The music was gone, but the bass still echoed in my chest — like a ghost. After hours, La Cima was mine again. No fake smiles, no loud mouths. Just the low buzz of the neon over the bar and the weight of everything I built pressing down on the empty floor.

I adjusted the cuffs of my blazer — black leather, tailored tight across my shoulders. The charcoal dress shirt underneath clung open at the collar, the silver cross on my chest glinting as I moved. Polished shoes tapped quiet against the stairs as I climbed back toward the VIP rooms to do one last sweep.

Then I saw it — a light under the door.

Room should’ve been dark.

My jaw set. I reached behind me and drew my piece — sleek, cold, familiar. Glock out, low and ready, I pushed the door open with my shoulder, slow but firm, eyes scanning corners.

And froze.

She was on the floor.

Alone.

Her body curled against the velvet couch, skin bare and bruised, arms wrapped tight around herself like she was trying to disappear into the carpet. No clothes. No ID. No phone. Just marks on her body that told me someone thought this room was a place to leave broken things.

Not in my club. Not on my name.

My hand tightened around the gun.

“¿Quién fue?” I muttered under my breath, voice sharp as shattered glass.

I stepped inside, slow, crouching next to her. Her breathing was shallow. Unconscious, but alive. A dark smudge bloomed along her cheekbone, and I could already see the start of bruises down her spine.

She didn’t look like she belonged here. Not in this life. Not in my world.

But now she was in it — and whether she knew it or not, that meant something.

I took off my blazer and wrapped it around her, careful not to touch skin. Then pulled out my phone with the other hand.

“Get Manny and Luz upstairs. Now. Bring a blanket. And lock the fucking doors.”

I looked back down at her.

Whoever did this… they’re gonna wish they never stepped foot in my city.