Enzo knew tonight he’s gonna fucking enjoy this helluva shitshow. In the best way.

He sank into cheap-looking ‘rich’ black leather couch, swirling fancy cocktail in his right hand, a slow-burning cigar in the other. He took a slow long drag, smoke curled up, drifting through the haze, catching a flash of his golden eyes beneath it.

This club was a fucking mess. The bass was rattling his teeth, and the strobes were a seizure waiting to happen. Definitely not his usual scene. Too much chaos, not enough class.

Some politician's kid was burning daddy's money. And fanculo, were they burning it. He’d never seen so many drugs in one place outside his own casino. Coke, pills, he even saw meth being passed around. ”Porra, what a shit den,” he thought.

He dealt drugs, too, the fun kind and totally regulated. But this? ”Man, the suppliers must’ve been rolling with it, should have a chat with them” He made a note of it. Maybe he’d siphon a few of these spoiled kids back to his own club. Business was business.

But forget that. Now... He’s gonna have some fun first.

He rose in one smooth, lazy motion, dreadlocks slipping down his back. His tail gave one casual flick before moving through the wild crowd. The VIP zone waited in the corner, hidden behind a curtain of glass beads and guarded by a wall of muscle–a brute covered tattoos.

"Gotta check," the man grunted.

"Yeah, yeah, get on with it," Enzo said, holding up his arms. The guy patted him down, found nothing, and stepped aside. Enzo smirked and disappeared behind the curtain.

No cameras. No crowd. Just privilege.

The Den of Sin.

The air hit him first—thick, humid, reeking of sweat, sex, and expensive perfume mixed with cheap cologne. The panther man sauntered through like a black velvet amongst the ravenous sinners.

He could hear everything—filthy noises, grunts, moans, the wet squelch of sex echoing from every direction.

Men and women, draped themselves over couches, leaned against walls, whispered offers into eager ears.Some were barely dressed—lace and leather, sheer fabric that left nothing to the imagination. Others wore suits or tight dresses, playing the game of seduction with a little more finesse.

Sex was free here. Free as in, you didn't pay upfront. You came, you sat, you asked for them, and they came to you. The bill? That came later. Always did. But in the moment? It felt like you owned the world.

Enzo moved through the chaos, entering a secluded area only obscured by curtain of glass beads. He dropped onto one of the velvet couches in the back corner, spreading his legs wide, one arm draped over the backrest. His tail curled lazily beside him like he was the fucking king of the jungle.

First thing that caught his eyes was a handsome man, probably in his thirties–fine piece of ass in Tom Ford suit.

"Oi," he called out, not even bothering to raise his voice much. "Get me something good tonight, yeah?"

The man appeared almost instantly—tall, handsome, chiseled jaw plus the clean-shaven face. He leaned in close, whispering against his ear. "What you want, baby?"

Enzo grinned, tilting his head. "Surprise me, querido. And make it good."

He smirked and his green eyes glinting with eagerness. He left him for a moment, disappearing into the maze of beaded curtains.

A minute later, he brought back another figure—a younger woman, maybe mid-twenties, with soft curves and wide eyes that still held a hint of nervousness. New, probably. Or at least new to him. She wore a sheer black slip that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

"Hi, baby~" she greeted, voice a little breathy.

"Oi, linda. Gonna join us tonight eh?" Enzo asked, grinning down at her, eyeing those curves like a predator. He shifted his gaze back at the handsome man, "you wanna double the fun?" He didn't need to ask actually; he approved it.

"Heard you like extra toys, baby." Said the man as he lowered himself, pressing himself against him. He shifted closer, hand already sliding up Enzo's thigh. He let out a deep growl as the black panther captured the man’s lips deep, possessive, like a desperate predator.

He leaned back, letting the woman work. Her hands slid up his thighs, fingers tracing the fabric of his slacks before finding the zipper. She tugged it down slowly, deliberately, eyes flicking up to meet his as if asking for permission.

Enzo just smirked, breaking the kiss for a second. "Go on, querida. Show me what you got."

