Chapter 10: Life Beneath the City

The elevator descended like a velvet coffin, slow and silent, its brass fixtures gleaming under low amber light. Lila stood beside me, arms crossed, her eyes flicking between the mirrored walls and the numbered buttons. She hadn’t spoken since the suite. Not since Antonio had appeared with a garment bag and a quiet suggestion: “For the backroom, señor. Something appropriate for the lady.”

Inside the bag was a dress that belonged to another kind of woman. Sparkling sequins stitched into midnight blue silk, cut low at the back, with a fringe that swayed like candlelight. A flapper’s dream. A moll’s armor.

She’d hesitated, of course. But Antonio had insisted, and I’d said nothing. Now, as the elevator hummed toward the basement level, she wore it like a challenge. Her hair was pinned up in soft waves, a single curl falling against her cheek. She looked like trouble in a jazz tune.

“You don’t have to stay long,” I said, voice low. “Just a drink. A little music.”

She didn’t answer. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her clutch, knuckles pale.

The elevator chimed. The doors opened onto a narrow hallway lined with velvet wallpaper and gold sconces. A man in a tuxedo nodded at me, then pulled open a hidden door behind a false wine rack.

We stepped into the speakeasy.

The bar shimmered with excess. Crystal chandeliers hung low over mahogany booths. A jazz trio played in the corner—stand-up bass, muted trumpet, piano keys like falling rain. The crowd was young, beautiful, and dangerous.

Women in sequins and feathers leaned against men in tailored suits, their laughter sharp as broken glass. Cigarette smoke curled above the tables like ghosts. Waiters in white gloves moved like chess pieces, delivering illegal liquor with ease- and a flourish.

As we entered, heads turned.

Some of the women smiled—flirtatious, knowing. Others stiffened, eyes wide with fear.

“Don Brisa,” one murmured, her voice like perfume.

“Señor,” another said, dipping her chin.

A third simply stared, lips parted, as if unsure whether to run or curtsy.

Lila flinched at the attention. I saw it in the way her shoulders tensed, the way her eyes darted toward the women sizing her up- some with envy, some with pity, some with the kind of practiced calculation that only came from surviving men like the don. She didn’t speak, but her discomfort was loud.

We reached a private booth near the back, half-shielded by curtains.

Antonio gestured to the booth. “I’ll have the waiter bring your usual.”

He melted back into the crowd, and we were alone.

I tried to keep my gaze fixed on Lila. Tried to make it clear that she was the only one I saw. But that only seemed to make her more uneasy. She perched on the edge of her seat, spine straight, eyes scanning the room. Her fingers tightened around the clutch in her lap, and she shifted in her seat as if the velvet beneath her had turned to thorns.

“You don’t like it,” I said.

She turned to me, voice quiet. “It’s beautiful. But it’s not mine.”

I nodded. “It’s not really mine either.”

She looked at me then- really looked. The accusation in her voice was bitter and sharp. “Then why do they all know you?”

I didn’t answer. Not directly. I gestured at the wall of **** behind the bar. “Pick something. Anything.”

She hesitated, then pointed to a bottled wine called “The Marisol.”

I smiled. “Fitting.”

The waiter arrived, took our order, and vanished. The jazz trio shifted into a slower tune; it was something smoky and sad.

Lila leaned back, tassels on her dress swaying. “Do you run this place like you do all your other 'businesses'?”

“I keep it running smoothly,” I said. “Somewhere under all this pageantry is a businessman. Once, I was a simple cart peddler.”

She studied me. “And now you’re the man they all fear.”

I looked around the room. “Fear is currency here. But it’s not the only one. Sure, money is a another. But I find myself lately thinking about the things it cannot buy.”

She tilted her head. “What else is there?”

I met her eyes. “Hope. Freedom. Choice. A simpler life.”

Her jaw tightened. That phrase again. Simpler life.

I saw it land wrong. Saw her shoulders stiffen.

“I'm sorry, you don't seem to-” I began.

She waved it off. “It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t.

Not sure what wound I was touching on, I changed course. “Tell me about the sea again.”

She smiled, just barely. “It’s the only place I ever feel free.”

The drinks arrived. She tasted her wine, eyes closing. “This is good.”

I watched her, watched the candlelight dance across her collarbone. Our voices just carried over the sound of jazz and shuffling feet. We chatted about the ocean, the waves and the salt air. Finally, a lull settled on the crowd as the musicians took a quick break in their set.

I leaned in slightly, voice low. “Lila, I meant what I said. Your debts- they’ll be gone. Wiped clean.”

She flinched. Not dramatically. Just a flicker- a breath caught too fast, a blink too slow. But I saw it. She tried to cover it with a sip of her drink, eyes downcast.

“Thank you,” she said, voice tight.

The jazz played on. The speakeasy shimmered around us. And somewhere beneath the sequins and smoke, a plan was forming—an escape, not just for me, but for both of us. If she’d let me.