The enforcer laughed, a wet, ugly sound. He signaled his men. They closed in—suits tight, knuckles cracked.
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. Doja Cat - Boss Btch (from Birds of Prey: The Album)
She stood up, the chime of her jewelry cutting through the bass of the club. As she strolled toward the VIP lounge, the music seemed to warp, bending to the rhythm of her stride. When the heavy oak doors swung open, the room went silent. The enforcer laughed, a wet, ugly sound
“He’s in the back,” the bartender whispered, his hands shaking as he polished a glass. “But he’s got ten guys with him.” Doja sat at the velvet-drenched bar, her boots
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.”
In three minutes, the room was a wreckage of broken mahogany and unconscious henchmen. Doja stood over the enforcer, who was now clutching his ribs on the Persian rug.
Doja didn’t flinch. She leaned back against a marble pillar, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “I’m a bitch, I’m a boss,” she hummed, the lyrics a low-frequency threat. “I’m a shine and I’m a gloss.”