She freed him with practiced ease, and porra, the air hit his cock like a goddamn blessing. He was already half-hard, and the sight of her licking her lips didn't help.

And just like that, the night began.

---

“Fuck, meeeeee....”

He groaned hard, voice rasped with misery. Woke up feeling like someone took a sledgehammer to his skull. His head spun so bad he had to brace himself against the mattress just to sit up. The room tilted sideways.

Enzo felt that damn bile rising from his throat and—Jesus Christ—and before he could even think, he quickly threw his head over the side of the bed, retching into a bucket he'd apparently had the foresight to leave there.

"Fuck.. Fuuuuuck holy shit, worst night ever."

Okay, maybe not the worst. It was the best fucking blowjob he'd had in months, getting his cock sucked by two best whores in the club. Then drinks. Then another quick fuck with some chick.

And then—then—that fucker showed up. The kid. The one throwing the party, got him a round of booze and pitched some "business opportunity." Enzo was a businessman; of course he bit.

Big fucking mistake.

The kid handed him a blunt the size of a cigar, and Enzo smoked it without thinking twice. Another round of drinks followed. Maybe two rounds. Maybe three—no, he didn’t snort coke, Vincenza gonna kill him if she knew.

By the time he stumbled out of that wretched club, he couldn't remember his own goddamn name.

How the hell he even get home?

Turned out his bodyguard—good ol' Remus—had hauled his drunk ass into the car and driven him back. Shoutout to that guy. Enzo made a mental note to pay him double for the next vacation day. Solid dude.

But right now though? Enzo was hangry. Starving and pissed off at himself for being this stupid.

He dragged himself out of bed, stumbled into the shower. The cold water shocks him sober–because fuck being gentle with himself—and threw on the first clean clothes he could find: black jeans and a blue t-shirt that clung to his chest. No suit today. Fuck that noise.

Keys in hand, sunglasses on—those red aviators doing God's work—he hopped into his Ferrari and peeled out of the garage.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled up to a little restaurant near the shore. It was one of those hole-in-the-wall spots tourists never found. Wood-paneled walls, checkered floors, smell of fried fish and butter wafting through the air. Honestly, he found it cuz TikTok.

Enzo slouched over the counter, sunglasses still on because the fluorescent lights were murdering him.

"Yeah. Two meat burgers, and calamari.. yeahh.. Make it quick, baby. I'm hangry right now." He flashed a grin at the old woman behind the register—Mrs. Dee, been running this place for thirty years.

She sighed, rolled her eyes so hard they might've popped out, and shuffled toward the kitchen without a word.

After she was gone, Enzo slumped onto a stool, sinking his face between his padded palms. "Shit, get on with it Enzo," he muttered to himself, ears flattening against his head.

Maybe last night was a mistake. Maybe he was getting too old for this shit. Maybe—

The door to the kitchen swung open. And then he smelled it. Not the food—them. Delicate. Sweet. Like vanilla and something he couldn't quite place. It cut through the grease and salt air like a blade, sharp and intoxicating.

His head snapped up. Golden eyes locked onto the walking Renaissance painting toward him.

Oh fuck.

Standing in front of him was a figure he'd never seen before—and Jesus Christ, where have they been hiding?

Curvy didn't even cover it. Chubby. Curvy. Soft rolls spilling over the waistband of their apron in the most sinful way imaginable. Thick thighs pressing against their uniform. Arms soft and full, cheeks rosy and round.

Enzo just stared.

His tail started swishing slowly behind him—traitor—and he felt his mouth go dry despite the hangover thirst clawing at him.

"Uh..." His brain short-circuited for half a second before rebooting. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Oh yeah, he thought to himself, still grinning like an idiot.

I'm keeping this one.

Three months ago...

A BMW had rolled into High Octane Apex looking... well, rough. Enzo remembered it perfectly. The owner–a sweet little thing with their designer bags and those sweet puppy eyes–looking up at him, completely lost as Enzo’s crew swarmed the vehicle like a mechanic at a pit stop.

He took one real good look and Lord, have mercy on them.

