Larry thinks this is just great, of course, and he vibrates with excitement when the packages arrive from luxury boutiques all over the city. A purse from Gucci. Shoes by Prada. Jewelry from Dolce. A dress by Valentino. They all make the elements of a beautiful outfit, but you refuse to even open the one from Agent Provocateur, throwing it in the bin with extra venom.

"I'm going to murder him."

"Why?" protests your boss, like he has any skin in the game. "You should just enjoy it, honey. The boyfriend is pretty but he can't afford things like this on a cop's salary."

Larry willfully disregards that Jack was in the shop not too long ago, asking none-too-sneakily if there were any diamond rings in the case you had your eye on. Greedy man that he is, Larry was all too happy to point a few out, whether he knew you really liked them or not. He agreed to keep Jack's secret, though not really for Jack's benefit.

"Jack doesn't need to buy me crap like this to make me happy," you grouse. Just spending an afternoon lounging in your PJs with that man leaves you full to the brim with contentedness, so happy and in love you can hardly see straight.

It's true that you enjoy beautiful things for the artistry in them, but the brand means nothing to you. You learned the hard way that luxury does not bring happiness, nor is it a true marker of a man's devotion.

"Because," you explain to Larry for the umpteenth time. "I'm in love with Jack, and I am not going on a date with Donaka Mark just because he..."

"Saved your life?"

"Jack saved my life."

"Hmm you sure about that?" he asks, like he was even there. You never should have told Larry about the high tech tracking beacon in the money, or the high speed chase via the Batmobile. (Ok, you know it was a Bugatti, but you refuse to call it that just to needle your employer.) Ok, Donaka Mark helped you out. A lot.

You're still not going to sleep with him.

Larry lets it go for now. Silly you for thinking the matter was settled.

When a nice lot of diamonds come into the shop (from rather dubious origins, in your opinion) Larry enlists Lucas Hill to help move them. You like Lucas, even if you're convinced he might be a low-key crook. You even make him smile sometimes with your insouciance behind Larry's back, which for some silly reason feels like winning a rare prize.

It's the little things that cut the boredom throughout the day…

Maybe you should have known something was up on the big day, when Lucas seemed surprised to see you in the shop so late, and asked with seeming concern if Larry was going to send you home.

"She'll be fine," Larry poo-poos. "How else will she learn the business?"

Lucas paid you a sliding look, but deferred to his partner's decision.

In hindsight, that was your cue to git while the gitting was good.

But you'll admit it. You were curious. Maybe you're not so immune to the allure of wealth afterall. Supposedly these sparkly little stones were worth over a cool million, and a part of you just wanted to see what was going to happen when it all went down.

The moment they walked in you knew something sketchy was afoot. Big men with hard eyes, scars, and tattoos peeking out of the collars of their thousand-dollar suits escorted a slighter gentleman who possessed the quiet self-possession of a tiger in the forest; totally assured that he is the most dangerous thing around for miles.

Their accents are distinctly Eastern-Bloc, and deep in your bones you start to shake.

Larry is all welcoming smiles, the perpetual merchant who smells a big sale. Lucas is cooler about it all, and you do your best to emulate him over Larry's blatant bootlicking. John isn't connected to the Russian mob anymore you tell yourself. Get it together you messy bitch.

Strangely, this harsh little pep talk helps your mental state. You're there to assist, and you do your job, distributing drinks after the men exchange pleasantries and seat themselves in the plush leather chairs Lawrence reserves for his best clients. It's your job to bring out the merchandise from the safe too, setting it all up on the low table. Then you stand in the background, and you keep your mouth shut.

It's stupid, really, the value homosapiens attributes to what are, essentially, just shiny rocks. But then when they're spread out on the velvet tray before all of you, the diamonds the sizes of bird's eggs do inspire a certain awe, a certain wonder, that even you are not immune to.

Lucas speaks flawless Russian with your guests, and translates to Larry. Sometimes he looks to you with those sad dark eyes, but never for too long, as though he doesn't want to call attention to you.

Oleg, the leader, looks at the biggest stone clasped between the tweezers with a loupe pinched expertly in his eye. You don't understand the words, but from the tone, he sounds pleased. As far as you can tell, there are no threats. No guns are flashed from beneath lined suit jackets. It's just business, and after Oleg nods a briefcase is set up on the table. Bodyguard 1 pops the lid to reveal stacks and stacks of cash neatly bunched in paper bands. Larry's eyes practically glow and flash with cartoon dollar signs. And maybe you do feel a bit of a tingle, knowing that some of the cash in that briefcase will be yours.

Funny that this isn't the first time you've seen this kind of money in one place, though it's nice this time it's not all on fire.

