CHAPTER 19: A JOB WITH NO LOOSE ENDS

Despite Erisia’s warning, Sierra still decided to meet her friends at a fancy social club.

The club was nestled in the heart of the city’s richest neighborhood, surrounded by towering glass buildings and chic boutiques. Its exterior looked sleek and modern—big glass panels, soft lighting strips, and a subtle gold emblem above the door. Unlike typical nightclubs, this place was exclusive—just for members. It was where the children of the wealthy gathered to socialize, show off, and talk about the latest gossip.

Sierra parked her car in front of the entrance. As she stepped out, her friends Marcus—a tall, broad-shouldered guy—and Clara, a model with striking features, were already waiting. They greeted her with warm smiles and led her inside.

Sierra was dressed to impress: a strapless dress with a fitted, diamond-stitched denim bodice, and a flowing asymmetrical sheer skirt layered in shades of blue. A white fur jacket slipped off her shoulders, and she wore white slippers with tiny heels. In her hand, she carried a stylish jeans handbag. She looked every bit the pampered heiress.

They moved through the grand lobby, Marcus nodding politely to the man taking a call at the double doors—who happened to be the owner’s nephew. Without hesitation, the doors swung open.

They took the elevator to the third floor, passing the second, until they reached a private lounge with floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Outside, a balcony lined with lush potted plants offered a stunning view of the steel skyline. The morning sunlight poured in, warm and golden, illuminating velvet sofas and marble floors.

Sierra’s friends were already there. When she entered, they all stood up, exchanging hugs and greetings, already chatting about who just signed a movie contract or which actress was sleeping with her director. Julian, the youngest, grinned and said, "Sierra, you finally made it."

Clara teased, "Always fashionably late, huh?"

Sierra tilted her head with a gentle smile. "Better late than never."

A waiter arrived to take their orders and quietly slipped away. Only then did the conversation shift.

"So, Sierra," Marcus said with a smirk, "we saw that post. What’s up with your shy sister suddenly getting brave and spouting all that boring stuff?"

Julian leaned in, curious. "Yeah, what was that about? She called you a liar online? And the video? That’s crazy."

Sierra’s lips formed a faint smile, but her voice stayed soft and calm. "I’ll tell you everything after we eat. I don’t want to trouble you all before breakfast."

Clara rolled her eyes and nudged her playfully. "Come on, don’t make us wait. We’d rather hear your story than eat these overpriced meals."

Sierra gently shook her head. "No—it’s better this way."

There were three other people in the room besides Marcus, Clara, and Julian. One of them was Adrian, who rarely spoke. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a faint scowl on his face.

Once the table was filled with food and drinks—and her friends had relaxed a bit—Sierra began her act. She let her voice tremble, shoulders shaking slightly as she complained about how unfair Erisia had been. How her sister had tarnished her reputation online, altered the footage, called her a liar and an aggressor—when Sierra insisted she hadn’t done anything wrong.

Her words weren’t outright accusations, but delicate hints intended to evoke sympathy. She lowered her lashes, her tone soft and almost saintly, as if enduring cruelty.

And it worked.

Adrian suddenly slammed his hand on the table, his voice sharp. "Don’t cry over her, Sierra. If your sister’s causing trouble, I’ll handle it. No one should make you suffer like this."

Marcus leaned forward eagerly. "Exactly. Just say the word, Sierra, and we’ll deal with her."

Clara reached across the table, squeezing Sierra’s hand gently. "You’ve always been too kind to her. You don’t deserve this."

Julian snorted. "Honestly, if it were me, she wouldn’t even be living under the same roof anymore."

Tears welled up in Sierra’s eyes. She quickly wiped them away and offered a trembling smile. "Thank you... for trying to cheer me up. I really appreciate it." Her gaze softened, a mix of gratitude and sadness. "All of you, thank you for your support."

Hours later, the others had already filtered out of the lounge, chatter and laughter trailing into the corridor until the door clicked shut behind them. Adrian lingered, halfway turned toward the exit when Sierra’s fingers closed lightly around his sleeve.

Her voice was hushed, fragile, every syllable trembling. "I really... I don’t want to be attacked again, or dragged through the mud online because of Erisia’s lies. It hurts, Adrian. It really hurts."

For a beat, silence stretched—then Adrian’s expression softened, anger flashing behind his eyes. He reached out, pulling her into a brief embrace, his voice low with certainty. "I won’t let that happen again."

With that promise still hanging in the air, he left, the door shutting firmly behind him.

Alone at last, Sierra’s teary mask dissolved. She sank back into the sofa, reached for her half-finished drink, and let a sly smile curl at the corner of her lips.

~•~

Later that afternoon, Adrian drove from the city to the outskirts. The luxury cars and skyscrapers faded into the background, replaced by roaring engines and the low hum of bass spilling out from a rundown warehouse near the edge of the district.

The motorcycle club was already in full swing. A half-dozen bikes lined the cracked pavement. Inside, the air was heavy with smoke, oil, and laughter. Music thudded from battered speakers, drowning out the sounds of dice hitting tabletops and bottles clinking.

The men here weren’t the type who sat pretty in suits. Leather pants, ripped jeans, heavy boots. Tattoos crawled up necks and arms, words and symbols lost in a mess of ink. Piercings glinted under the dim lights—rings through ears, brows, and lips.

Some lounged with girls draped over them, lips locked or hands wandering. Others leaned against their bikes, drinking straight from the bottle.

Adrian walked through like he belonged, shoulders squared, gaze Intense. He spotted Niko—tall, broad, his arms sleeved in ink, silver glinting from the piercings along his ears and lip. Even with all that metal and art carved into his skin, Niko had the kind of face women still looked twice at.

Adrian slid into the chair across from him. "I need a guy."

