Adult Industry System-Chapter 121

Chapter 121: Chapter 121
Sasha had her heart set on a trendy, neon-soaked boutique hotel in West Hollywood—the kind of place where the lobby is a nonstop party and the paparazzi camp out 24/7. But I wasn’t in LA for the aesthetic or the clout. I was here for the power.
​"Change of plans, Sasha," I said as we stepped into the back of the SUV. "We aren’t checking in just yet. I need to handle a few details first."
​Sasha pouted, her arms crossed tight under her chest. The movement made her perky tits strain even harder against the thin white fabric of her tank top, her nipples still hard from the flight, practically begging for attention. "Druski, come on. It’s been a long flight. I wanted a shower, a bed, and you... in that order."
​"You’ll get all three. Just be patient," I told her, already pulling out my burner phone.
​I dialed a number on my contacts. It picked up on the second ring to the sound of sirens and heavy bass. It was Two-bit. Ever since Big Mom had assigned him to be my "babysitter," we’d gotten tight. Two-bit was a bottom-feeder, but he was a useful one.
Aside from Abigail and Volkov, he was the only one who knew how Monet really moved. If a high-level executive sneezed in a boardroom or a mob boss changed their mistress, Two-bit knew the brand of the tissue and the color of the lingerie. We’d bonded over the last few months—mostly because I was the only guy in the industry who didn’t treat him like a cockroach.
​"It’s Hart," I said. "I’m in the City of Angels. I need a location on Big Mom. Now."
​There was a long silence, followed by the raspy strike of a match. "Man, Druski... you’re playing with high-voltage wire. Monet doesn’t ’stay’ places; she occupies them. She’s got the Russian giant and ten other killers with her."
​"I know the risks. How much?"
​"What are you tryna do with her location?" he asked, his voice dripping with paranoia.
​I grinned, looking at my reflection in the tinted window. "I just wanna try my luck with that tight ass again."
​There was a stunned pause. Two-bit let out a jagged laugh. "You got balls of vibranium, kid. Alright. Two grand for the hotel and the floor number. And I want a guarantee—a blood-oath—that if you do anything stupid, my name stays out of your mouth. I like having my head attached to my neck."
​"The money is being wired now. You know I don’t talk to rivals. Check your account."
​A moment later, I heard a satisfied grunt. "She’s at the Peninsula. Penthouse suite, obviously. She’s meeting with the ’Director’s Circle’ tonight. Be careful, motherfucker. That’s a shark tank."
​I hung up and looked at Sasha. "Tell the driver to head to Beverly Hills. The Peninsula."
​Sasha’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. "The Peninsula? Druski, that’s way out of our budget for this trip. I’m an indie producer, not a hedge fund manager!"
​"I’m not planning a stay," I said, a cold, predatory grin forming as the palm trees of Sunset Blvd began to blur past. "I’m planning an unannounced visit."
​"I can’t afford that place!" she hissed, looking at the driver.
​"Don’t worry," I said, reaching over and running a hand over the curve of her thigh. "The King is paying
The Peninsula lived up to every cent of its reputation. The air was a curated blend of fresh lilies and old-world prestige, and the marble floors were polished to such a high gloss that it felt like walking on water. As we stepped into the lobby, the chaotic roar of the LA streets was replaced by a heavy, expensive silence.
​I led Sasha toward the mahogany reception desk. Behind it sat a woman who looked more like a Vogue model than a staff member. Her uniform was razor-sharp, but it couldn’t mask the curves beneath or the professional poise she carried. Her name tag read Camille, and as her eyes traveled from my face down to my shoulders, her "hospitality mask" slipped just enough for me to see the spark of interest.
​"Welcome to the Peninsula," she said, her voice a silky, practiced alto. "How can I help you today?"
​"We need a room," I said, leaning my forearms against the cool mahogany, closing the distance until the scent of her expensive perfume filled my lungs. "Something with a view. And maybe some service that matches the...
reputation
of this place."
​Camille’s cheeks flushed a soft, unmistakable pink. She stole a quick, wary glance at Sasha—who was standing there in her tiny, braless tank top like a high-end disruptor—then looked back at me. "I think I can find something... exceptional for you, Mr. Hart."
​"I like the sound of that," I whispered, flashing a slow, predatory grin.
​The check-in was seamless, the flirting acting as a perfect smoke screen. I didn’t ask about Monet. I didn’t mention the "Director’s Circle." I played the part of the rising king, a man with money to burn and a beautiful woman on his arm.
​We took the elevator up to the 4th floor. The hallways were hauntingly quiet, the plush carpeting swallowing the sound of our footsteps. There was no sign of the Russian giant, Volkov, or the black-suited soldiers I expected. It was eerie—the kind of stillness that usually precedes a hurricane.
​As the door to our suite clicked shut, Sasha finally let out the breath she’d been holding since the airport. She looked around at the gold-leaf detailing and the crystal chandelier, then back at me.
​"Exactly just how rich are you?" she asked, her voice hushed by the sheer luxury of the room.
​I just smiled, enjoying the mystery. "My net worth is top secret, Sasha. Keeps the enemies and the opportunists guessing."
​She smiled back, a genuine warmth softening her eyes. "Is that so? You’ve come a long way in a short time, Druski. From the tapes to the Peninsula... I’m proud of you. I really am."
​"Well, thanks," I said, walking over to the window. "But there’s still plenty of miles to go. I’m just getting started."
​I looked down the hallway in my mind. We were only six rooms away from the suite number Two-bit had leaked to me. Part of me wondered if I should tell Sasha that the woman who "owned" my contract was breathing the same air just a few doors down. I decided against it; Sasha was here for the dream, and I was here for the takeover.
​I wondered what Monet would say when she realized I’d tracked her to her fortress. Would she be impressed by the audacity, or would she find it a threat?
​"This place shows class," I muttered, looking at the high ceilings. It was a room deserving of the price I’d paid, and the status I was building.