When the deal is sealed the tension in the room lifts considerably. You're proud of yourself that you don't spill anything when the boys request another round. Larry's top shelf will be seriously depleted after these guys are done with it.

"You too, shy girl," Oleg demands. "What's your name?"

Fuck.

"Y/n."

"Ah, pretty name! I know. We should all go out for drinks to celebrate. You will come. Yes?"

As you're opening your mouth to say you have to go home now, Larry answers for you, "Of course she will."

You don't know why you glance to Lucas, who is zero help, totally stone faced. Then you turn to Larry, who looks like he might lay an egg if you don't go along. Would it really scuttle the deal if you refuse? It seems ridiculous, but you just don't know.

"One drink," you agree, doing your best to smile with a leaden ball of dread in your belly.

Oleg grins, revealing a gold-capped inscisor that gleams like a fang. "Of course, of course. Come!"

🌆🌆🌆🌆🌆🌆🌆

You don't know why you expected them to take you to a seedy club with scantily clad women and neon lights. Maybe you watch too many movies. The bar is a swanky place with a gentleman's club vibe, at the top of one of the many skyscrapers downtown. It's all sleek dark wood and metal, low lighting, and a sweeping view of the glittering lights below.

All the little people living their little lives, while those on the top look down at them all.

You find yourselves seated in a round banquette, and an attractive woman in a tasteful uniform takes your drink orders. The conversation doesn't lull amongst the men, and where you know they're talking over your head because of your gender, you don't mind being allowed to sit quietly.

It ends too soon, when after what maybe was a polite amount of time Oleg turns back to you. "So what's your story, Miss y/n? What's a girl like you doing working for men like this?" he asks, pointing with semi-playful disdain at Larry and Lucas.

"Just lucky, I guess." Things go on in this vein, and you keep your cool, playing along while giving vague non answers. All you really want in the world is to go home to Jack, but you reason if you don't execute this with the right amount of patience you'll really fuck yourself over. You can tell Oleg enjoys this cat-and-mouse game, and you hope a little pithy conversation with a pretty girl is all he really wants out of the evening.

Yeah right.

You're saved by the waitress who brings you another drink you didn't order. "Compliments from the gentleman at the bar," she tells you, pointing across the lounge.

Frowning, Oleg turns as though he means to give said gentleman a piece of his mind from here, or maybe sic his attack dogs on them for interrupting his fun. You watch as the gangster's craggy features go from hostile to inscrutable in 0.5 seconds flat.

You follow his gaze, and your own heart skips a beat in your chest.

He salutes you with a cut crystal tumbler of amber liquid and the smirk the Devil must have offered Eve.

Somehow though…you're actually relieved to see him.

The devil you know, as the saying goes.

You do shoot a look over at Larry though, who only shrugs like the most innocent of angels.

You'll deal with him later.

"Will you excuse me, gentlemen?"

Oleg makes a gesture of go ahead, like he knows he's met a bigger, meaner shark in this ocean. Maybe that should scare you way more than it does, when you collect your new drink and make your way to the bar, climbing up onto the stool across from your savior.

"If it isn't the illusive Miss. Y/n. What interesting company you're keeping tonight," Donaka Mark says, taking a sip of his bourbon.

He's wearing one of his impeccably tailored suits that show off his broad shoulders and long legs to completely unfair advantage. Dark blue, crisp white shirt open at the collar—the picture of a successful businessman unwinding after hours. He's so handsome it aches inside, but not with regret. You like where you are in life, and you have zero intention of fucking that up for yourself, or for Jack.

"It's Larry's show tonight. I'm just along for the ride."

"Do you even know who you were sitting with?"

"Not really."

"Last I checked, your friend Oleg over there runs his own brigata for the Dvornikov syndicate."

You nod thoughtfully, eating one of the olives out of your martini. "That tracks."

"You seem to be a magnet for trouble, young lady."

"You have no idea."

"Hmm. I wouldn't be so sure about that."

This sends a tremolo of uneasiness down your spine. "What does that mean?"

"I've done some checking around on you, Y/n."

Your stomach drops like a stone.

"How rude."

"No, just thorough. Knowledge is power in my business. And you have some serious holes in your background. It's almost as if…you just appeared out of thin air, and landed here in L.A."

You swallow hard, wanting to take a big swig of your martini, but knowing you can't do it without your hands shaking.

"Maybe that's a sign that it's none of your business."

"Who are you on the run from, y/n? Despite your impressive cadre of police guard dogs, I don't think you're in WITSEC. I have contacts there."

You just shake your head, tamping down the rising tide of panic inside.

"I can help you, you know."

"I'm doing fine, thank you."

You were, at least.

"Are you? Last I saw you, you nearly got blown to pieces by a madman. Now you're unwittingly keeping company with the Russian mob."