Niko raised a brow, smirking as he leaned back. "What kind of guy? Don’t tell me you’re asking me to set you up on a date, man."

Adrian’s scowl deepened. "Don’t play dumb. I need someone who can... take care of a problem. Preferably make sure she disappears. If she dies—better."

The smirk fell from Niko’s face. He set down his beer with a loud clink. "What the fuck did you just say?"

"You heard me." Adrian leaned forward, voice low. "Don’t give me that innocent act. I know you’ve done shit like this before. Don’t tell me you can’t point me to someone."

Niko let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "Man, what do you think this is? A hitman directory? You think we’re running some assassin service out of here? The hell is wrong with you?"

Adrian’s eyes narrowed. "Don’t bullshit me. I know you’ve done shady shit. Don’t tell me all you do is ride, gamble, and fuck around."

"That’s exactly what we do," Niko snapped, jabbing a finger at him. "We race, we bet, we drink, we fuck. That’s it. Anything else? Nah, man. I told you—we don’t do that. Not anymore."

Adrian scoffed. "Not anymore? What, because the last time security cracked down on you, you got scared?"

That made Niko laugh so hard he nearly spilled his drink. "Scared? Me? Boy, I ain’t scared of shit. But I’m not dumb either. My old man nearly ripped my balls off after that last stunt. You think I’m gonna risk having the cops sniffing around again? Hell no. My dad would string me up before the cops even got the chance."

Adrian’s jaw clenched. "So that’s it? You’re telling me you don’t know anyone who can handle this?"

Niko leaned forward now, grin sharp, voice steady. "That’s exactly what I’m telling you. I don’t know anyone, and even if I did—I wouldn’t hand them over for your petty little family drama. You want her gone? Handle it yourself."

Around them, a couple of the bikers snickered, eyes on Adrian, clearly entertained by the tension brewing. Someone called out, "Hey Niko, you gonna let him talk business in here? Thought we were here for fun, not funerals."

Laughter rolled through the warehouse. Niko just smirked again, grabbing his beer. "Hear that, Adrian? Even the boys know—you’re in the wrong place."

Adrian reached for the cigarette box sitting on Niko’s desk without asking, flipped it open, and plucked one out. With a quick flick of the lighter, the end glowed red. He dragged in a deep breath, then leaned forward deliberately, exhaling a sharp cloud of smoke straight into Niko’s face.

"You can keep playing with your little gangs of lowlives," he muttered, voice low with irritation. "I’m out of here."

He shoved the chair back, stood, and walked out.

Adrian stepped out into the night, cigarette already lit, smoke curling lazily into the dark. He dragged in hard, exhaling like he was bleeding out rage, one puff after another.

A nudge on his shoulder broke his rhythm.

He didn’t even look. His jaw clenched, teeth gritting as the words scraped out:

"What the fuck do you want?"

The guy laughed under his breath, rough and grating. "Relax, man. I just heard what you and Nico were whispering about back there. Think I might know the type of person you’re looking for."

That caught Adrian. He turned, slowly, eyes narrowing as he sized the man up—cheap jacket, shaved head glinting under the streetlight, a smirk plastered on his face like he thought he mattered. Adrian’s lips curled into a lazy, conceited smirk.

"The job," Adrian drawled. "And what exactly is that?"

The guy shrugged like he had all the time in the world. "You tell me, man. You’re the one shopping for trouble, not me."

Adrain, impatient, cut in, "I just want the girl run over. No direct hit, no bullets, no guns. Just a car. That’s all."

The bald guy grinned, like he’d been waiting for the punchline. "Man, that’s easy shit. Thought you rich boys were cooking up something crazy—like breaking into a house, putting two in someone’s skull. But this?" He laughed. "This is fucking child’s play. I got someone. But it ain’t free. How much you willing to cough up? Don’t tell me this is your first time buying blood."

Adrian scoffed, flicking ash from his cigarette. "No. But I wouldn’t be here if the person didn’t damn matter. Just name your price, and I’ll settle it. I want it done tomorrow."

The guy leaned in, teeth flashing. "A mill. Clean, no questions."

Adrian barked a laugh. "A million? What, you think I’m some dumb trust-fund brat? Give me a fucking real number, or I walk."

The man’s smile faltered into a scowl. "What’d you expect? We’re taking a fucking life here, man. Gun, car, poison—dead is dead. But fine. Half a mill. Or what? That’s still too steep for daddy’s boy?"

Adrian’s eyes glinted with amusement.

"Of course, I can afford it."

The man exhaled, relief mixing with greed. "Good. ’Cause I don’t like my work messy. Everything’s gonna be clean. Car gets ditched, stripped, dismantled—hell, cars cost more than people these days. So..." He rubbed his hands together. "How are we doing the payment?"

Adrian takes one last drag, lets the smoke bleed from between his teeth, and flicks the butt to the ground. His smirk curves, "Payment’s not the problem. Trust is. How do I know you’re not some cheap hustler trying to squeeze shit out of me and then vanish?"

The bald guy chuckles, rubbing the back of his shiny head. "Because, man, I’m still standing here. Guys who scam rich kids? They don’t last long. You think I’d be breathing right now if I played that game? Nah. I’m solid."

Adrian studies him—slowly, letting the silence stretch until the man starts to shift.

Then he tilts his head, "You’ll get half when I see results. That’s how this works. Don’t like it? Then fuck off."

That finally gets a reaction—just a flicker, but the guy’s grin falters before snapping back.

"Fair enough. I like a man who plays serious. Drop the cash tomorrow, I’ll have my driver handle the... accident. Quick. Clean. No loose ends."

Adrian steps closer, just enough that the streetlight cuts a shadow over his jawline, his smile razor-thin. "Good. Because I don’t tolerate loose ends."