Chapter 2 — The Hives Club

Catalina

The cold air slices through my coat, biting at my cheeks as I step out of the cab and onto the slick, rain-slicked pavement. The city’s muted hum surrounds me, its usual chaos dulled by the late hour. My fingers tighten on the strap of my worn bag as the weight of my decision sinks in. Paige’s voice echoes in my mind—“Good money. Just waiting tables.” But it’s not her voice that propels me forward. It’s my father’s shallow breaths, his trembling hand reaching for medicine we couldn’t afford. It’s the stack of bills on the kitchen table, each one a reminder of how little time we have left.

I glance up at the glowing marquee of The Hives Club. It looms ahead, understated yet commanding in its presence. There’s no flashy neon sign, no gaudy letters advertising its infamy—just a red velvet rope slick with moisture and a single overhead light casting sharp shadows on the damp sidewalk. The doorman stands beneath it, his broad shoulders blocking the entrance like an immovable gatekeeper. His dark eyes sweep over me as I approach, and a knot tightens in my chest.

“Name?” His voice is low, clipped—more formality than curiosity.

“Catalina Russo,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands.

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as though weighing my worth. His eyes flick briefly to the empty street behind me, then back. He leans in closer, and I catch the faint scent of leather and rain. “You sure you belong here?” he asks, his words deliberate, each one carrying an unspoken warning.

For a moment, I falter, the question lingering in the air between us. Do I? My father’s face flashes in my mind again, and I force the doubt aside. “I’m here for an interview,” I say, keeping my voice firm.

His expression doesn’t change, but I catch a flicker of something—a smirk, maybe, or just a hint of amusement—as he steps aside. The creak of the door opening is swallowed by the pulse of bass-heavy music spilling out into the night. Warm air rushes out to meet me, carrying with it the mingling scents of expensive cologne, liquor, and something metallic that prickles at the edges of my senses.

The moment I step inside, the world shifts.

The air presses against me, thick with heat and the mingling aromas of opulence and danger. Crimson velvet drapes cascade from gilded ceilings, their folds catching the golden glow of art deco chandeliers. The mirrored walls reflect distorted glimpses of patrons cloaked in shadows, their laughter sharp and deliberate, every movement choreographed like a dark, elegant dance. Every surface gleams—polished floors, golden accents, glass that sparkles like it’s been touched by fire.

It’s beautiful, in the way a storm is beautiful—chaotic and dangerous, its splendor only deepening the unease curling in my stomach.

I linger near the entrance, clutching my bag like a lifeline as I take it all in. The patrons glide across the room, the men wrapped in tailored suits that whisper of wealth and power, the women draped in gowns that shimmer like oil slicks. Their eyes, cold and assessing, slide over me briefly before moving on, as though I’m nothing more than a thread out of place in this perfectly woven tapestry. My neatly pressed blouse and borrowed slacks don’t just feel out of place—they feel like a glaring spotlight on everything I don’t belong to.

“Can I help you?”

The voice is sharp, cutting through the haze of my thoughts. I turn to see a woman standing before me, her cheekbones like razors beneath the soft shadows of the room. Her black dress clings to her frame with effortless precision, her crimson lips unmoving as her eyes sweep over me. She doesn’t smile.

“I—uh,” I stammer, the words snagging in my throat. “I’m here for an interview.”

She doesn’t react immediately, though something flickers behind her gaze—mild curiosity, perhaps, or faint amusement. “Follow me,” she says, her tone clipped and polite, but distant.

Her heels click sharply against the polished floor as she weaves through the crowd. She moves with the confidence of someone who knows every rhythm of this place, every turn in the dance. I trail behind her, my pulse quickening with every step. Eyes follow us as we pass—casual glances that linger just long enough to send a shiver crawling down my spine.

We reach a heavy crimson curtain at the far end of the room. The music dulls as she sweeps it aside, replaced by a faint, low hum that vibrates in the air like distant machinery. My steps falter slightly as we enter a dimly lit hallway. The golden light lining the walls feels muted, swallowed by the thickness of the air. It’s quieter here, but the silence feels alive, as though the walls themselves are holding their breath.

“This way,” she says, her voice softer now, almost a whisper.

She stops in front of a door at the end of the hallway. For the first time, her composure slips—just slightly, but enough for me to notice the tension in her posture, the way her lips press into a thin line. She glances at me, her expression unreadable, and then says, “Good luck.” There’s no reassurance in her tone, no kindness—just the faintest edge of something that feels like pity.

The door swings open, and the room beyond is smaller than I expected. The walls are lined with dark wood that absorbs the dim light, the shadows stretching long and thin across the floor. A single, low-hanging lamp casts a golden glow over a sleek glass desk. Behind it sits the man I already know must be Adrian Ivanov.

He doesn’t rise as I step into the room. He doesn’t speak immediately. He simply watches me, his icy blue eyes piercing through the low light with an intensity that’s as unsettling as it is captivating. His stillness is unnerving, every detail about him sharp and deliberate—from the perfect angles of his face to the tailored black suit that seems to consume the light.

“Catalina Russo,” he says finally, his voice low and smooth, the faintest trace of an accent curling around the edges of his words. It’s not a question.

“Yes,” I reply, forcing the word out through the dryness in my throat.

He gestures toward the chair opposite him. I sit, straightening my back and clasping my hands tightly in my lap. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint ticking of a gold pocket watch resting on the edge of the desk. Each tick seems louder than the last, reverberating through the quiet like a countdown.

“You’ve come highly recommended,” he says, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Paige’s friend, correct? She spoke highly of your… adaptability.”

My stomach twists at the mention of Paige, but I force my expression to remain neutral. “I work hard,” I say, my voice steady despite the pounding in my chest. “I can handle myself.”

His lips curve into a faint smirk, one that feels more calculated than casual. “That remains to be seen.”

His gaze lingers on me, cold and assessing, as though peeling back every layer of me with surgical precision. “Why would someone like you want to work here?” he asks, his tone deceptively light.

I hesitate, his scrutiny pressing down on me like a weight. The truth feels too raw, too vulnerable to offer so openly. But then I think of my father again—the sound of his strained breaths filling the silence of our apartment—and the words come out before I can stop them.

“I need the money,” I say simply. “My father is sick. I’ll do whatever it takes to take care of him.”

For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—something almost imperceptible, like the faintest crack in a mask. Compassion? Curiosity? Whatever it is, it vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

“Loyalty,” he says softly, almost to himself. “An admirable trait.”

He leans forward, the golden light catching on the sharp planes of his face. “Understand this,” he says, his voice dropping into a near-whisper, “The Hives Club is not for the faint of heart. You’ll see things here that may unsettle you. But if you keep your head down and do as you’re told, loyalty will be rewarded.”

The unspoken warning sends a shiver down my spine, but I nod, refusing to let the fear show. “I can handle it,” I say.

His smirk deepens, a glint of something dangerous flashing in his eyes. “We’ll see.”

With a slight motion, he waves me toward the door. I rise on unsteady legs, turning to leave, but his voice halts me just as my hand touches the doorknob.

“Catalina.”

I glance back, my pulse racing.

“Welcome to The Hives Club.”

His words are smooth, almost warm, but they settle in my chest like lead.

I step back into the hallway, the ticking of his pocket watch fading behind me, and weave my way through the club’s opulent chaos. The cold air outside hits me like a slap, chasing away the lingering heat of the club as I pull my coat tighter around me.

My hands tremble slightly, but I force myself to keep walking, each step heavier than the last.

I don’t look back.