Three

Omnipresent POV

Domino?

Domino.

A stupid name, he thought.

One that ironically said everything and nothing at once. Cheap. Artificial. Yet it clung to her, defined her in a way that made sense.

He couldn't stop replaying the moment she took the stage.

Again and again, he rewinded it in his mind—envisioning the subtle wave of her hand, the way she seduced the room with less than a glance. She orchestrated the chaos, guiding the minds of men into a single rhythm. A symphony. Music only the devil could make.

"I do believe it's something... I do believe it's you..."

Tevin Campbell belts from the speakers as she moved like silk through smoke.She didn't just dance—she unraveled people.

Like the Pied Piper leading rats to drown in their own want, she pulled them toward a trap. Waiting. Sharp. Ready to snap shut on their wallets.

They gave her everything.And she took it with grace.

And he felt it too.

Drawn in. Completely.

His mind buzzed with things he hadn't allowed himself to think in years—things that bent his moral compass. He hadn't even realized he was leaning forward in his seat, lips parted, eyes locked on every sharp click of her heels as she widened her stance, owning the stage.

"She looks good, doesn't she?" Mac's voice sliced through the trance making Michael jolt back into the present.

By then, Domino was gone—vanished behind curtains—and Michael sat there like a man waking from a fever dream.

He blinked fast, silently cursing himself and the dazed look he wore. The last thing he needed was Mac seeing any of it.

"Aww, come on, Mike. You're a newly divorced bachelor," Mac smirked, plucking the bottle of whiskey from the table and pouring a generous splash into Michael's flask. "It's only right. I mean, I doubt you've had any since ol' Renée decided to do a press conference for her damn tell-all during the divorce."

Michael's jaw flexed. He stared at the whiskey in his flask, then slowly looked up at Mac. Irritated. The kind of irritation that simmers beneath the skin, deep and slow.

He seen Mac drink straight from the bottle twice.

I'm definitely burning that piece of shit when I get home, he thought grimly mentally shooting Mac in the foot.

Bastard.

Mac was enjoying himself. Stirring the pot. Setting the stage waiting for the moment to lay out his idea to his beloved friend.

He was familiar with transactions with Michael and knew he needed to crack at some soil before he could plant this seed.

The soil nearly hard as iron, but the more he talked the soil of steel Michael once hand became nothing more than hairline crack in glass.

"These women, man," Mac said, swirling his drink like it held secrets. "They're hungry for a good story. I can't imagine how bleak the dating pool must be for someone like you."

Michael exhaled through his nose and said nothing.

His mind flicked back to her—he couldn't stop thinking about her.

Maybe a distraction was exactly what he needed.Hell, it wasn't like he owed anyone anything anymore.Not Renée. Not the press. Not the board.

But something about this girl...

Something about her didn't feel like a distraction.She felt like trouble.A loss of control—and that was something he couldn't afford.

"She's not like the others," he muttered, almost to himself.

Mac grinned. He'd been waiting for the slip.Waiting for the crack in Michael's bulletproof restraint.He leaned forward with the satisfaction of a man who'd baited a trap and watched it spring.

"Exactly," Mac said. "That's why she's useful."

Michael leaned over the balcony, eyes scanning the other girls on the floor. Their glossy lips, exaggerated moans, fabricated desire.

Filthy whores, he thought.All of them.Slithering, money-hungry parasites.

He didn't need them. Never had.If anything—they needed him.

And so did she.

But just as the thought settled, Mac leaned in again, closer this time.

"Her? No, my friend," he said, voice low.

Michael followed his gesture.

There she was—Domino. Or whoever the hell she was when she wasn't stripping men of their reason. Fully clothed now. Bell-bottom jeans. A snug white tank. No stage lights. No beat.

Just her.

She wasn't performing. She wasn't trying.And somehow, that made her even more dangerous.

"She's an investment," Mac said, downing a quarter of his whiskey with no flinch. "One of her brings in what three of my full-timers do in a week."

Michael didn't respond. Not immediately.

He couldn't stop staring at her.Not at her body. Not at her clothes.But at her quiet. The way she stood, holding space without trying.

She didn't look at anyone. Not even him.But somehow, he still felt seen. Exposed.

Mac kept talking, but Michael barely heard him.

Because in that moment, something shifted.

"So what?"Michael says shrugging Mac off his shoulder.

He sets down his square cut glass looks back at him. "That girl, she moves when I say, you say the word and I'll lease her to you. I just need one favor in return."

Michael blinked. "Lease?"

Mac smirked. "I just need one favor in return. I need you to accompany me on a deal."

Michael's expression twisted like he'd just tasted something sour. "Wait-you running a sex ring now?"

"Something I can neither confirm nor deny," Mac chuckled, lazy and unfazed.

"See, Mike—there's a world under the underground we walked our whole lives. What I've tapped into? It's cleaner. Safer. Far more secure."

"What's so secure about trafficking?" Michael snapped. "You trying to set me up? I'm no idiot, Mac. Give it up."

Mac sighed and waved a hand, gesturing for his guard to head down the stairs.

"Mike, you think small," he said smoothly. "You have no idea how many of your colleagues are already in this. Lawyers. Judges. Agents. Federal suits. State employees. Hell—cops. We all want the same thing."

Michael's lip curled. "And what's that?"

Mac leaned in. "A woman at our beck and call. Anytime. No strings. No mess."

Michael's eyes darted—then narrowed.

"What about her safety?"

"Ah. So it is about her." Mac's grin returned. "Knew it."

He poured another drink.

"If you must know," Mac said with a wink, "she's my highest-yield diamond. You wouldn't believe how many buyers are lined up. Just waiting for the right number. One of them even offered a sports car and a beach house."

Michael grit his teeth. "Fuck."

Mac saw it in his eyes. The flicker.

He was right where he wanted him.

"Okay," Michael said, voice tight. "But on my terms."

Mac raised a brow. "Naturally. I'm a businessman. I try my best to appease my customers. Especially old friends."

"I won't be involved fully. Only observe. Only behind the scenes."

"You got it," Mac nodded with a grin, lighting a cigar.

A silent figure shifted nearby—Frank. So still Michael had almost forgotten he was there.

But as Mac turned to toast their deal, Michael's gaze drifted back toward Domino.

And for the first time...She was looking right back at him.

"You know what, as a toast to good faith."

"What's your wager?" Michael says cutting at hi shortly.

"We'll talk numbers later, my friend." Mac says blowing his cigar smoke towards him.

"I'd like you to meet someone." He says looking past him.

Michael didn't notice her until Mac stood up from the lounge table with that shit-eating grin he wore when he was about to cause trouble.

"She's right there," Mac said, nodding over the glass railing toward the far hallway behind the floor. "Come on. I want you to meet her."

Michael arched a brow. "You make it sound like you're introducing me to your daughter."

Mac laughed. "She's prettier."

Michael didn't move.

"Come on, Mike. You've been staring at her like she's a damn ghost. Might as well say hello." Mac tossed back the last of his whiskey and clapped him on the back. "Besides, she owes me a favor."

That part didn't sit well.

Michael rose slowly, jaw tight. "This isn't a petting zoo, Mac."

"Who said anything about petting?" Mac winked. "Just a handshake and a name."

Michael followed him reluctantly.

She was even more beautiful up close.

She wasn't just an escape from Renée, or the press, or his polished, spiraling life.

She was a problem.A fucking storm.

And Michael had always been good at solving problems.

But the worst kindWere the ones that made him not want to solve them.