Chapter Text
Chapter One
"A Hand Worth Playing"
The neon lights flickered like a coy, erotic tease as I stepped into Himmel und Hölle, the infamous nightclub hidden away in the heart of Berlin. The air was thick with smoke and the pulsating beat of a thumping bassline, a symphony that echoed the core rhythm of my own desires.
I had come here for one reason and one reason only: to get close to Killa Harkan.
Killa. His name slithered through the city's underbelly like a dark whisper, a tale of power, danger, and, surprisingly, an erotic allure that left no woman unmoved. It wasn’t that he was conventionally attractive. In fact, he wasn’t even close. But those who had shared his bed spoke of something beyond appearance, something primal.
I had seen him only once from afar, his massive frame seemingly at odds with the dexterity he showed in both playing poker and throwing punches. His golden teeth flashed like a warning beacon, and his laugh, a deep rumble that started in his belly and shook the room, made me feel almost sorry that I’d have to kill him soon.
Almost.
A waitress passed by, her tray loaded with top-shelf whiskey and absinthe. I grabbed a glass, took a slow sip, and let the burn settle in my chest. A small ritual. A moment to ground myself. It wasn’t nerves, no, I had killed men before, but there was something about this job that made my pulse quicken in ways I didn’t want to analyze.
A woman led me to the private meeting room. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Berlin’s skyline, the city’s lights dancing a hypnotic waltz with the night. The room was stark, modern, and devoid of any warmth, much like the woman standing by the windowsill, her gaze fixed on the cityscape.
And then there was him.
Killa Harkan.
Big as a mountain, his thick fingers shuffled a deck of cards with practiced ease, rings flashing under the dim light. He wasn’t looking at me. Not yet.
But I could feel it coming.
That moment of attention.
That moment where everything shifted.
I barely had time to take in the others in the room. Five of them, maybe six, seated around a circular table. A woman with a shaved head and serpent tattoos coiled down her arms exhaled a long stream of smoke from an expensive cigar, her gaze lazy but calculating. A lean man in a three-piece suit, Russian, judging by the sharp cheekbones and colder-than-death stare, rested his fingers on a stack of poker chips, his body language betraying nothing. Another player, an older gentleman with deep scars running across his knuckles, met my gaze briefly before returning his attention to his cards.
Killers. Every last one of them.
Much like myself.
Finally, Killa turned.
His coal-black eyes raked over me, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face.
"Vell, vell, vell," he said, his thick German accent deliberate, savoring the words like fine whiskey. "Und vhat do ve have here?"
His gaze moved over me, slow and unhurried.
Up close, he was even more imposing, his bulk dwarfing everyone else in the room. His golden grin widened , and for a second, I thought of how ridiculous it was that a man like this could be charming.
And yet…
There it was.
That magnetic pull, raw and unrefined, dragging me in against all better judgment.
I extended my hand. "I'm—"
"Who cares."
His rough voice cut me off , and before I could react, his big hand wrapped around mine, pulling me forward.
Firm grip. Curious gaze.
I had to bite back a smirk.
Rude.
"I sink you came here to play," Killa said, motioning toward the empty seat at the table.
I raised a brow. "And if I don’t?"
A strange urge to defy him surged through me.
That was stupid , my inner voice warned.
His smile widened. "Zen you vill leave."
He let my hand go and gestured toward the exit.
Suddenly, I felt like a child.
Embarrassed.
Get a grip, girl.
I slid into the seat, my fingers brushing against the felt surface of the table. The dealer, a stone-faced man with the efficiency of a machine, dealt the first round. Five-card draw.
A game of deception.
A game of reading tells.
A game of knowing when to push forward and when to fold.
The first few rounds were cautious. Small wins. Minor losses. The Russian played tight, folding early unless he had something worth bleeding for. The woman with the tattoos was aggressive, her bets just enough to unsettle the others.
And Killa?
He played like he had nothing to lose.
Carefree. Confident. Amused.
And then…
It was just the two of us.
I had a straight flush. A rare, perfect hand.
He pushed all his chips forward.
All in.
I met his gaze.
No hesitation.
"Call."
The others leaned in slightly as the dealer revealed our hands.
My straight flush.
His… a full house.
Strong, but not enough.
I had won.
A slow clap echoed through the room.
Killa leaned back, grinning like I had done exactly what he wanted.
Had he let me win?
Before I could dwell on it, he pushed himself up, towering over me.
The room felt smaller.
The walls closer.
"You are… interesting," he mused.
"You play to vin, but you do not trust ze victory. I like zat."
He reached for his drink, took a slow sip.
As if on cue, the heavy doors swung open, and a handful of waitresses in short, revealing dresses glided into the room, balancing trays of expensive liquor.
A charge rippled through the air.
The tension of the game dissolved as the other players leaned back in their chairs, some stretching, others lighting cigars or murmuring to one another in low voices.
Killa turned back to me, his eyes locked onto mine.
He sat in a chair next to me, his massive body separating me from the rest of the room, creating a space just for us.
Then, lazily stretching his words, he said in a low, amused voice
"I sink I might have a job for you."
I didn’t react immediately.
Something about this felt too convenient.
"And if I don’t want it?"
Defiance again. Jesus, will you stop being stupid already?
A slow, predatory amusement settled in his eyes, and he leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear.
"You vill vant it."
For a brief moment, I studied his face, really studied it.
Not handsome. Not even a bit.
But there was something about him that unsettled me.
The way he carried himself.
The way he looked at me like he had already read my mind before I even formed the thought.
And the smell.
God.
His scent was an intoxicating blend of smoky cedarwood, warm leather, and the deep, earthy richness of vetiver.
Powerful. Unforgettable.
"What's the job?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
His hand trailed down my arm, sending a shiver through me.
"You vill protect me. From everytzing. Und everyone. Including myself."
I didn’t react, not outwardly. But something in the way he said it made my stomach tighten not in fear, but in curiosity. From himself?
"And what do I get in return?"
His lips curled into a wicked grin, and he whispered, "Vhatever you vant. Money, powah....pleasure. I can give you all of it." His gaze flicked to my lips, then back to my eyes, the message clear.
"But first, let's see if you're vorth ze investment."
I exhaled slowly, willing my heart to settle. The game had begun.
And I had the distinct feeling that I wasn’t the one holding the best hand.