The facade of Midnights gleams with obsidian and chrome. It’s Detroit's most exclusive new “gentlemen's club" where the city's elite supposedly come to appreciate elicit pleasure and discretion. In reality, it's the crown jewel of the Los Cuervos Cartel's money laundering operation, where they slide cash from their new designer drug "Raven" into legitimate-looking profits.
The shit's already killed nineteen people across Detroit—several of them college kids who thought they were just having fun at campus parties—and left many others in a comatose state, including my stepsister.
The memory of her pale face, tubes running from her arms, machines breathing for her, sends a fresh wave of rage through me.
I adjust my cuffs as I approach the entrance and prepare to play an entitled asshole with no conscience.
"Good evening, Mr. Torrino,” the greeter purrs as I step inside. She's blonde, surgically enhanced, and wearing a scrap of fabric that barely qualifies as a dress. "Your usual table?"
"Of course. And send Scarlett over when she's available."
Her smile widens. "Absolutely."
Inside, the club unfolds in shades of midnight blue and silver. Private booths with heavy curtains line the perimeter. Center stage, a dancer winds around a pole with sultry grace, her movements calculated to appear effortless. Businessmen in expensive suits watch with the detached interest of connoisseurs at an art gallery.
This isn't some dive bar with sticky floors and cum-stained booths. This is where men with eight-figure bank accounts come to feel powerful. Everything here is designed to separatethem from their money while making them feel superior for the privilege.
The lighting is dim and golden, casting everything in a warm glow that's supposed to feel intimate. The air smells like expensive cologne, cigars, and debauchery wrapped in designer packaging.
Discreetly, I scan the room, cataloging faces and positions. Alonso, near the bar—cartel lieutenant and acting floor manager. Two security guards at the east entrance with weapon-bulges under their jackets.
And theresheis.
The little doll.
A fist squeezes my chest, a reaction I've been fighting since the first night I spotted her. She moves between tables a trays of drinks, her steps careful like she's walking on glass. Blonde hair with pink tips. Body poured into the mandatory uniform—a scrap of black fabric that barely covers her ass, and a corseted top that pushes her breasts up like an offering.
I've been watching her for the past three visits, since she first appeared. She doesn't belong here. Everything about her screamswrong. Wrong girl, wrong place, wrong life. While the other girls flirt and tease and sell fantasy with practiced ease, she looks like she'd rather crawl out of her own skin than let another stranger's eyes roam over her body.
But it's her eyes that are most telling. Wide, cornflower blue, and filled with a wariness that doesn't belong on someone so young. She doesn't look at the men she serves. Keeps her gaze fixed slightly above their heads or focused on her tray. A defense mechanism.
My table is in a corner with a perfect view of the main floor and the bar. As I settle into the supple leather chair, I ponder the question that's been eating at me. Why is the little dollhere? What brought an innocent like her into the cartel's world? Drugs? Debt? Family trouble?
She doesn't look like a junkie. Her skin is clear, her eyes bright. No track marks that I can see, no twitchy behavior. But the cartel has been sticking their fingers in everything—loan sharking, gambling, protection rackets. Maybe she owes them money.
I watch her deliver the drinks to a table of suits. One of them—a balding fuck with a wedding ring—runs his hand up her thigh. She flinches but doesn't pull away. She can't. I've been here long enough to know the rules. The girls don't get to object. They don't get to say no.
My fingers ball into a fist. If I were here as Fury instead of this Torrino persona, that motherfucker would be digesting his own teeth right now.
"Vincent, baby.” Scarlett, the club hostess, appears, all red hair and curves poured into a gold dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. She places my—or should I say Vincent’s—drink of choice in front of me, Macallan 25.
"Scarlett." I nod. "You look stunning.”
"Don't I always?" She slides into the chair across from me, crossing her legs with deliberate precision. “It’s so good to see you tonight. You seem tense. What can we do to remedy that? What’s your pleasure tonight?”
Before I respond, I take a sip of my drink. The Macallan goes down smooth as silk. “Tell me, what’s up with the blonde at the bar?"
Scarlett's smile falters slightly as she follows my gaze. “Kayla? I’m afraid she's not available for companionship this evening. In fact, I don’t believe she’ll be with us long.” Scarlett waves a hand in the air. “But Cinnamon would be more than happy?—”
I cut Scarlett off, pressing for more information. “What’s her story?” Something tells me there’s a story.”
Scarlett feigns indifference. She’s a good actress, but I can see the discomfort beneath her mask. She shrugs. “She's nobody special. Only been here about a week."
Her eyes narrow and she studies me assentingly for a moment, then seems to come to a decision.
“However…” Scarlett looks over her shoulder before leaning in conspiratorially until our faces are inches apart. Her eyes seem to suddenly dance with wicked delight. “If you're interested in her, and are looking to up your game, I should mention that certain…special opportunities...might be coming available soon."
I raise an eyebrow, keeping my expression casually intrigued while my pulse quickens. Intuition tells me this could lead to some valuable intel.
