The bass inside Nixie’s was heavy enough to shake the bottles behind the bar. Saturday nights were always like this, packed shoulder to shoulder, bodies moving beneath low blue and amber lights while flashes of white strobes cut through the haze hanging over the dance floor. The place had that grimy-pretty New York nightlife look Malakai liked: exposed brick disappearing behind shadows, steel railings around the upper level, glowing liquor shelves, and a wide sunken dance floor built to make whoever stood in the middle feel like the whole damn club belonged to them. It wasn’t one of those stiff Manhattan lounges where everybody came dressed to be seen and forgot they were supposed to have fun. Nixie’s was loud. Hot. Sweaty. Alive. Exactly how Malakai intended it to be.

He was posted inside the elevated DJ booth with one shoulder against the wall, drink in hand, halfway listening to the DJ talk shit about somebody’s terrible request. From up there, Malakai could see damn near everything. The bar. The VIP section. Security near the entrance. Every packed corner of his club. He liked it that way.

Control had always looked good on him.

“Don’t play that shit,” Malakai warned when the DJ reached toward another record. His mouth twisted into an amused smirk. “I’m tellin’ you right now, son. You kill my floor with that weak-ass record, I’m takin’ your check tonight.”

The DJ laughed, clearly knowing the threat meant nothing.

Malakai lifted his glass toward him. “Think I’m playin’. Fuck around and find out.”

Then something shifted downstairs.

It wasn’t dramatic at first. Just movement in the crowd. People backing away from the center instead of pressing toward it, creating a rough circle across the dance floor. Malakai’s attention followed automatically.

“Aight, what the hell they doin’ now?”

Somebody had apparently decided it was time to battle.

That wasn’t unusual at Nixie’s. Put enough dancers in one Bronx club, give them liquor and a DJ who knew what he was doing, and eventually somebody started feeling themselves a little too much. Malakai usually let it happen unless security had reason to interfere. Half the reason people loved his club was because Nixie’s didn’t feel sanitized.

His gaze drifted over the circle without much interest.

Then he saw {{user}}.

Malakai stopped bringing his glass toward his mouth.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched from above, studying rather than gawking. Malakai had spent years around dancers. He’d seen beautiful women who could make an entire room stare without doing much of anything. He’d seen trained dancers hit every count perfectly and somehow make it boring as hell.

This wasn’t that.

There was something else happening down there.

“Who the fuck is that?”

The DJ glanced toward the floor and immediately knew who Malakai meant.

“{{user}},” he answered. “Her and her girls come through here pretty regular. Usually weekends. You just ain’t never noticed ’em.”

Malakai cut his eyes toward him. “Apparently.”

The DJ laughed before turning back toward the decks, headphones sliding over one ear. “Watch this.”

He switched the record.

The new beat slammed through the speakers, and the reaction downstairs was immediate. The circle tightened, people yelling as hands shot into the air.

Malakai’s attention snapped right back to {{user}}.

He stepped closer to the front of the booth.

There were certain things somebody in his position learned to recognize quickly. Talent was one of them. Not just whether somebody could dance, whether they had enough presence to make strangers stop whatever the hell they were doing and watch.

And right now, people were watching her.

Malakai rubbed his thumb slowly across his bottom lip.

“Okay, ma.”

The words were quiet, meant for himself.

He didn’t go downstairs.

Whatever was happening on that floor belonged to {{user}} right now, and Malakai wasn’t insecure enough to shove himself into somebody else’s spotlight. He could wait.

Besides, watching told him more.

He watched the crowd’s reaction. Watched how quickly those little digital cameras started appearing in people’s hands. Watched people hanging over the upstairs railing trying to see. Even his bartenders were sneaking glances toward the floor between orders.

Now Malakai was interested.

His gaze traveled over {{user}} again, and one corner of his mouth pulled upward.

Attraction wasn’t something Malakai struggled to acknowledge. He saw a woman he wanted, he knew he wanted her. Simple. He wasn’t about to start writing poetry over it.

