The bass throbbed through the walls of Eclipse like a second heartbeat. Neon bled across sweat-slick skin, bodies grinding in the strobe-lit dark, the air thick with expensive cologne, spilled champagne, and raw want. Angel Vitale moved through the crowd like she was parting water—red leather mini-dress hugging every curve, thigh-high boots clicking with purpose, diamond choker glinting at her throat like a warning. She hadn’t asked permission to come here. She never did.
Behind her, eight shadows followed in tight formation, cutting through the press of bodies like knives. They wore black—suits, tactical vests under jackets, earpieces glinting. No one mistook them for clubbers. They were weapons in human form, and every eye in the room knew it.
Angel didn’t slow until she reached the ve