You know you've got to flip this conversation, or it's going downhill for you fast.

"A madman you allowed to go free amongst the public at large, I might remind you. Wouldn't that make an interesting story in the L.A. Times?"

"Ha, nice try. We live in a democracy, my dear. We're not allowed to lock people up on suspicion alone. Even if you know in your gut, someday, they'll do something terrible." You can hardly hold his eyes as he says this; they're glittering black holes that would suck you in to your certain doom. Is he talking about David Allen Griffin, or himself?

"What do you want from me, Donaka?" you sigh, suddenly exasperated.

"I want you under me."

At first you're struck dumb by the shock—then stupified by a hot swell of anger and involuntary lust that this man would dare talk to you like that, your nipples tightening painfully under your layers of clothing. You can't shake the split-second feeling that maybe you look like a respectable businesswoman, but deep down you're just a stupid little whore… The absolute shame in it infuriates you, and as you contemplate what he'd do if you threw your drink in his face, his huge calloused hand covers yours on the bar.

"Ah ah, none of that. But a little gratitude would be nice."

"I am grateful," you say through gritted teeth.

"Doesn't feel like it," he scoffs. "You promised me a drink, but here I had to run into you by chance."

"Chance my ass. What did you pay Larry to ambush me here?"

When did that scoundrel even have time to call in to Donaka where you would be? He's a sneaky son of a bitch, you're learning more and more. You know by Donaka's answering smirk that's exactly what happened, or at least, some sort of backroom deal was made.

"Ambush? That's a strong word."

"It fits."

"You didn't like my gifts then?"

"I threw the last one in the trash," it pleases you to tell him. "I would appreciate it if you wouldn't send lingerie to my place of work."

He just offers that tear of a smile that makes your heart skitter in your chest.

"Nothing's out of reach for a man like me, you know. What would you like instead?"

"Nothing. I have a boyfriend."

"Yes, I know you're shacking up with SWAT boy," he practically growls, his grip tightening on your hand hard enough to make your knuckles ache.

Of course he knows. Has he been watching you? This doesn't surprise you as much as it should in this moment.

Even if your body is shaking, your voice is steadfast when you declare, "I love him, Donaka. I won't be unfaithful to him. That's it." Despite your inexplicable attraction to this man, you are not even tempted. Your love for Jack is that solid, that true. The thought of hurting him makes you wretched inside. Not happening. Not ever.

His full lip sticks out in a little pout, totally mocking you.

"What a luxury, to have such steadfast morals."

"Why do I feel like you're threatening me now?"

"Me?" He releases you, but only to brush his fingertips over yours ever so lightly. You answer by curling your hand into a fist on the bar against the butterflies that flutter across your skin. "You know, there are rules about police officers consorting with known criminals."

"I'm not a criminal."

"But you do seem to keep company with them."

"That's…going to have to change real soon," you find yourself thinking aloud.

"Oh! Does Larry know you're leaving? It might not be that simple now that you're in this deep."

You shake your head, suddenly dizzy from it all. You need to go somewhere you can think. Somewhere quiet, where this man can't see straight through you with that x-ray stare, and rile you up with his infuriating mouth. As though he senses you're about to get down from your stool he hooks his long legs in the rungs, pulling you so close you're practically in his lap.

He's strong, and that shouldn't cross the wires in your brain even more. What kind of vodka is in this martini?

"Don't go yet. We're having so much fun."

"You're having all the fun."

"I'm trying to. You're not cooperating though, as usual," he sighs.

"So sorry."

"I like you, you know. And to be honest, I don't like anyone, y/n. This has become a problem for me." How stupid are you, that for a second you almost feel sorry for this man? What you would give to know if the lonely millionaire act was real or a five-star performance. The man who has everything but someone to share it with…

"Donaka…I'm sure you could press a button and have as many beautiful women as you want to keep you company."

"I could. But none of them have a mouth like you do." He fixates on the appendage in question, and a treacherous spear of heat pierces through you. As though he can see right through you, his pupils dilate until his eyes are the shining black onyx of a shark that senses blood in the water. "Can I make an observation?"

"I'm sure I can't stop you."

"You like me too."

You give a nervous little laugh, snorting with disbelief. "That's so debatable right now."

"Oh, yes you do. Or else you would have already told me to go to hell. I can tell you're just that brazen. Foolish, maybe. But brave enough to do it."

"Ok. Sure. I appreciate what you did for us on the bus." Even if it was indirectly his fault.

"Then give me a chance."

"I. Have. A. Boyfriend."

He waves this off like a fly that annoys him.

"Have you ever been to Bali?"

"No…"

"I'm going next week. You should come with me."

"No."

