His Prisoned Angel

CRASH!

In the private room, which was deafeningly loud, a man suddenly smashed an ashtray onto a woman's head.

Blood instantly gushed from her head. Moments earlier, the woman, dressed only in a bikini, had been kissing the man.

Far from stopping, Brian Baker leapt up and began kicking the bleeding woman.

Music, lights, smoke, and now the scent of blood filled the room. The man smiled cruelly as he punched the woman repeatedly. Brian reveled in this twisted sensation.

This was Jefferson City's largest entertainment club.

Brian was the leader of a Jefferson City gang that specialized in fraud.

Everyone in the room froze at the scene, halting their activities.

The long-haired man at the front strode straight toward the owner of the club and called out, "Brian?"

"Who the hell are you?"

The moment the words left his mouth, a heavy blow landed squarely on his head.

He crashed onto the sofa and was still reeling when he was yanked by the collar and thrown face-first onto the floor. Several kicks rained down on his stomach before a hard shoe sole ground into his face.

“Got any idea what respect means?”

Brian gritted his teeth as a shoe was pressed against his face. His earlier arrogance vanished, replaced by overwhelming humiliation.

“Where's Roy?”

He instantly understood—these men had been sent by Roy.

A week prior, one had escaped from a new shipment of goods delivered to the compound controlled by his family. The guards failed to catch her and let the woman slip away.

In her panic, she barged into this club and stabbed someone. It was later discovered that the injured British man was Cass's business partner.

Knowing that trouble had been caused, his father had specifically sent him to apologize.

He had heard many rumors about Cass's financier but had never seen him in person. He only knew that his name was Roy and that he was a mixed-race individual with dual U.S.-Mexican citizenship.

The foot pressing down on his head ground harder. The long-haired man laughed coldly but didn't respond.

Moments later, another figure appeared at the door, towering at nearly six feet tall.

Only when the man crouched before him did Brian get a clear look.

He had a face with sharp, angular features and rugged eyes. A thin scar on the outer edge of his left eyebrow added a touch of wildness to his otherwise refined appearance.

Roy had just left a business cocktail party. He detested these pretentious gatherings—crowds of well-dressed hypocrites in expensive suits whose conversations were filled with shady deals.

These sanctimonious beasts were nothing like him. He never hid his ambition or his fangs.

His Western-style shirt felt unbearably tight. He impatiently undid the buttons at his collar. Fucking restrictive.

His face showed obvious irritation. Upon entering, he merely glanced at the man being held down. His gaze swept past the injured hostess.

Damn, they sure were playing hard.

"Roy, I came specifically to apologize. Father told me...”

"I hear your fiancée is a beauty pageant winner?"

The man lowered his head to light the cigarette held between his lips. Speaking with feigned nonchalance, he cut off the other man's words.

Brian froze momentarily, unable to grasp the implication. Seconds later, realization hit him, and his body stiffened instantly.

He forced himself to close his eyes, his body trembling slightly. For a man, few moments were more humiliating than this one.

In the lounge of the club, the manager was briefing the new hostesses.

The head hostess from the top floor approached him and whispered something in his ear.

The manager's expression darkened. He shot her a sharp glare before turning and leading the women upstairs.

Meanwhile, Audrey Evans had snuck up to the top floor using a stolen access card.

As she stepped out of the elevator, she saw six or seven tall, strikingly beautiful women standing at the end of the corridor.

Facing them stood the manager, a Frenchman.

After counting them—there were seven in total, one missing—he learned from someone nearby that a woman had died suddenly on the way there.

He spun around abruptly and slapped the head hostess several times. Then he stood with his hands on his hips and gritted his teeth in fury. The women watching the scene were all a little frightened.

Audrey hastily averted her gaze, seeking an empty private room to hide in. Just as she was about to push open the door in front of her, someone called out to her from behind.

"Are you American?"

It was the French manager.

Her body stiffened. She turned slowly, feeling tense and hesitating to respond immediately.

He scanned her from head to toe, finally settling his gaze on her blue eyes.

Then he asked, "How long have you been working here?"

After hesitating, she answered, "One week."

"Come on."

The manager beckoned her over.

Audrey was about to refuse, but he seemed to read her mind. He gave a soft chuckle. "If you want to leave, you'll have to play by the rules."

The threat was stark and clear. She understood.

She had no choice but to comply. She stepped forward to join the group of women.

The forewoman, who had been slapped earlier, advanced menacingly and tried to pull the veil from Audrey's face. Audrey instinctively shielded it.

The long, Middle Eastern–style headscarf covered most of her body and offered her a measure of security in this place.

Surprisingly, the manager didn't reprimand her or force her to change her attire.

Perhaps seeing her timid demeanor, he assumed she was a newcomer and that the veil might help conceal her awkwardness.

"Whatever you see or encounter inside, you must remain enthusiastic and keep a smile on your face," the manager repeatedly reminded her.

Her unease grew deeper.

She still hadn't found Rylee, and it seemed she had dragged herself into this mess as well.