Doja sat at the velvet-drenched bar, her boots resting on a table that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. She wasn't here for the drinks. She was here because Roman Sionis’s lead enforcer had forgotten to say "please" when he’d tried to “requisition” her getaway car.
The enforcer laughed, a wet, ugly sound. He signaled his men. They closed in—suits tight, knuckles cracked. Doja Cat - Boss Btch (from Birds of Prey: The Album)
She walked out of the club, the heavy beat of the music resuming as if the building itself was exhaling in relief. Outside, the engine of her ride roared to life, a sleek, predatory growl that echoed off the skyscrapers. She didn't look back. Bosses never do. Doja sat at the velvet-drenched bar, her boots
“He’s in the back,” the bartender whispered, his hands shaking as he polished a glass. “But he’s got ten guys with him.” The enforcer laughed, a wet, ugly sound
Doja checked her reflection in the back of a polished spoon, adjusting a stray strand of pink hair. “Only ten? I must be losing my touch.”
The enforcer, a man built like a brick wall in a silk suit, looked up from his cards. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here, girlie.”