Doja sat at the velvet-drenched bar, her boots resting on a table that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. She wasn't here for the drinks. She was here because Roman Sionis’s lead enforcer had forgotten to say "please" when he’d tried to “requisition” her getaway car.
She stood up, the chime of her jewelry cutting through the bass of the club. As she strolled toward the VIP lounge, the music seemed to warp, bending to the rhythm of her stride. When the heavy oak doors swung open, the room went silent.
As the first man lunged, she didn't just move; she choreographed. A spin that ended in a heel to the jaw; a dip that sent a tray of champagne glasses flying into the face of a second. She was a blur of high-fashion violence, every hit landing with the precision of a metronome.