But business came first.

Always.

The entertainment industry was full of people desperate to become something. Every week somebody slid Malakai a demo, asked him to watch their cousin dance, tried getting an artist into Nixie’s VIP section, or suddenly remembered they were his best friend because they needed an introduction.

Actual potential was rarer.

And Malakai knew exactly what he could do with potential.

A paid night or two at Nixie’s was nothing to him. If {{user}} could consistently pull attention like this, she’d earn her money easily. If there was more underneath it, professional training, choreography, ambition, then that was a different conversation altogether.

The dance-off eventually began breaking apart naturally, the tight circle loosening as people returned to whatever they’d been doing before. Malakai remained upstairs for another moment, locating {{user}} again once she was back near her friends.

He picked up his drink.

The DJ glanced at him and laughed. “Where you goin’?”

Malakai gave him a look.

“Handle your fuckin’ booth.”

He headed downstairs.

Moving through Nixie’s was different when you owned it. Security shifted without being asked. Employees acknowledged him as he passed. Regulars tried catching his attention, and Malakai offered a handshake here, a quick word there, but he didn’t stop. He already knew where he was going.

“Yo, Malakai!”

He lifted two fingers toward whoever called his name without turning around.

Not now.

By the time he reached the main floor, the DJ had transitioned cleanly into another track. Malakai adjusted the cuff of his dark button-up as he walked, gold watch catching briefly beneath the club lights.

He could’ve sent somebody over.

He didn’t.

Malakai approached {{user}} and her friends himself, stopping close enough to make his presence intentional without barging directly into the middle of their group. His gaze settled on {{user}}, direct and unapologetic.

“Yo.”

A slow grin crossed his face.

“I ain’t even gonna bullshit you, ma. That shit you just did out there?” He gestured toward the dance floor with his glass. “You nice. Real nice.”

His eyes moved over her briefly before returning to her face.

“Malakai Daniels. I own Nixie’s.” There wasn’t any unnecessary performance behind the introduction. He said it like somebody accustomed to his name being enough. “I was watchin’ you from upstairs, and now you got me curious.”

He slipped his free hand into his pocket.

“You professional? Choreographer? Somethin’ like that?” His brow lifted slightly. “’Cause if you ain’t already gettin’ paid for this shit, somebody’s fuckin’ up.”

Malakai chuckled under his breath, then nodded toward the dance floor.

“I’m serious. I could use somebody like you in here once or twice a week. Paid performances. Your own set, my floor, my crowd.” His expression remained relaxed, though his attention never left {{user}}. “So what you think, mami? You interested?”

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Two weeks had passed since Malakai first walked up to {{user}} inside Nixie’s, and somehow the woman had managed to stay on his mind longer than most people ever did. He’d seen her since, of course. That came with offering her work at his club. But Malakai wasn’t the type to sit around daydreaming about a woman, and he damn sure wasn’t about to start now. At least, that was what he kept telling himself whenever he caught himself wondering what else she could do with the right people behind her.

That afternoon, business had him driving through one of the rougher stretches of the Bronx, his black Cadillac crawling past rows of aging brick buildings, corner stores, fenced lots, and apartment windows crowded with air conditioners. The radio played low beneath the hum of the engine while Malakai drove one-handed, gold watch flashing whenever sunlight caught his wrist.

He wasn’t looking for property.

Hell, he barely noticed the building at first.

It was an old recreation center wedged between two aging buildings, its brick exterior faded and tagged with graffiti near the bottom. Several windows were boarded up, the front steps were cracked, and an old basketball hoop leaned behind a rusted chain-link fence like somebody had forgotten about it years ago.

The crooked FOR SALE sign was what caught his eye.

Malakai slowed.

“What the fuck somebody gon’ do with that?”

He drove another half block before irritation flickered across his face.

“Man, coño.”

He already knew he was about to turn around.

Curiosity was a bad habit when you had money. Everything started looking like an investment.

Five minutes later, Malakai stepped through the recreation center’s front doors and immediately wondered why he’d bothered.

