Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
My scalp prickles. I flick the photos to the big screen at my station and scrub the contrast. The menu typeface is distinctive—thick downstrokes, whimsical curls, the font snapped so you get that broken edge on the “d.” The matchbook on the table catches a lick of gold foil—just enough to see a baroque “G” nested in laurel leaves.
I stand, already moving. “Dean,” I say, at his door. “You got a minute?”
He glances up, flips the pen once between his fingers, and waves me in. “What’d you break?”
“Hopefully nothing.” I airdrop the frame to his office display. He leans back, eyes going forensic.
One glance. Not even a second look. He exhales through his nose, a soft whistle. “Club Greed.”
My brows jump. “Say that again.”
“Club Greed,” he repeats, dead certain. He taps the photo. “Their patio bar—Gilt Garden. See the broken ‘d’? And the matchbook is the old monogram—single G with laurel before they rebranded as just the serif wordmark.”
I blow out a breath. “You’ve been?”
“Consulted,” he says, which is Dean for I have the number of the person who turns the house lights on. “Access control, locker policy, anti-camera protocols. They’re… thorough.”
My neck warms. “We think Arby was there a few weeks before—blonde hair timestamp. The guy with her is turned away. If this is Greed, she wasn’t just at a cocktail bar.”
Dean’s face rearranges into okay, then. “You want in.”
“I want eyes,” I say. “The kind that get receipts.”
He considers, then nods once. “Lucky for you, I know the owner.”
“You are an unending font of gifts.”
He smirks, picks up his phone, and scrolls. “Devereaux Huxley,” he says. “Used to be in nightlife, and then pivoted to ‘members-only wellness and intimacy spaces’ before it was cool. We built them a clean-room device policy. Simple set up. Lockers with Faraday liners, staff trained to spot smart jewelry, the works. He owes me a favor.” He taps Call, putting the phone on speaker and setting it down on his desk.
On the first ring a man answers, “Hey, Dean.”
“Dev, how’ve you been?”
“Great,” he says with a laugh like they’re old friends. “Tell me your building hasn’t discovered glitter and I won’t have to fake a heart attack.”
He grins. “No glitter. I’m calling for a friend.”
There’s a beat. “You don’t have friends,” he says, amused. “You have clients and strays.”
“Well then, I'm calling for a stray,” he concedes. “High discretion. He needs to observe, not disrupt. One night. Two badges. No phones. They’ll play by your rules.”
“Purpose?” he asks.
“Closure,” he says, and leaves it there, which is why I let Dean make phone calls.
He’s quiet for a heartbeat. “Tonight is Seven, members’ night. Theme is literal—seven rooms, seven cardinal sins painted artfully into the walls. Masks optional. I can tuck your stray and his guest into the Pride gallery. Sit. Watch. Sip. Do not poach. Do not recruit. Do not pretend you’re there to fix the Wi-Fi.”
Dean glances at me. I nod. “He’s not a fixer tonight,” he says.
Dev hums. “Send me legal names for waivers. They’ll sign at the door. Have them look for Adele at the velvet rope.”
“Thanks, Dev.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” he says, and hangs up.
Dean leans back, laces his fingers behind his head. “Looks like you’re going to church.”
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “It’s a sex club,” I say. “I’m not bringing a collection plate.”
“You’re bringing your eyes,” he says, and the humor fades. “And your rules. Club Greed has their own. Learn them.”
“Talk me through.”
He ticks them off. “Phones locked on entry—Faraday lockers, numbered bands. NDAs at the door—civil, not criminal, but violating them will make your life sticky. Consent system is wristbands—green, yellow, red. Green means approach is welcome; yellow means conversation only; red means no approach. Staff in black cuffs. Rooms themed and supervised. Pride is the gallery—drinks, controlled voyeurism. Lust is obvious; Gluttony is food play, believe it or not. Envy is mirrors—careful with angles. Sloth is… pillows.”
“Charming.”
He points a pen. “Your cover is simple. Dev comped you as ‘guests of the house’ on a trial membership. So, skip the wealth signals. It reads counterfeit. Wear clean lines. Look like you belong to yourself.”
“Juno and I go together,” I say, already cataloging wardrobe and comm logistics. “Two of us inside, three outside. Ozzy runs BLE sniff. Render sits on exterior cams. Knight sits in the car for exfil. Gage spoofs a member lookup if we need to confirm a name.”
Dean nods. “Have Adele route you to a back corner where the wall sees a lot and the room sees a little. Club Greed has a patio. Sometimes members slip out to call Ubers, or have a smoke. If your man moves from cocktail bars to private clubs, he’ll have tells. Keep your eyes open.”
I’m already halfway out of the chair. “You’re a miracle.”
“I’m a billable hour,” he says dryly. Then, softer, “Arrow.”