Rex had finally learned: Dixie was really stubborn. No wonder Sherry couldn't handle her before.
Though he'd said he wouldn't take her in the infirmary, once Dixie could move, she'd hobbled to the training room daily. Arms and legs in casts, she'd just sit and watch Rex spar.
Impossible to shake off. Now the whole Burman bar was buzzing.
"Hey," the white guy, Ryan, elbowed Rex, "What'd you feed that kid? She's glued to you."
Rex leaned against the bar, scrolling news on his phone. Coldly, he shrugged Ryan's elbow off without a glance.
Ryan shrugged, defeated.
He was about to leave when a wine-red stiletto stepped through the door, followed by Sherry, missing for two days.
A black crop top, wine-red skirt. A gleaming cross pendant at her throat. Silver hair cascaded down, swaying with the click of her heels. A small silver pistol at her waist hid most of the soft curve above her hip.
Behind her, the hulking Jensen looked equally grim. They headed straight for Rex.
Ryan's teasing smirk vanished instantly. He straightened off the bar.
Rex lifted his gaze from the phone screen to Sherry and Jensen.
"D*mn it!" Jensen spat first, neck taut with anger. "That old bastard Louis is actually teaming up with Hades. F**k."
"Fighting?" Ryan eyed their holstered guns nervously.
"No." Rex took over, ice-blue eyes scanning them coolly. "No blood."
"Nope," Sherry tossed her gun onto the bar, stretching stiff muscles with a wry smile. "Louis is bankrolling some scheme of Hades'. Welsh Mob provides the firepower."
"He wants Burman back using Hades' muscle?" Ryan spat, furious. "That crazy old f**k."
"Welsh Mob isn't playtime. Hades is a lunatic," Rex remarked flatly, toying with his phone, eyes on the silver pistol.
"A muscle-bound lunatic," Sherry added, a slight shrug.
Hades, boss of the Welsh Mob, had tentacles across Europe and America. Loan sharking, gambling, trafficking, drugs – his empire thrived. And he was a fanatical martial artist obsessed with combat.
In a way, Hades was the dark underbelly of Britain, especially if you counted his… depraved appetites.
Louis partnering with Hades? It wouldn't end well.
Focusing just on Burman now was foolish. The bar was no longer a sanctuary for its enforcers.
Louis had shattered the balance.
...
A heavy pall hung over Burman in the following days. Patrons were subdued. Enforcers were scarce.
Even Dixie, oblivious to the details, felt it.
Rex, Sherry, even Jensen – they were rarely at the bar. Dixie, with no one to talk to, sat slumped on a barstool, swinging her casted leg.
"Kid! Take this over there!"
A server slapped Dixie's head. She jolted, turning dark eyes upward.
The server raised an eyebrow, shoving an ice-cold bucket of drinks into her arms.
Silently, Dixie reached out with her good arm and took it.
She hopped down, landing on her good leg. The casted leg wasn't too bad now; she could put slight weight on it, hobbling awkwardly.
After delivering the drinks, Dixie drifted back to her stool, swinging the injured leg again.
Servers and patrons passed by. Some tried talking to her. Dixie didn't utter a single word.
Just watched them with wary, dark eyes.
Rex walked in from the city and overheard someone talking about the kid on the stool: "That thing mute? Who bought it? Weird f**king fetish."
Sherry followed behind Rex. Hearing it, she snorted, then burst out laughing, clapping Rex's shoulder.
Hard to tell if she was laughing at the 'mute' Dixie or Rex's 'weird fetish'.
Rex, hands in pockets, gave her a sidelong glare.
"What?" Sherry raised an eyebrow. "Look. Kid's watching you."
Rex turned. Dixie's intense gaze met his.
Perched on the stool, spine rigid, those dark eyes fixed on him, lips pressed tight as if wanting to speak.
"She's watching you," Rex corrected flatly, glancing at Sherry. He rolled his stiff neck and walked away without hesitation.
Sherry crossed her arms and whistled, low and enigmatic.
...
Days later, a diamond exhibition gala lit up the city center.
Sherry and Rex, representing the Boss and Burman, were always invited to such events.
These galas demanded escorts – proof of lineage, symbols of status.