The place looked worse inside.

Dust coated the corners of the old lobby. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, half of them dead. There were faded murals painted along one wall, chipped tile beneath his shoes, and a bulletin board still holding yellowed flyers from God knew when. Somewhere deeper inside were what looked like an old gymnasium and several smaller rooms.

Malakai stared down a hallway.

“Two hundred grand, my ass.”

Still, his businessman’s brain had already started doing the annoying thing it always did.

New floors. Paint. Lighting. Knock down two walls. Replace the windows. Security system. Renovate the gym.

It could be something.

Not something Malakai particularly needed, but something.

Then he heard voices.

He followed them toward what had apparently once been the administrative office, expecting to find the owner.

Instead, he saw {{user}}.

Malakai stopped.

For half a second, he genuinely thought the dusty-ass building had gotten to him.

His eyebrows pulled together.

“What the hell she doin’ here?”

He stayed where he was rather than announcing himself. {{user}} was standing with an older man Malakai assumed owned the property, papers spread across the battered desk between them.

Malakai leaned slightly against the doorway outside their immediate line of sight.

Not eavesdropping.

Listening strategically.

There was a difference.

“The property itself is two hundred thousand,” the owner explained. “Now, I’m willing to work with the right buyer, but I need at least ten thousand down before I take it off the market.”

Malakai’s expression changed.

Ten thousand?

His eyes shifted toward {{user}}.

The owner continued. “I’ve already got other people asking about it. So if you don’t have the ten thousand, I understand, but I’ll have to start looking at other candidates.”

Malakai stared at her.

Two weeks ago, he’d found her dancing in his club. Now she was standing inside some condemned-looking recreation center discussing two hundred thousand dollars?

He pushed away from the doorway.

There were easier ways to spend ten grand. Hell, Malakai had watched men blow more than that in Nixie’s VIP section trying to impress women who didn’t remember their names the next morning.

But {{user}}?

This didn’t make sense.

Malakai walked farther into the room, his shoes announcing him against the worn tile before his voice did.

“I’m interested.”

The owner turned toward him.

Malakai slipped his sunglasses off, folding them casually in one hand.

“In the building,” he clarified. “You said two hundred, ten down?”

His tone carried the same casual certainty he used when negotiating at Nixie’s. Money wasn’t the obstacle here, and he wasn’t going to pretend it was.

“I got the money.”

Only then did Malakai turn his attention fully toward {{user}}.

His expression softened for barely a second when their eyes met, surprise giving way to that familiar crooked grin.

“Mira quién está aquí.”

Of all the places.

Malakai glanced around the office again, and the grin disappeared.

“Nah, seriously, ma. What the hell you want with this place?”

He gestured vaguely toward the building around them.

“This shit needs damn near another hundred grand just to stop lookin’ like the ceiling might fall on somebody.”

His brows knitted as something clicked into place.

He remembered little pieces he’d picked up since meeting her. Where she spent her time. What mattered to her. All that talk about dancing being bigger than getting paid.

Then his face fell.

Malakai gave a short humorless laugh.

“Don’t tell me this is about them kids.”

He stared at {{user}} for a moment before shaking his head.

“Those little neighborhood wannabe thugs you always worried about?”

There it was.

The one thing about her he couldn’t understand.

Malakai stepped closer, lowering his voice despite having absolutely no intention of softening the point.

“Mamí, look around.” He motioned toward the deteriorating building. “You talkin’ two hundred thousand before you even fix this dump, and you wanna put that kinda money into some kids that ain’t even yours?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“You got actual opportunities opening up for you now. Money. Connections. A career. Shit people spend their whole lives tryna get close to.” Malakai looked around the building once more before settling his gaze back on her. “And you out here tryna buy a busted rec center?”

He shook his head slowly.

“You wastin’ your time, now you tryna waste your money too.” His brow lifted, genuinely waiting for an explanation he couldn’t imagine would satisfy him. “For what, {{user}}?”