Rosalia's pov

"Rosa!" Catalina's voice cut through the pounding bass. "You're up next!"

The club was alive with smoke and shadows. Red neon lights bled across the room, spilling over men in expensive suits and cheap smirks. Music throbbed from the speakers, vibrating in my chest like a second heartbeat. Cigarette smoke curled lazily in the air, and the sharp stench of alcohol clung to everything.

I tied the laces of my corset tighter and forced myself to move. The heels strapped to my feet pinched with every step, my legs aching from hours of serving drinks, smiling when I wanted to cry, and pretending I wasn't disgusted.

I worked as a waitress here, but that word was a lie. Waitress implied choice. Freedom. Neither belonged to me.

We were dressed to entice corsets that squeezed our ribs, skirts that barely covered anything, heels designed to break spines. Some of the girls laughed, flipping their hair and pocketing bills thicker than my wrist. They said the money made it worth it.

But I hated every second.

Hating didn't matter, though. Not when my life wasn't mine anymore.

I was eighteen when my parents sold me to Robert Bernard. My parents were drowning in debt, the kind of debt that doesn't come with second chances. So they sold me to pay it off sold their daughter like she was furniture to a man who owned a nightclub crawling with mafiosi. He became my boss, my owner, my jailer. And I've been here ever since.

I pushed the thought away and tried to focus on the tray in front of me. Behind the counter, I mixed cocktails with hands that shook more than I wanted to admit. Glasses clinked, ice rattled, liquid poured. I balanced the tray and stepped out onto the floor.

Laughter roared around me. A man slammed his glass down on the table, another waved bills in the air. The room reeked of power dangerous men who owned half the city, men who killed for less than a glance, men who saw women like me as playthings.

I plastered on a smile, though my lips trembled. My heels clicked on the sticky floor as I made my way to a table, placing drinks carefully, avoiding eye contact.

Then it happened.

A rough hand smacked my ass so hard the tray nearly slipped from my fingers.

Heat flared in my face. A lump of bile rose in my throat, burning like fire. The man laughed a loud, ugly sound and leaned back in his chair, proud of himself.

I wanted to scream. To throw the drink in his face. To claw my way out of this place. Instead, I swallowed hard, blinked away the sting of tears, and forced myself to walk away.

I delivered the drinks with shaking hands, then hurried off the floor. My chest was tight, my breaths shallow. I pushed into the changing room, slamming the door shut behind me like it could keep the world out.

"You okay?" Carla's voice came from the other side of the lockers. She was pulling her corset off, her face flushed, her eyeliner smudged. "I saw what happened back there."

"Yeah," I whispered, my throat raw. "I guess so. It's nothing new."

She gave me a look that was half pity, half anger. "It shouldn't be normal. You know that, right?"

I didn't answer. Because what good would it do?

"Closing in forty-five minutes!" Robert's voice boomed through the hallway, sharp and commanding.

Relief spread through me like warm water. Forty-five more minutes. Then I could escape.

When the last song ended and the doors locked, I stripped off the skimpy outfit and shoved it into my locker. I pulled on plain black jeans and a white tank top clothes that felt like armor compared to what I'd just been wearing.

"See you Monday," Carla said with a tired smile, brushing her hair out of her face.

"Yeah," I murmured. I forced a smile back and stepped outside.

The night air hit me like a blessing. Cool, sharp, real. I inhaled deeply, trying to wash the stench of smoke and sweat out of my lungs. For years, I'd ended my shifts this way walking to the park by the lake, searching for a sliver of peace before going home to walls that never felt like home.

They say home is where you're happiest. For me, it was just a place to be lonely without witnesses.

The streets of Chicago stretched out in front of me, alive with late-night traffic and the occasional siren in the distance. My boots tapped against the cracked pavement as I cut through familiar blocks, turning toward the park.

That's when I felt it.

The weight of eyes on my back.

At first I thought I was imagining it paranoia after too many nights in the club. But then I heard it: footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Too steady to be random.

I tightened my grip on my bag and forced myself to keep walking. My pulse quickened, but I didn't look back. Looking back was weakness. Looking back confirmed fear.

Instead, I took the next corner fast, ducking into an alley I knew well, then stopped.

Two shadows peeled out of the darkness behind me.

Broad. Muscular. Smiling like they'd already won.

Fear spiked in my chest. My throat opened on instinct and the scream tore out before I could stop it, echoing off the brick walls.

They charged.

And I ran.