Chapter 2: Suite 404
814 Words
The Cecil Hotel didn’t look like a place people checked into, It looked like a place people disappeared from.
Elena stood on the sidewalk at 2:58am, the black card cutting into her palm. _Suite 404. 3am. Come alone._
The lobby was empty except for a clerk who didn’t look up, The elevator dinged like a warning. Floor 4. Hallway light buzzed.
Room 404.
She knocked once.
The door opened before her knuckles left the wood.
Damian Voss.
No suit jacket. Black button-down, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. That snake tattoo curled up his forearms and disappeared under fabric. He looked like he’d been waiting. Like he knew she would come.
“You’re two minutes early.” His voice was low, amused.
“You’re one second late.”
He stepped aside. Let her in.
Suite 404 was all glass and shadow. LA spread out below, millions of lights that didn’t care who lived or died down there. One chair in the middle of the room. One table. One red envelope. One glass of red wine already poured.
It felt like a stage. And she was the only actor.
“Where’s Maya?” Elena asked. No greeting. No fear in her voice even though her heart was hammering.
Damian closed the door. The click echoed.
“She’s safe.”
“Safe isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one you get tonight.”
He walked past her to the window. Gave her his back. That was worse than if he’d stared. It meant he wasn’t afraid of her.
“Rule 1,” he said. “Sit.”
She stayed standing.
He turned, one eyebrow up. “You always this stubborn?”
“Only with men who kidnap my sister.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Interest.
He moved to the table and picked up the red envelope. Didn’t open it. Just tapped it against his palm.
“Rule 2. Stay for 90 nights. Every night at 3am. You follow every rule I give you. On night 90, I give you Maya.”
Elena laughed. It came out sharp. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I stop protecting her from Marco Varga.” He said the name like it tasted bad. “And Marco doesn’t leave loose ends.”
The room got smaller.
He set the envelope down and finally looked at her. Really looked. From her face down to the black dress she wore to spite him, to her shoes, back up.
“You’re tired,” he said.
“I’m surviving.”
“Same thing.”
He picked up the wine glass and held it out to her. Their fingers didn’t touch. Almost did.
“Drink.”
“Is it poisoned?”
“If I wanted you dead, Elena, you wouldn’t be standing here.”
She took it. The wine was expensive. It burned going down.
“Rule 3,” he said. “Wear red.”
She glanced down at her black dress. “I didn’t get the memo.”
“I sent it.”
“You sent a dress. I chose not to wear it.”
Damian smiled for the first time. Small. Dangerous.
“Good. You should say no to me. Makes this interesting.”
He moved closer. Not touching. Just close enough that she could smell cedar and smoke and something else she couldn’t name.
“Rule 3 for tomorrow night. Wear it anyway.”
Her pulse jumped. She hated that he saw it in her throat.
“Where is she, Damian?”
His name in her mouth made his jaw tick.
“Safe,” he repeated. “And she’ll stay that way as long as you keep showing up.”
He reached past her and picked up his phone. Swiped. Turned the screen to her.
A photo. Maya. Asleep in a white bed. A blanket pulled up to her chin. Breathing.
Elena’s breath caught. She wanted to grab the phone. She didn’t.
“When can I see her?”
“Night 90.”
“That’s three months.”
“That’s the deal.”
Silence. The city hummed below.
“You’re doing this because of my testimony,” she said quietly. “Five years ago. Your brother.”
Damian’s expression didn’t change. But the air did.
“I’m doing this,” he said, “because you walked into my club like you had nothing left to lose. I respect that.”
He took the empty glass from her hand. His thumb brushed her knuckles. Just for a second. Her skin went hot.
“3am tomorrow,” he said. “Don’t be late. Don’t bring the cops. Don’t die.”
He opened the door for her.
Elena walked out. Didn’t look back until the elevator doors closed.
On the card in her pocket, new ink had appeared.
_Rule 3: Red._
She was in too deep to get out.
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