"I would be so good to you, y/n." He tries to take your hand again, but you move it away. A good trick, considering how you're tangled up in his long legs, and he's leaned in so you're practically nose to nose.

"Mr. Mark…"

"I like it when you call me Donaka."

"Fine. Donaka. Once upon a time, I would have let you chew me up and spit me out just for the thrill of it. But those days are over for me. I've given up dating evil rich guys, ok?"

"Evil?" he cackles, clearly delighted.

"Yeah, it's totally your vibe, if you didn't know. It says something to me, that our friend Oleg over there is clearly scared of you."

He smirks at this. "But you're not. What does that say about you, y/n?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"I would. I make you nervous because you want me and you think you shouldn't. But that's different. So tell me about the other evil rich men you've dated, y/n. I'm intrigued."

You shake your head. "Not for a million dollars."

"I already have 4 million invested in you. What's one more?"

"As if. I'm sure your insurance covered that somehow, and your firm came out of the bus ordeal smelling like a rose. How much new business did all that news coverage drum up for you?"

You're kinda starting to hate that all-knowing smirk of his.

"Maybe it helped offset the damage of the elevator incident."

"See? There's always an angle with men like you." For some reason this is the arrow that finally hits.

You feel the change in the air between you; his eyes narrow, and he leans in close to whisper in your ear, "How's this for an angle? You realize that without me you'd be chained up in a basement in Mexico somewhere waiting for David Allen Griffin to cut little pieces off of you until there was nothing left?"

The thought turns your blood to ice in your veins.

"Sounds like you know some pretty specific details about what kind of monster he was, Mr. Mark. What did you have to cover up before you terminated him from your employ?"

"You can't play the leverage game with me, Y/n. I'll always be a step ahead of you." He's warning you that leaking this tidbit to the Times would not go well for you.

"Sure, sure. But I'm not the bimbo you think I am. You don't actually like me. You just want to tame me. And maybe once when I was younger and a lot dumber that shit appealed to me, but I'm over it now. And, I'm leaving."

You make to finally extricate yourself from the tangle of the stool rungs and his long legs caging you in, but he doesn't make it easy for you.

"Maybe you're having fun playing house with the cop boyfriend for now. But I see you, y/n. Eventually, you're going to get bored. Maybe it will take a while, but it will happen. Maybe you'll marry Traven, and you'll buy a shitty little house together, and pop out a couple of average kids. You'll be up to your ears in bills and dirty laundry and screaming toddlers and you're going to wish you took me up on my offer, but I'll be long gone."

"Uh huh. Have fun in Bali. I'm going to go home, and I'm going to make love to my boyfriend, and while I'm riding his exceptional cock I'm not going to think of you at all."

"Yes you will. Have Traven send me a thank you note. I bet you're a hellcat in the sack when you're angry."

You don't know what possesses you, to laugh at this man. But in a sudden moment of clarity you realize all he wants now is to get a rise out of you, and you decide you're not going to give it to him.

"I guess you'll never know."

Finally, it seems you've truly made him mad. You feel the temperature drop between you like an artic blast; goosepimples raise all along your arms under your blazer. He withdraws, letting you off the damn stool at last. But as you walk past he grabs your upper arm, his fingers like iron digging into your flesh as he pulls you off balance into him.

His voice is low and full of menace; somehow you know this is his truest face beneath all his masks. "I tried being nice, y/n. But I always get what I want in the end. Remember that."

You stumble when he releases you, but you don't fall. Glaring at him, you tug on your blazer, setting yourself to rights. A part of you wants the last word so badly. It would feel good to tell him that he has no idea the fires you walked through to get here, or who he's fucking with.

That you've faced worst monsters than this asshole and lived.

But maybe you have grown up a little, because with a shake of your head you make your exit, and you don't look back at any of the men who have made you miserable today.

Fuck this shit.

You're going home to the one good one in this crazy haystack of a city you've found.

TBC...

Chapter map

Our playlist so far ..... Pandora link Spotify (i finally joined the dark side 😫)

hand in my pocket - alanis morissette

6 underground - sneaker pimps

come as you are - nirvana

miss world - hole

even flow - pearl jam

wonderwall - oasis

closing time - semisonic

ready to go - republica

blood sugar sex magik - the red hot chili peppers

the way she loves me - tonic

slide - the goo goo dolls

naked eye - luscious jackson

only happy when it rains - garbage

criminal - fiona apple

all hail me - veruca salt

free fallin' - tom petty

losing my religion - R.E.M.

never let you go - third eye blind

1979 - the smashing pumpkins

sabotage - the beastie boys

trippin' on a hole in a paper heart - stone temple pilots

vow - garbage

santa monica - everclear (the anthem for this whole fic 😂)