Three weeks after the factory incident, Ira was in the kitchen washing dishes when the old button phone buzzed in her pocket.
She dried her hands fast, glanced toward the living room where her aunt was watching TV, then slipped into the hallway.
Unknown number.
She answered, heart already racing.
The slender man's voice came through, calm and flat.
"Our plan failed. The man who was with you couldn't do the job properly — now he's dead. And you… you couldn't do it properly either, but you're lucky you're still breathing."
Ira's throat tightened. "I'm sorry. I tried—"
"Save it," he cut in. "We're giving you another chance. One last one."
She swallowed. "What do I have to do?"
"There's a hotel. The Obsidian Lotus. High-end place on the north side. Powerful people meet there — business deals, weapons, information. Beautiful girls serve them. Drinks, smiles, ears open. You become one of the staff. Listen. Watch. Report everything back to us. Krossvale people go there too. You spy on them. Bring us what we need."
Ira's heart slammed fast.
The slender man continued,
"It's quite life-threatening. But you know that going against Kai Krossvale means your life is already on the line."
Ira gulped in fear.
She closed her eyes.
Alina's scream echoed in her head again.
"I'll do it," she whispered.
"Good. Be at the staff entrance tomorrow, 4 p.m. Wear something simple but nice. They'll give you the uniform. Don't be late."
The line went dead.
Ira stared at the phone, stomach churning. She thought of Alina.
She took a breath.
She'd do it.
For Alina.
_
_
_
On the other side,
Vernon strode back and forth across the small hospital room.
Three weeks had passed. His right hand was still bandaged but functional — no more splint. The burns on his calves and forearms had scabbed over, pink and tight under fresh dressings. Lungs still felt raw when he breathed deep, but the cough was mostly gone. He moved slower than usual, but he moved.
Kai was already there — leaning against the wall, black coat open, arms folded, face calm as always.
Vernon stopped.
Kai tilted his head slightly.
"You look better than a corpse. Impressive."
Vernon didn't reply.
Kai stepped closer. "Time to get back to work."
Vernon stayed quiet.
Kai pulled a small black card from his pocket — gold lettering: **The Obsidian Lotus Hotel**. A date and time written underneath in sharp pen.
"Tomorrow night. The Obsidian Lotus. Private suite on the 18th floor. Three businessmen will be waiting. Arms dealer from the east coast, narcotics pipeline owner from the south, money launderer who runs half the offshore accounts in the city. They want to form an alliance with us — pool resources for bigger profits, bigger territory. You sit at the head of the table. Listen. Make sure they understand the terms are final. If anyone hesitates, you remind them who they're dealing with. No violence unless necessary. Just your presence."
Vernon looked at the card. Then at Kai.
He said nothing.
Kai studied him for a moment — eyes flat, unreadable.
" I hope you will do it perfectly."
He turned and walked away.
Vernon stood there, card in his hand.
He stared at the name.
**The Obsidian Lotus.**
He knew that place.
He knew who went there.
And now he had to go.
-----
Ira arrived at The Obsidian Lotus at 3:55 p.m. sharp. The staff entrance was tucked behind the building — plain metal door, no sign. A tall man in a black blazer opened it before she could knock.
"You the new girl?" he asked, scanning her up and down.
Ira nodded, throat tight.
"Follow me."
They walked through a narrow hallway lined with lockers. The air smelled of perfume and cleaning chemicals. At the end was a changing room — mirrors, racks of clothes, girls already half-dressed. Ira's stomach dropped when she saw the uniforms: short black maid dresses, white lace trim, plunging neckline, skirt barely reaching mid-thigh. Fishnet stockings, garters, high heels.
The man handed her one. "Change. Quick. You're on drinks tonight."
Ira stepped into a small changing cubicle. The dress was tight — the bodice pushed her chest up, the skirt flared out but ended mid-thigh. When she bent to adjust her shoes, she felt cool air on her ass and realized the skirt rode up so high her underwear showed completely. She tugged the hem down. It rode right back up. Her face burned.
She stood up and thanked God it would cover the back at least until she bent down. She looked in the small mirror — pretty, yes, but vulgar. Exposed. Nothing like her.
She came out. The man in the black suit nodded. "Good. Tray's ready. Serve drinks, smile, listen. Don't talk unless spoken to. Go."
Ira carried the silver tray — champagne flutes, whiskey glasses, ice bucket — down the carpeted corridor. Her heels clicked too loud. The skirt swished against her thighs with every step. She felt naked and bad.
