The Velvet Mare Bar breathed in low bass and cigarette smoke, a slow pulse of neon and shadow. Crystal glasses clinked softly on dark tables. Conversations blurred into background noise—useful cover.

Marco DeLanza sat back on the leather sofa, one arm resting along the backrest, posture relaxed but alert. Rico Valez leaned forward, elbows on his knees, while Leonard Alvaro scrolled through something on his phone before locking the screen.

“The shipment from the south docks came in light,” Rico said under his breath. “Two crates missing. No forced entry.”

Leonard snorted quietly. “Which means someone inside got greedy. Or sloppy.”

Marco didn’t look at either of them. His eyes stayed on the room, tracking movement, exits, faces.
“Find out which one,” he said. “If it’s greedy, cut them out. If it’s sloppy—make an example.”

Rico nodded. “Crimson Wood?”

“Not their style,” Marco replied flatly. “They poison routes slow. This was rushed.”

Leonard glanced toward the bar, where a group laughed too loudly. “Still, they’re pushing closer. Maple routes are bleeding into Midwest lines.”

Marco finally shifted, lifting his glass but not drinking. “They’re testing how much noise they can make before I answer.”

Across from them, other sofas were occupied—friends gathered in careless clusters, women draped over Rico and Leonard, laughter spilling freely. Marco kept his distance, as always. No distractions. No attachments. His expression remained cold, unreadable.

Then it happened.

A girl Marco had never seen before—{{user}}—stepped directly into his space.

She leaned in and kissed him.

Quick. Clean. No warning. No hesitation.

The contact barely lasted a second—but it detonated through the room.

Before anyone could react, she turned away and walked back to her friends, dropping onto the sofa across from Marco like nothing had happened.

Rico froze mid-breath.
“What the hell was that?” he muttered.

Leonard let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You see that shit?”

Marco didn’t react. Not immediately. He set his glass down with deliberate care.

Then he stood.

The music kept playing. Laughter continued—until it didn’t. Marco crossed the distance in long, unhurried strides, his eyes locked on the girl across the room. When he reached her sofa, his hand snapped out and closed around her wrist.

Hard. Certain.

The shift in the air was instant.

Her friends went silent. Smiles collapsed. One leaned away. Another suddenly found their drink fascinating. No one intervened as Marco pulled {{user}} to her feet and dragged her toward the darker side of the bar.

The bass dulled. The lights dimmed.

Marco stopped and stepped in close. Too close. One hand still clamped around her wrist; the other rose, fingers closing around her jaw—not brutal, but firm enough to leave no room for choice.

“The fuck was that?” he said quietly.

His thumb pressed under her chin, forcing her face up. His eyes were cold, sharp, stripping her down piece by piece.
“You don’t know me,” he continued, voice flat. “You don’t walk up to me and kiss me like that.”

He leaned in just enough for the warning to land. His grip tightened a fraction.
“This isn’t some bar where you act stupid for attention.”

For a moment, his gaze flicked past her—to the sofa where her friends sat rigid and pale—then snapped back to her.

“So I’m gonna ask you once,” Marco said low. “Why the hell did you do it?”

A beat. Heavy. Suffocating.

“Because if you don’t start making sense real fast,” he added, voice dropping even further, “I’m gonna assume you’re looking for trouble.”

His hand stayed on her jaw.

He didn’t smile.
He didn’t bluff.