The car was an absolute mess–a 2015 BMW 3 Series that looked like it'd been driven into the ground by someone who thought "maintenance" was just an optional suggestion. Worn brake pads, fucked suspension, leaking oil like a sieve, and the timing belt? Caralho, that thing was holding on by sheer fucking willpower.

His crew tried explaining the breakdown: labor costs, parts, diagnostics. They weren’t listening. Just kept saying "uh-huh" and "sure" like they were ordering for a fucking Starbucks.

Enzo knew better. He always knew better. People like them? They didn't read contracts. They didn't ask questions. They just wanted their shit fixed now and figured they'd deal with the bill later.

And he? Well, he was more than happy to oblige.

So yeah. He charged them. A lot.

Transmission rebuild? $3,500. New brake pads and rotors? $1,200. Coolant system flush and hose replacement? $800. Labor? Another $1,500 because fuck it, his guys deserved to eat too.

By the time the repairs were done, the bill had ballooned. Labor fees stacked on top of "necessary" part replacements. A new alternator here, a coolant flush there, hell—he even threw in a "safety inspection" charge because why not?

---

Now here he was, standing in the garage bay with Remus and Blackwood flanking him like sentinels. Blackwood took a slow drag of her cigar, hands folding across her chest. Meanwhile, Remus lazily twirled the car key–their car key–on his fingers. The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall glass windows, catching the chrome and paint jobs of the luxury vehicles lining the showroom floor.

"Boss," Remus called out, squinting at the road. "That them?"

Enzo tilted his head, golden eyes narrowing behind his red aviators as a familiar figure pulled into view. They finally came into their workshop to collect their BMW. Enzo's lips curled into a slow, sharp grin.

He rolled his shoulders as he approached. His boots clicked against the concrete floor. He stopped a few feet away, hands sliding into his pockets as he watched them stepping inside.

"Ayyy, there they are!" Enzo called out, spreading his arms wide like they were old friends. He sauntered over, hands in his pockets, that easy smile plastered on his face.

"Look at that grin--someone’s excited to see their baby again, huh? Told you we'd fix her up nice."

"Come on, come on," Enzo gestured with a clawed hand, leading her deeper into the garage. "Let me show you what we did."

He lead them inside the workshop. They followed, their shoes echoing in the cavernous space. Rows of luxury cars gleamed under fluorescent lights like trophies—Ferraris, Lamborghinis, a fucking Bugatti in the corner. Then he stopped before the BMW, running a hand along the hood like it was a lover. "See? Told you we'd make her beautiful again."

He tapped the windshield. "New brakes, full suspension overhaul, timing belt, oil system flush-the works."

They just nodded, trying to look interested. They didn't understand half of what he was saying, though. Cars weren't their thing. They just needed it to work.

"So." Enzo straightened, pulling a folded invoice from his suit pocket. He unfolded it slowly, deliberately, like he was revealing a goddamn treasure map. "Let's go over the damage, yeah?"

The invoice looked innocent enough at first–a single sheet of paper, crisp and neatly folded. He handed it casually to them. They unfolded it carefully. The smell of grease and engine oil clung to the paper. Their eyes caught the number before anything else.

TOTAL: $7,247.83.

The digits hit harder than any punch. They blinked, certain they’d misread it. But nope–the number stared back at them, bold and unforgiving.

A cold flush ran up their spine, prickling at the base of their neck, trying to make sense of the itemized list beneath it. Brake pads. Suspension. Oil flush. Timing belt. Labor. Parts. More labor. Jesus Christ, how much labor?

They couldn’t pay...

"Can’t?" The panther tilted his head, ears flicking forward. "Can’t what? You can’t fucking pay?" Enzo’s grin didn’t falter, but something in his eyes did–the warmth draining out, replaced by something sharper, colder.

"Querida, my boys explained everything. You said yes. Multiple times." He straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. The gold chain around his neck glinted under the fluorescent lights. "You signed the paperwork. We did the work. Now you pay." The world narrowing to Enzo’s shadow stretching long across the concrete.

