Chapter 1 - One Clean Hit
The sharp snap of my knuckles connecting against Dominic Russo’s forearm echoed off the red leather seating. I didn't blink. My hair stayed locked in its tight updo, and my white button-down shirt remained crisp despite the sudden violence that had just erupted by the low wooden table. Dominic cursed, his large frame stumbling back a half-step against the warm wall lamps. The whiskey bottle and glasses lay shattered at our feet, amber liquid soaking into the dark carpet amid jagged glass fragments.
"I told you to let go," I said. My voice was low, firm, and entirely steady. I kept my weight balanced on the balls of my feet, my black pants giving me the freedom of movement I hadn't let anyone see in three years.
Across the dimly lit lounge, Vincent Coletti stood up slowly from his red leather booth. His black button-down shirt and fitted vest caught the amber glow of the wall sconces. He adjusted the silver wristwatch on his left forearm, his dark eyes observing the scene with a cool, detached curiosity.
"Interesting," Vincent murmured, his voice carrying effortlessly across the quiet room.
Dominic rubbed his forearm where my strike had landed, his face dark with humiliation. He took a heavy step forward, his massive shoulders tense inside his dark suit jacket. "Little bitch doesn't know her place," he muttered, reaching out to grab my shoulder.
"Too slow," I said, a faint, taunting edge slipping into my tone as I ducked under his heavy swing and pivoted, my palm striking his chest with enough force to halt his rush completely.
Vincent raised a single hand, his gesture effortless yet carrying absolute authority. "Enough," he commanded. The word stopped Dominic in his tracks. Vincent stepped out from the booth, his leather-soled shoes clicking softly against the floor as he navigated the broken glass. He stopped two feet away from me, looking down at my posture, my squared shoulders, and the way I held my hands ready for whatever came next.
"You box?" Vincent asked, tilting his head.
"No," I lied instantly, though my breathing betrayed the sudden spike in my pulse.
Vincent offered a slow, knowing smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Liar. Put your jacket back on." He gestured toward Dominic, who was already shrugging his dark suit jacket back onto his broad shoulders while glaring daggers in my direction.
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Vincent turned his full attention back to me, reaching into his vest pocket to pull out a silver money clip. "One clean hit, $5,000. You land it, the cash is yours. You miss, you answer my questions about where a bartender learns to throw a hook like that."
I stared at the thick stack of bills in his hand, then up at his steady gaze. The air in the lounge felt heavy, charged with a strange, electric danger. "You're going to regret this," I whispered, raising my fists into a firm boxing stance right there among the spilled whiskey and broken glass.
