Mafia War: Entwined with the devil

I wrapped my hand around the pole, my body moving effortlessly as I swung myself up. The lights were low, the music pulsing through the room, and I could feel every eye on me, hungry, expectant. Just another night. I did my best to maintain eye contact with the men in the audience, my gaze flicking from one face to another. They wanted to feel seen, like I was dancing just for them. The usual crowd—older men, mostly married, some with children probably as old as me. Their eyes followed every move I made, and the sound of bills hitting the stage, raining down like confetti, kept me going.

They cheered, some more loudly than others, motivating me to do more, to push myself. It was the game we played. They pretended I was theirs for the night, and I pretended I cared about more than their money. It was always the same, the eager requests for private dances, the whispered offers of one-night stands as if money could buy anything they wanted. But no matter how much they offered, I always said no.

It wasn’t because I had some moral compass about being the other woman, no. I didn’t care if they wanted to cheat on their wives. That wasn’t my business. I had my reasons, my own lines I wouldn’t cross. Not that it mattered to them. To these men, I was jolie, the faceless stripper who ruled the night in New York. Beautiful, confident, dangerous. The kind of woman they whispered about behind closed doors, the woman their wives feared but couldn’t name. I didn’t give myself that title; they did. All I did was show up, do my job, and leave.

My body had broken more marriages than I could count, but it wasn’t my problem. Men could barely keep themselves together when I danced, and if an hour of watching me was enough to ruin their relationships, that was on them. Not me. That’s why I wore a mask. Always. If it wasn’t for that, I probably would’ve been tracked down and torn apart by jealous wives a long time ago. little did these women know that i cared less about their husbands, not just their husbands, all men, to me, men are not worth my time, finding a new boyfriend to me is like finding a new job where you don’t really have to work but still get paid. Call me a gold digger, but that’s just life, it isn’t fair to anyone and it’s unfortunate that i have to be that person to give them that wakeup call. I had my ways of dealing with men, that includes my fiancé; use, empty and replace.

Besides, this was just one part of me. I wasn’t just a stripper. I had too many roles to count—college student, hacker, part-time teacher, private investigator. I could be anything for the right amount of money. Well, almost anything. I wasn’t a killer or a prostitute, no matter what people might think. I did what I had to do to survive. Between tuition, rent, and my mom’s medical bills, life had given me no other choice.

I finished the routine, sliding down the pole, the stage lights catching the glint of sweat on my skin. The men were on their feet, applauding like I had just given them the best show of their lives. But as I let my eyes drift over the crowd, something—or rather, someone—caught my attention.

He was younger than the others, probably in his mid-twenties. Dressed in all black, his hair styled perfectly like he’d just walked out of some high-end magazine shoot. He looked out of place, too put-together for a place like this. And unlike the others, he wasn’t clapping. He wasn’t even smiling. Just sitting there with an unreadable expression on his face, his dark eyes fixed on me, but not in the way the others watched. It wasn’t lust. It was something else. Disapproval, maybe?

My pulse quickened. There was everything wrong about this man. Too young, too handsome, and far too wealthy-looking to be here. This was a place for older men, the kind who thought they could buy whatever they wanted. But this guy? He didn’t belong. And worst of all, he wasn’t impressed.

That irritated me more than I wanted to admit.

I swung myself back up the pole, eyes locked on him as I tried again, pulling out a few tricks that always worked. But no matter what I did, his expression didn’t change. It was like he was bored, or worse, completely uninterested. What the hell was this guy’s deal? After a few more minutes, it hit me—he was one of those guys. The kind who thought they were too good for this, too jaded to be impressed. I hated guys like that.

Screw it. I gave the crowd one final wave and stepped off the stage, heading backstage where my manager was already waiting for me.

“Amy, what took you so long to leave the stage? There’s a young man who’s been waiting for you for a while now,” my manager’s voice cut through the hum of the backstage noise.

I sighed, tossing my hair over my shoulder. “I hope he’s not asking for a private session because I’ve got a date in an hour, and I’m not missing it for anything.”

I grabbed my backpack, ready to head into the dressing room and change into something more appropriate for a normal human interaction when my manager chimed in again. “He’s offering $5,000 for just a one-hour private session. You wouldn’t want to—”

“Of course I wouldn’t miss that!” I interrupted, flinging my bag to the floor without a second thought. “Where is he?” $5,000 for an hour? That’s more than most people make in a week. All I had to do was give him a lap dance, maybe throw in a few spins on the pole. Easy money. And let’s face it, I wasn’t going to say no to good cash.

I strutted into the dimly lit room where my client was waiting, the familiar red glow casting long shadows across the space. As soon as I stepped inside, my eyes landed on him—the same guy from the audience earlier. The young one. The one who hadn’t even bothered to clap, let alone look impressed. A part of me was surprised he’d pay so much for a private session, considering how unbothered he seemed.