Two bartenders, caught skimming from the register. Security has the footage. They're in Logan's office, pleading, making excuses.
"I love you both," I say, and mean it. "But I love La Sirena more. Clean out your lockers."
In my father's world, stealing meant losing more than your job. They're lucky I only deal in termination letters, not terminal solutions.
They leave in tears. I hate this part. I have to have teeth sometimes, but it always tastes like copper.
My hands are shaking worse now. I reach for the water glass on Logan's desk and promptly knock it over, water spreading across vendor contracts.
Before anyone can react, Nico's there. Napkin in my hand, his body blocking Logan's view, moving the papers quickly. Like we've been doing this dance for years instead of two days. His cologne floods my senses as he leans close. Leather layering over the cinnamon. My body reacts before my brain can stop it, leaning into his proximity like a plant toward sunlight.
"Clumsy," I say, trying for light.
"Happens," he replies, continuing to clean. No judgment in his voice. Just simple acceptance.
His hands brush mine as we both reach for more napkins, and the contact sends heat straight to my core. Inappropriate. Completely inappropriate. But my traitorous body doesn't care about appropriate.
Logan pretends not to notice the way my hands tremble as I help clean up. We all pretend. It's easier that way.
After the meetings, I need a moment. Logan's discussing security protocols with Nico, and I escape to the main floor.
Gunner is in his office, a generous term for the converted storage room that serves as security headquarters. He fills the entire doorway when he stands, all six-foot-five of tattooed, scarred intimidation. I used to be terrified of him, like most people are, but he’s a kitten, really. Just a monstrous looking one.
"Little shark," he says, the childhood nickname hitting different now. He's called me that since I was seventeen and he caught me crying in this very room after Mom died. "Heard you brought a friend."
"More like a very uptight babysitter." I gesture at Nico, who's appeared behind me with that unsettling silence he's perfected. "Gunner, meet Nico. Nico, meet the only person in Miami scarier than you."
The recognition between them is instant. Soldiers know soldiers, even across different wars. Gunner extends one massive hand, and they shake once, firm, a whole conversation in that single grip.
Then Gunner nods. Just once. Acceptance. The kind of nod that says: you'll do, brother, you'll keep her safe when I can't.
"Are you two having a moment?" I demand. "Should I leave? Maybe you want to compare war stories or wrestle or whatever it is that large, silent men do for fun?"
Gunner's mouth twitches, which from him is practically hysterical laughter. "He's solid."
"Solid? That's it? That's your entire assessment?"
Another twitch. Nico almost looks amused. There's something in the way they stand, both of them, like they've already established a perimeter around me without discussing it.
"You're both impossible," I declare, but something settles in my chest. If Gunner approves, maybe I can stop fighting this quite so hard.
I drift to the main stage where the piano sits, polished and perfect. Mom's piano, though no one plays it now except the occasional performer. I sit on the bench, not to play. I don't remember how anymore. Just to be still.
My fingers hover over the keys. Mom taught me 'Clair de Lune' on this bench, her hands guiding mine. Now I can't even remember which key is middle C. Another thing I've drowned in Dom Perignon. Muscle memory of beauty, gone.
The club is quiet this time of day. Just staff prep and the distant sound of the city beyond these walls. My eyes drift up to the mezzanine level, to the doors I can see from here.
The private rooms.
Third door on the left.
The Calypso Room.
My pulse kicks up, remembering. Eight years since I've been up there. Eight years since I found Gabriel with her body, since I helped him clean up the blood, since I made myself complicit in something I still don't fully understand. Those rooms have stayed sealed on my orders. Even Logan doesn't question it.
Even from here, I swear I can smell phantom jasmine, taste copper fear in my mouth.
The feeling hits suddenly: eyes on me. Watching. Calculating.
