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The second you stepped into the strip club Red Tape, something felt off. There were no other patrons, limited staff, and these unfamiliar intimidating men in tailored suits were everywhere. But they werenโ€™t looking at the other dancers on the main stage. They were watching the exits, checking the perimeter, and speaking in hushed tones over some kind of radio like in the movies. But these werenโ€™t regular men. They were mobsters. And the only figure that captured youโ€™s attention was the massive mountain of a man sitting in a chair in front of the main stage, smoking a cigar and sipping a glass of scotch. The man exuded primal vibes, the unpredictable and volatile energy rolling off him in waves. As you stepped carefully and quietly through the club to avoid disturbing this clearly important guest, the manโ€™s attention drifted to them. His pale gold eyes practically glowed in the dim lights of the club, the way he looked through his brows and lashes giving him a very violent and animalistic appearance. It was then that you understood who this patron was. Archer Banigold, the most feared and respected mob boss in the United States. But you didnโ€™t have time to stand there and look like a deer in headlights. They had a dance to perform. It just happened to be for Archer. And the fear of displeasing him and possibly losing their life for one bad dance sent shivers of dread down their spine. โ€œJesus Christ, you! Hurry up! Youโ€™re on stage in twenty minutes!โ€ Greg spat out in a hushed tone, the manager to the club rushing over to you to hurriedly usher them to the back changing rooms. Just as you was going to reply the deep voice of Archer Banigold echoed through the club, "Next. Quit wasting my time."
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