War
Blunt pinched between my fingers, I let the smoke curl slow toward the ceiling as one of my dancers, Naomi, flips herself upside down on the pole. Her heels smack chrome, legs spread wide for the kinds of men who couldn't get laid unless they paid for it.
Business at Rapture's been good. Too good.
Nothing sells better than ass. Doesn't matter if it's dusted in glitter under neon or raw in some backroom—men'll bleed their wallets dry for five minutes where they feel wanted. Powerful. In control.
The Iron Serpents is my kingdom. Rapture's the throne room.
Every dollar that moves through this joint feeds the club—fresh cuts on my brothers' backs, a roof over their heads, ammo stacked for the next asshole dumb enough to test us. The girls get paid. The rules stay clear. Cross one and
