“Let’s go,” I say, approaching the door. I hand over my sidearm to the doorman–protocol, even for a King. No weapons inside. DK follows suit without comment.
We step through, leaving the brothers to hash out their business.
The room beyond is a miniature version of the main lounge upstairs—private, invitation-only, the kind of place where deals get made and secrets get buried. Velvet chairs in deep burgundy, soft amber lighting that makes skin glow, chandeliers dripping with crystal. A few select women lounge in various states of undress, silk robes slipping off shoulders, lace barely covering what matters. Gorgeous and poised, their assets displayed like offerings. The air thick with the scent of expensive perfume, faint cigar smoke, and something darker–money changing hands under the table.
Or in the Lords’ case, more likely pussy and guns.
My mask identifies me instantly, and a couple of the women rise as we enter, smiles sliding into place.
A woman with dark hair and curves poured into a scrap of red satin steps close, fingers brushing my arm. “Royalty,” she purrs. “What’s the occasion?”
I don’t react, just tilt my head slightly. “A meeting with your King.”
Another, a blonde, her lips painted crimson, slides up on my other side, voice a low tease. “Maybe we can spend a little time together when it’s over?”
“That would be a pleasure, ladies, but not possible.” They pout, theatrically, but back off without argument. It’s a polite rebuff, not wanting to offend my host, but there’s no temptation for me in these women. DK’s already drawing eyes too–young, built, the kind of rough charm that makes women forget territory lines. A brunette with a tattoo curling over her collarbone drifts toward him, hips swaying.
“You’re new,” she says, voice thick like honey. “I could show you around.”
DK’s expression doesn’t change. “No thanks.” Firm. Disinterested. Not even a flicker of temptation.
Payne’s women are a perk of royal status, but I’m learning that he’s dedicated and loyal. Not just to me, but to the house as a whole.
To the Baroness.
Killian steps out from the back hallway–large and broad-shouldered. He’s slimmed down since his days as a quarterback but as he proved in the Fury, he’s still fast and strong. There are times like this, unassuming ones, where I see that he’s got more of his mother's genes than his father’s. I can see it in the hard line of his jaw and stormy eyes. He was the first of the next generation to step into the role, and he’s done better at leadership than I expected. No theatrics, checked ego. Just results.
He spots us, gives a short nod, then gently shoos the women away with a flick of his hand. “Ladies. Find better marks. The King’s here for business.”
They scatter like smoke.
Killian assesses the two of us. “Where’s the other one?”
“Attending to other matters,” I reply. Hunter took Arianette with him to his shift at the radio station–keeping her close and busy in hopes of taking her mind off what she saw at the fountain.
Payne leads us through a side door guarded by a beefy LDZ soldier who steps aside without a word. The hallway beyond is narrow, lined with more doors, more secrets. At the end: a billiards room. Pool tables, dartboard on the wall and a bar along one side. But the focal point is a long conference table in the center, six chairs around it like a war council.
He’s updated the room since Daniel owned the place, where the prior King notoriously used the downstairs quarters to hold his treasures. It’s no secret that Killian is working to change the way his father managed South Side. It’s well known that the women at the Hideaway are here by choice and paid handsomely for their effort, an attempt at legitimacy compared to the way things were handled before.
Word is that his Lady’s influence has changed the way the Lords are run.
One of his seconds, Dimitri Rathbone, is lounging on a barstool, dark hair falling over his eyes, hand-rolled cigarette burning between his fingers. A moment later, Sy barges in, shoulders almost as wide as the doorframe. He’s passing the bar when Nick comes in behind him, heading straight over, propping his elbows on the countertop.
“Christ,” he mutters, “is there no bartender down here?”
Killian ignores them, going straight for his seat at the head of the table while I pause at the bar and glance at DK. “Have a drink. I’ll handle this alone.”
He nods and strides off to join Nick and Rathbone without argument.
That’s when the door behind the bar swings open.
An older woman steps through–her hair coiffed high like a crown, lined face set in a permanent scowl, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
Nick swears under his breath.
“Well, ain’t this a sight,” she snorts, “every cocksucker with a crown and every bottom-feeder in South Side crammed in here like roaches.”
“Mrs. Crane,” I say, voice even. “You’re looking well.”