He laughed then, low, rough, and cruel, after hearing their excuse to pay him next time. The crude sound rolled through the garage like thunder, setting their nerves on edge. "Time," he said, tasting the word like it was a joke. "Yeah, see, time’s a funny thing, caro. The longer you take, the more interest piles up."

He stepped closer, close enough that they could smell the faint mix of motor oil and cologne. His smile widened, predatory, all teeth. "And trust me," Enzo murmured, voice smooth as poison, "you don’t want to owe me interest."

They admitted for making a worst financial decision ever, drowning in debt; couldn't even pay up their rent. “Doce pobrezinha.”

He finally sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I get it. Shit happens. Maybe you bit off more than you could chew, huh?" He stepped closer, and they instinctively took a step back. "But here's the thing-you still owe me. And one way or another, I'm gonna collect."

He could see those desperately begging eyes. And it made him even more excited.

Enzo's grin returned, slow and predatory. "Well, I'm a reasonable guy. So I'll give you two options." He held up one clawed finger. "Option one: You pay me back. All of it. With interest. And if you can't? We'll start taking shit-your car, your jewelry, whatever you got. Hell, I'll send my boys to your home if I have to." He said, with a promise of threat.

"Or..." He held up a second finger, leaning in just enough that they could smell his cologne-something expensive and smoky. "Option two. You become my little sugar baby."

He leaned in, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "It means, you keep me company, look pretty on my arm, do what I say when I say it. In return? I cover your bills, buy you nice things, and make sure you're taken care of. Hell, I'll even wipe that seven grand clean."

He tilted his head, golden eyes locking onto them. "But let's be clear, you'd be mine. My toy. For funsies, you know? No strings, no feelings, just... fun."

Enzo straightened up, brushing imaginary dust off his suit. "So, caro. Think very carefully. You wanna play debt collector with me, or you wanna play nice?"

He smiled, all teeth and danger.

"Your call."

Ding-ding-ding!

Whirrrrr-clack.

Same old noise. Different nights. The room’s drowning in its usual cacophony: slot machine whirring, card shuffling, the relentless, harmonic jingling of the Wheel of Fortune banks, and the cheap, tinny click-clack of plastic chips sliding across the felt. The air reeked of stale beer-soaked carpet and cigar smoke, poorly masked by some synthetic tropical-fruity scent pumping through the vents.

Just a few feet away, the slot machines let out an ear-piercing happy jingle, a relentless chorus of mind-numbing electronic chirps and bells designed to hook you by the brainstem and not let go. Whirrr-click-click-click. The sound of reels spinning, dopamine spiking, dreams crashing down in real-time.

Welcome to the infamous Red Martin Casino. A living, breathing beast in the heart of Atlantic City.

Tonight’s unusually crowded. Tourists flock in, filling every inch of the space, looking for temporary thrills of non-existent wins, because the house is always winning.

"Come on, baby! Come to mama!" a woman in a leopard print dress screamed at a roulette wheel, a glass of martini spilling in her clutch. The ball rattled around the track—clack-clack-clack—before settling into a slot.

"Black 22!" the croupier announced, monotone and bored.

"YEEEAAAHHH!" The woman shrieked, high-pitched enough to shatter glass, throwing her arms around a stranger who looked terrified.

Further down, a table erupted in desperate shouting.

"NONONONONO!" A guy in a wrinkled suit slammed his fist on the table, face burying in his hands. Beside him, a girl in a tight dress squealed and scooped up a tower of chips, laughing like she'd just won the lottery.

And {{user}} stood behind Table 9 like they'd been planted there since the concrete was poured. Adjusting their bowtie—a cheap polyester clip-on that was slowly choking them—and scanned the entire zoo in front of them.

To the tourists, they weren't really a person; merely a pair of floating hands and a bored stare, a vending machine dispensing joy or misery depending on the shuffle.

Their fingers moved deftly, snapping cards across the green felt with a sharp, rhythmic thwip-thwip.

They didn't even have to look. King. Four. They even barely blinked as a woman in a too-tight sequined dress blew a cloud of thin menthol smoke right into their fucking face. They didn't flinch—well, cough a little, just tapped the shoe, voice flat and rehearsed.

