Fury
The moment I step into Midnights, my instincts light up like a Christmas tree. Something's off. The usual smooth operation feels disjointed, like gears grinding against each other instead of meshing perfectly.
Scarlett isn't prowling the main floor. She's always here, watching everything like a hawk. And there's no sign of Alonso either.
Even the patrons seem different—fewer regulars, more new faces in expensive suits. The dancers move with seductive grace. Music wafts through the speakers, but the hair on the back of my neck is standing on end.
I scan the room for Kayla, a sliver of dread snaking up my spine when I don't spot her pink-tipped hair anywhere. We had a plan, and I was to watch her the whole time.
Where the fuck is she?
If Alonso has her in the back giving some creepy fucker a lap dance, I’m gonna slice off his balls and feed ‘em to him.
I signal a waitress for a drink, keeping my movements casual despite the adrenaline surging through my veins. The waitressbrings my usual Macallan 25, her eyes darting nervously around the room.
"Is Kayla working tonight?" I ask, sliding a hundred-dollar bill across the table.
The girl's eyes widen, flicking to the bill then back to me. "I don't—I'm not supposed to?—"
I add another hundred. "Just tell me where she is."
She leans in slightly, voice dropping to barely a whisper. "I can't."
I recognize her now—Carmel, one of the girls Kayla mentioned sharing the apartment with. Her fingers tremble as she arranges the napkin under my drink.
"Carmel," I say quietly. "I'm trying to help her."
She shakes her head minutely, eyes filling with tears. "You can't. No one can."
"Try me."
She glances over her shoulder, then back. "They'll kill me if I?—"
"They'll never know."
Her breathing quickens, panic rising in her eyes. "They're everywhere."
"So am I."
Something in my expression must convince her. She leans closer under the pretense of wiping the table.
"They moved up the auction," she whispers. “It’s tonight. Last I saw her, they were taking her away to be prepped."
My blood turns to ice. "Where?"
"Underground level. There’s a private entrance behind the kitchen. But you need an invitation."
Invitation? The gold-embossed card Scarlett gave me.
I pat my breast pocket. It's still there. I had no idea what it was at the time, but I'm glad I only have one suit and that Ididn't leave the card back at the compoundtossed haphazardly on my dresser or something.
"Thank you." I slip her another hundred. I don't know her story, and I doubt a few Benjis can help much, but it's all I can do for her at the moment.
She backs away. I drain my drink in one swallow and stand, heading toward the kitchen.
Two guards block the service hallway—bulky men in black suits with telltale bulges under their jackets. I flash the gold-embossed invite, playing the role of rich, entitled dickhead.
The guards exchange glances, then one of them nods toward a steel door at the end of the hall. "Straight ahead. Take the elevator to the bottom level, sir."
