropping or a thank-you for playing into his lie—and painfully fight the urge to glance over my shoulder to find out. “Good night, Madison,” he mutters, barely above a whisper as I leave him in the hall. Those three words are all it takes to almost make me break my resolve and give him what he wants. Almost.
I shouldn’t have touched her. Not that first night. Not last night. And I definitely shouldn’t want to feel her skin against mine again tonight, yet here I am… Desperate to have the delicious citrus of her perfume filling my lungs and clinging to my clothes again.
Fuck.
Moving across the floor like a shadow, I ignore the women who are trying to catch my attention and the men who nod respectfully or out of fear—some mix of both. I don’t stop for any of them. I need a drink, something to burn the thoughts of her from my mind. Something to kill the slow, feral ache growing in my chest. After slipping behind the bar, I pour a few fingers of whiskey into a tumbler, ignoring the bartender’s raised brow—he knows betterthan to comment.
“Everything good, Cian?” Nikolai’s voice cuts through the low thrum of the music from beside me. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his black tie loosened, and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Fucking peachy,” I answer dryly.
His eyes narrow. “So… that dancer…”
“Which one?” I ask, diverting his line of questioning because I know exactly who he means.
“You really need me to say it?” Nikolai smirks. “She got under your skin at the bar, but you’re watching her like a fucking addict.”
