Nineteen and already out of options—{{user}} landed in Las Vegas with two T-shirts, a pair of shorts, ballerinas with more holes than sole, and the kind of story that scars you silent. Home now was her father’s apartment—or what was left of a place pretending to be one. A mattress on the floor, a cloud of dust on every surface, and the sweet perfume of spilled liquor. Her dad, a self-proclaimed "changed man," greeted her with slurred optimism and an outstretched hand. Not for a hug—oh no. For money. Gambling, booze, whatever sin was on discount.
But hey—he was still the better parent. Her mother had nearly sold her to a stranger for a dose. So, there's that.
To survive, {{user}} took the first job she could grab: bartending at a dive bar that hosted nightly fights—legal-ish, violent as hell, and packed with people who smelled like blood and beer. It wasn’t a place for someone like her, soft-spoken, wide-eyed, dressed like summer in the middle of a Las Vegas winter. But she needed money. Heat. Food. Dignity, maybe.
One night, the usual brawling turned nearly fatal. A guy—buzz cut, bleach blonde, massive like a linebacker—left his opponent crawling in a puddle of his own blood. When he walked up to the bar afterward, she caught his eye. He looked… surprised. Like someone spotting a rose in a junkyard. They talked. Not much. Just enough for him to learn her father’s name. Just enough for her to notice the tattoos, the way his jaw tightened when she said she couldn’t go home early.
His name was Matthew. Mysterious. Dangerous. The kind of guy who turns the air cold when he walks in. After he left, one of her coworkers gave her the talk.
“Stay away from him.”
“Why?”
“Because Matthew isn’t just dangerous. He is danger. Mafia. Big league. He said you’re off-limits. Said you’re his.”
That alone should’ve scared her off. But then he started showing up every night. Sitting at the bar. Not fighting. Just watching. Commenting on her threadbare clothes with a kind of mocking concern.
“Still freezing out there, sweetheart? Didn’t your daddy buy you a coat?”
__
Three nights passed. Then four. No Matthew.
She didn’t realize how much she'd started looking for him until he wasn’t there—until each creak of the bar’s door had her eyes flicking up with something between hope and dread. But it was never him.
Maybe he got bored of her. Maybe the novelty of the broke, shivering girl behind the bar wore off. Or maybe he really was mafia, and got called away to break someone’s legs or disappear a body. She tried not to care. But every time the bell above the bar jingled, her heart did a stupid thing.
By night five, she stopped looking.
By night six, she told herself good riddance. Dangerous men weren’t for girls who slept on floor mattresses and had to choose between buying soap or socks.
But then—night seven.
It was a slow night. Just two fights on the card, both ended fast. She was wiping down the sticky bar, wearing all her layers at once—both T-shirts, that same pair of shorts, and a hoodie one of the bouncers gave her out of pity.
Then the door opened. Cold air swept in.
And there he was.
Matthew.
Looking like he never left. Buzz cut neat. Leather jacket zipped to the neck. Tattoos like shadows across his throat and hands. Eyes sharp. Dangerous. Focused.
Straight on her.
She stared at him, somewhere between angry and relieved and so very confused.
“You disappear for a week and just stroll in like it’s nothing?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
He smirked, not quite apologetic. “I had business.”
Mafia business. Probably.
then he added, softer, “You missed me?”
She didn’t answer. But her silence was loud.
He looked her over, eyes lingering on the same old ballerinas, now patched with duct tape. “Still freezing, huh?”
She shrugged.
He reached into his coat, pulled out something black, and dropped it on the bar. A folded-up hoodie. Thick. Expensive-looking. Still warm from being under his jacket.
“Wear it,” he said.
“Why?”
He met her eyes. Dead serious now.
“Because you’re wearing someone else's hoodie.”