I snort, slam the box shut, and down the rest of my liquor in a single swig.
Grabbing my suit jacket from the coatrack by the door, I slide it on, pulling the sleeves down and fixing the gold-initialed EV cufflinks.
I stare into the mirror, adjusting the rumpled collar of my shirt. The reflection that meets me is measured, the kind that’s learned in this game we play. I push up the frames on my nose, trying to hide the piercing blue eyes. It’s likehe’swatching me, and I plow a hand through my hair. It’s thick and messy from the day, but long enough to sweep back into a subtle tousled wave. Luckily, I inherited my mother’s honey blonde instead of the brown my father sports.
I set my jaw, pat the black tie, and steel my expression, preparing for the night to come. The tension, the weight of it all—I’ve gotten used to it. It’s who I am. A damn DuPont.
The limo glides through the city, the steel buildings and streetlights unfolding beyond the tinted glass I’m leaning against. The energy of the city, especially on a Friday, is restless. Horns blare, people rush, and glass towers scrape the sky with lights that flicker like dew on an intricate spiderweb.
I snort.
That’s exactly the perfect way to describe the city’s inner workings—a spiderweb spun in steel and smoke. Invisible to the naive eye, but if you know where to look, you can see who’s pulling the strands and who’s about to get caught. And no one’s untouched by it.
Inside the insulated limo, the city goes silent, shut out by thick glass. The divider glass is up, sealing off my driver, Paul. Not that we chat anyway.
The faint scent of my cologne and potent conditioned leather wrap around me as I fist the full glass in my hand. Low ambient lighting from the hidden strips along the floor cast a shadow of my liquor tumbler. I stare down at it, unable to finish.
Soon, congested roads thin into a narrow, forgotten alley off East 8th, and Paul slows to a stop, getting out and quickly securing the area before opening my door. He doesn’t speak. He knows better.
I step out into the shadows of the hovering buildings. The cool summer air carries the earthy smell of rain on concrete and the distant smoke from restaurants. Tugging on the lapel of my suit, I glance up at the hidden camera mounted high on the rusted fire escape, its lens glinting behind a cracked security light. There are multiple cameras in the alley, but this one, from its vantage point, watches the alley’s entrance andprivate garage. It captures every face, running it through facial recognition. If you aren’t in the database, you won’t make it to the door. Security will escort you to the street and make sure yourememberthe route.
The men behind the blinking red light see everything. Even in the dark.
I pause a second longer before glancing back at Paul and giving him a nod. He returns the gesture and closes the door, while I opt for the alleyway entrance this time.
I’ve traveled to a few other locations over the past four years: Miami, Los Angeles, Boston. Most of their entrances are disgusting, pathetic excuses for society standards, if you ask me. Covered in trash and graffiti. But not ours. Ours is pristine. The concrete is smooth and uncracked. The bricks that line both sides of the alley are bright, and the mortar edges are sharp and clean.
The alley slopes to a dead end with an unmarked iron door. There’s no sign, no handle—only a small brass plate with the letters EV etched in crimson. I reach inside the pocket of my suit, fingers brushing the velvet black business card that was my invitation years ago. More like my summons to rotted corruption, yet now it’s my key.
To the right, there’s a narrow slot beside the door, and I slide the card into it. With a soft click, the lock disengages, and when the door swings open, I step inside. The rush of wind whistling through the alleyway vanishes and is replaced by silence.
The staircase spirals beneath the streets, shadowing the elevator that drops from the exclusive garage above. Flickering lamps cling to the stone walls, their light stuttering over iron railings, turning the descent into something that feels more dungeon than club. As I descend, I remember the first time I walked these steps, terrified, but curious. If only I had known.
I drag the pads of my fingers over the jagged stone as the curves of the spiral staircase pull me deeper with each step. Dry dust clings to the brittle air, but the descent brings a saturation of smoke that curls in the back of my throat. On its tail is the warm, heady aroma of high-end liquor—caramel, oak, and vanilla, laced with something darker. They mingle together to form something indulgent and tempting.
I shudder, anticipating the Market tonight, and a tight knot coils low in my belly.
This is Echelon Vanguard. Not a club, but a sanctuary. Where politicians, billionaires, and former mafia-elite sit side by side to rule Chicago’s underbelly, quietly feasting on the city’s money and power as if it’s their birthright. Deplorable, yet … influential.
When I reach the bottom of the steps, I’m met with another door, this one a rich mahogany. A scanner pulses electric blue in the dim light, the sleek oval glass embedded into the wall beside the door. As I step closer, a low hum sounds and a pale beam flickers to life, sweeping across my face before locking onto my eyes. The flare intensifies, narrowing to twin points that dance over my irises.
There’s a muted chime before the hypnotic female voice purrs, low and toned to perfection. “Welcome to Echelon Vanguard, Slade DuPont. Enjoy your evening, Congressman.”
Her artificial words coax a smirk from my lips.
With a hiss, the door unlocks, and low, honeyed laughter, mingled with the clink of glasses and pulsing bass, spills out. Crimson velvet stitched with gold drapes the walls, and white marble floors shimmer underneath crystal chandeliers. EV oozes explicit decadence.
“Slade. Good to see you.” Knox, an EV guard, stands tall just inside the door. He’s a wall of solid muscle—broad shoulders, thick arms.
While most of EV’s security comes from the more prestigious nightclubs in Chicago, Knox is an ex-Marine. The man is deadly.
He smiles and crosses his arms when I offer him a nod, his sharp hazel eyes assessing.
I finger the bridge of my glasses up my nose.
“Henry not with you tonight?” he asks.
I shake my head.