---

After a few rounds of Blackjack, the woman left Table 9, and before the seat even cooled, it was filled again. A heavy thud announced the new arrival: a sweaty tourist with a shiny bald head and a loud Hawaiian shirt that strained against his gut.

You told them to place his bet. Your hands moved on muscle memory—shuffle, cut, slide. The cards snapped against the green felt with a satisfying thwip-thwip.

"Hit me," the guy grunted, tapping the table aggressively with a meaty finger.

They dealt him a King. Bust.

"Fuck!" The guy slammed his hand down, sending his remaining chips rattling.

You didn't flinch at all, just swept the losing chips into the tray—clack-clack-clack—and looked to the next player. Gosh, the feet were killing you in these cheap shoes; your back ached, and the smell of stale cigarette smoke was starting to drill a hole in your temple. But hey, the tips were okay, and you had had rent to pay. Landlords didn't care about bad backs or global recessions.

Snap. Slide. Snap.

New hand. Two cards for the tourist, two for the others, two for the house. You watched the man’s greasy fingers clutching his chips like a lifeline. The guy was vibrating with tension.

"Fuck, uh... Hit me," the tourist wheezed.

You slid the card. A Ten. Bust.

"Goddammit!"

A collective groan rolled over the felt. And the dealer started paying out the winners, the heavy ceramic chips making that distinct, expensive sound as they stacked up.

Suddenly, the Hawaiian shirt shot up from the stool. The man was red as a bull, nose flaring, eyes blazing with rage.

"Bullshit! That's bullshit!" He screamed, pointing a shaky finger right at your face with accusation. "You cheated! I saw it!"

It was a false accusation, and you knew it. You opened your mouth to explain—politely, like the handbook said—but that was a mistake.

The tourist didn't want an apology. He wanted blood.

The man’s arm shot across the felt, his meaty hand grabbing a fistful of their cheap vest. Before you could react, the man yanked your body forward. Hard.

Wham.

Your chest slammed against the padded rail of the table, knocking the wind out of you. The impact sent the chip tray jumping; stacks of ceramic chips toppled over, clattering loudly onto the floor like hail.

"I'm gonna fucking call your manager, you useless piece of shit!" The tourist screamed. He hauled you closer, until their noses were almost touching. His breath reeked of stale gin and olives. "You hear that? You’re done!"

You’d struggled to pull back, but the guy’s grip was iron.

"I LOST MY FUCKING MONEY BECAUSE OF YOU!" The man roared, spraying spittle right into your face.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

The shouting match abruptly stop right after a familiar sound cut through the tension. The air now grew thick with a hint of wild musk and expensive perfume—a kind only rich bastard would wear just for this occasion. You saw how the colour drain from the tourist’s face before you even saw him. Those eyes, wide with rage seconds ago, were locked on something behind you.

You didn’t need to turn your head, you felt the hair on your arms stood up as the reflection in the polished gold off the chip tray looming over you.

The Manager was there, a towering wall of midnight fur and charcoal wool. He was smiling—all teeth—his red aviators were slid down his nose, revealing feline eyes that burned with a predatory, golden intensity.

The tourist stiffened, his grip on your vest faltering just enough for you to suck in a breath.

"Meu Deus do céu," the panther sighed, stepping forward. He spoke to the ceiling, as if asking God why he had to deal with idiots. "Every night, the same circus. Sempre a mesma bagunça."

His furred hand tipped with sharp claws, carefully rest on your shoulders with a soft tap. He tapped twice—and made you flinched—followed by his rumbly chuckle.

"You know," he said, switching to English, his voice dripping with mock disappointment. "In my Casino, we treat the staff with... respeito. Respect."

The man didn't even fucking understand the Portuguese. "What did you say to m—"

He stepped into the tourist's personal space—way too close. His face just above your head, you could feel his soft velvety fur brushing against your hair. Christ, your heart was thumping hard and being sandwiched between a sweaty man and the manager was not on your tonight’s bingo list.

"Solta ele, rapaz," the panther whispered, a low growl rumbling in his throat. "Let. Them. Go."