At 6:05 p.m., a black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up to the main entrance.
Vernon stepped out.
Designer black suit — Italian wool, razor-sharp cut, faint charcoal dragons embroidered on two sides. Coat open at the collar, no inner, long dark hair tied, some hair strands loose.
The way he moved — slow, deliberate, lethal — made the doorman step aside without a word.
He walked straight to the private elevator. No check-in. No questions.
Suite 1804.
Three men waited inside.
The room was dim — dark wood paneling, leather sofas, low amber lights. A long glass table held whiskey bottles and cigars. The men stood when Vernon entered.
First: bald, mid-40s, thick gut, gold chain, eyes already glassy from pre-drinks.
Second: 40s, greasy hair slicked back, gold rings on every finger, perpetual smirk.
Third: leaner, late 40s, sharp suit, but the kind of face that looked like it enjoyed watching people beg.
They stood. Handshakes — firm, quick.
"Mr. Krossvale," the bald one said, voice oily. "Pleasure."
Vernon nodded once. Sat at the head of the table.
The others sat.
They started talking — routes, percentages, territories, profits. Vernon listened — silent, eyes moving between them, expression blank.
"Go serve VIP suite 1804," a man in a black suit told Ira. She nodded without questions.
The door in VIP suite 1804 opened.
Ira stepped in with the tray.
She froze when she saw him.
Vernon.
At the head of the table.
Her eyes dropped to his right hand — bandaged, white gauze wrapped tight around the knuckles.
Her stomach lurched.
*Oh God! He's here! Oh no! God save me, please!*
She wished she could disappear, but that wasn't possible.
She walked slowly toward the table, heels clicking sharply against the floor.
She reached near the table.
Her tray trembled — glasses clinked softly.
The three men looked up. Eyes raked over her — the short skirt, the lace, the way the dress clung. Her sexy curves made them go hard.
The bald one grinned, leaning back. "Well, look at this little thing. Come here, sweetheart. Let me see that ass when you bend over."
Ira flinched.
Vernon's gaze was fixed on the shaking hands holding the tray. Those hands seemed familiar.
His gaze went up to her face.
It was her.
Ira.
In this place!
In that dress!
Looking down, cheeks flushed, shaking.
Vernon's jaw tightened.
The bald man laughed. "What, you shy? Bend over, show us—"
Vernon had a fork in his hand.
In one vicious motion, Vernon rammed the fork into the bald man's thigh, burying every inch of steel into the bald man's thigh with bone-jarring violence.
The tines punched through skin, fascia, muscle, then grated horribly against the femur's surface. Something vital inside gave way with a sickening give; blood fountained upward in dark spurts, drenching Vernon's wrist and forearm.
The bald man's mouth flew open and what came out wasn't a scream—it was a lung-tearing, trachea-shredding howl, so loud and primal it seemed to vibrate the air itself, spit, blood, and phlegm exploding from his lips as his body bucked against the impalement.
The room froze.
The other two stared — wide-eyed.
Ira gasped — tray almost dropping.
Vernon looked at Ira.
She backed up — fast.
She turned and ran.
Vernon hadn't moved from the table.
He just watched her go.
Eyes sharp.
Unreadable.
Down the corridor — Ira ran — heels slipping, skirt riding up, heart hammering.
She glanced back — empty.
Then she slammed straight into a solid chest.
She looked up.
Vernon Krossvale.
He hadn't moved much, just stood there, staring at her with that sharp, unblinking gaze.
Ira gasped, spun, and ran again.
She darted around corners, breathing hard, legs burning. Every turn felt like a trap. She looked back — nothing. Then ahead — Vernon, leaning against the wall like he'd been waiting.
She yelped, changed direction.
Again. And again.
He appeared from side passages, from stairwells, always calm, always watching. Never chasing, just… there.
Her lungs screamed. Sweat dripped. She was trapped in this maze of luxury hallways.
Suddenly — long arms wrapped around her waist from behind.
She screamed — struggled — kicked.
A cloth pressed over her nose — sharp, chemical smell.
She fought, clawed at his arm, but her vision blurred, knees buckled.
Vernon caught her as she went limp, lifting her easily in bridal style. Her head lolled against his chest.
He carried her away — down the corridor, past closed doors, toward the service elevator.
No one stopped him.
No one dared.
To be continued...