The cool night breeze filtering in through the slightly drawn passenger seat window causing the metal trident on the wheel, under my palm to cool. The sound of Rain drumming against the black tinted car windows fills the air, occasionally paired with the sound of rustling and fidgeting from the occupant of my passenger seat. And it takes every ounce of my self-restraint not to fucking turn and react, to watch that hair move and change colours as the light hits it. To see those eyes blown up wide or the way the tiny scrap of fabric she calls a skirt rides up higher and higher, not that it can really go any higher.

I resist the urge because if I look, I won’t look away and she’s too fucking pretty to die. It’s why she’s my best employee. She has this way about her that grabs men by the dick, and dares them to look away. They never do. But she’s a good little stripper when she wants to be. A pliant and quiet little escort. When she’s jacked up on enough shit to take down a small army.

From my peripheral, I watch how she opens her mouth to talk. “Five minutes.” I reply, before she even speaks. It’s not a particularly insane feat, she’s been asking the same thing for an hour or so.

We’re five minutes away from the warehouse I demanded she come with me to. Not because I needed her to come but because there’s a scheduled raid at Valhalla, some of those bastards have been disloyal. And disloyalty gets you shot in the head for the entertainment of rich patrons. So I’m taking her with me to a deal instead. I need a new dealer for the club, the others a bastard that’s been holding out on me for double the price.

“Grab the gun from the glove.” I instruct, but instead of doing what I ask her to, she watches me instead. I see it from my peripheral, her eyes trailing over my face, down to my Brunello Cucinelli suit and over to the Louis Moinet watch around my wrist.