Sherry never needed one. Few in any room could stand beside her in full regalia without fading. And she certainly didn't need anyone to validate her status.
Rex, with Burman's clout, never lacked female companions. This time, however, he yanked Dixie straight off the training room floor.
Dixie's leg was mostly healed after two weeks. The cast was off, replaced by bandages, leaving only a slight limp. Her arm, shattered by a club, was still useless in its cast.
A pure white gown revealed her neck and collarbones. A sling held her arm.
Beneath the gauzy sleeve, plaster encased one limb. Bandages wrapped her calf under the full skirt, ending in kid-leather heels.
Her messy black hair was slicked back, topped with a silver tiara, revealing a smooth forehead marred by fading scars.
She stood awkwardly before Rex and Sherry, one arm bound.
Sherry wore a gold, single-shoulder mermaid gown. Curves accentuated, legs impossibly long and pale. Black pearls glittered at her ears and throat. Her silver hair was elegantly pinned up, baring a slender nape.
Gold stilettos added height, making her tower over Dixie by more than two heads.
Ryan, passing by, finally snapped. He pointed at Sherry, then at Dixie. "What the f**k? Is this a gala? What's with the kid?"
Fading bruises still marked Dixie's neck and forearms. Some hid under band-aids; others showed purple against the white fabric.
"Couldn't remove the bandages or cast. What choice was there?" Sherry retorted, arms crossed, a sardonic curve to her red lips. "Or maybe you want to convince Rex to take you instead?"
Ryan opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Rex stood nearby in a tailored black suit, jacket open, collar loose, hands in pockets. His ice-blue eyes watched.
"Don't sweat it, kid. Tiny party," Sherry smiled back at Dixie, patting her thin shoulder.
The touch made Dixie visibly tense further.
Rex clicked his tongue.
"Move."
Pushing off the doorframe, Rex grabbed Dixie by the scruff of her gown and hauled her towards his Range Rover.
Her heels scraped the floor. Dixie struggled, wide-eyed, hampered by the cast, sling, and gown. Futile.
Sherry whistled and slid into her eye-searingly red Porsche.
The gala venue, the Vienna Hotel downtown, featured golden statues spouting water into fountains.
The Range Rover and Porsche blended anonymously among the limousines. Attendees here were European and American elite.
Dixie trailed Rex into the ballroom. Heads turned instantly.
She faltered, dark eyes lifting reflexively.
Women holding champagne flutes stared. Conversations among men paused.
Scanning the room, thanks to Rex, every gaze – overt or covert – was fixed on them.
The sheer weight of attention paralyzed Dixie.
She understood hostile intent. Knew how to fight killers, how to play dead, where to hide.
Small talk? Subtle jabs? Happiness? Pain? Normal human interactions were alien.
Dixie lived only by survival instinct.
Rex licked his teeth. He didn't want a pet attack dog.
He narrowed his ice-blue eyes, turning to Dixie – only to find her rigid as stone.
"…"
Feeling his gaze, she looked up. Lips moved silently. Her dark eyes burned into him, desperate to speak.
Rex frowned almost imperceptibly. "What?"
Dixie stared, struggling. Finally, one word escaped:
"No."
D*mn. Interrupted.
Rex sucked in an irritated breath. He knew she'd clammed up. Jaw tight, he straightened impatiently.
Just then, Sherry entered.
Gold mermaid gown. Stilettos clicking. One hand holding her skirt, she glided into the ballroom.
Every gaze snapped to her. No subtlety now. Raw, involuntary awe. The low murmur of conversation died completely.
Someone gasped. Loud in the silence.
Sherry covered her red lips with a hand and laughed – a sound that brought her sculpted beauty startlingly to life.
The room stirred, whispers resuming – admiration, envy, longing. Still, no one dared approach.
"Ms. Sherry?"
A familiar, low, lazy drawl sounded behind her. It could only be him.
"Stunning," came the sincere, almost gentlemanly murmur. "Care to be my escort?"
Sherry turned. Andrew.
He stood casually, hands in pockets. No jacket. Just a pure black shirt, collar open, revealing a scar on his collarbone.
Broad shoulders, narrow waist, powerful legs radiating raw magnetism.
And he already had a woman on his arm.