“Must not be back from Europe yet, huh?”
I shake my head again.
That’s one thing I appreciate about Knox. There’s no bullshitting with him. No formality. He uses our first names, no matter our rank. Even when speaking with any of the Eight, he’s on a first-name basis. Probably the only member of security who can get away with it, but that might be because of Kenji.
Knox widens his stance as a few other businessmen enter behind me. They have that gleam in their eye, the one most have before Market. He clenches his jaw, then dips his head to scratch his buzzed brown hair, and a few rebellious strands fall.
Fridays are his least favorite. Mine too.
I roll my shoulders back and wrinkle my nose at the indulgent perfume beckoning the men forward. Tipping my head toward the bar, I raise my chin at Knox, and he offers me a tight-lipped smile. “Have a good night, Slade.”
I turn, strutting in the direction of the bar, only to be distracted by the bodies moving to the sensual rhythm on stage. Several dancers, with crimson silk thongs hiked high over their hips, move and sway. They glide in slow, alluring motions while men watch them from their leather booths or chairs facing the white marble stage. The dancers blur together—I don’t want them. Never have. They’re just part of the noise.
I scan the club, cataloging the members here to see who will be bidding tonight. Wilson Marks, an investment banker worth billions, Sergi Kozlov, former Bratva, and Chicago’s own mayorare some of the heavy swingers tonight. Along with a handful of others creeping around the club. Some members get their fill from the Jackpot high and a few lap dances, but others come for something far more sinister.
When I finally make it to the bar, one bartender raises a hand, signaling he’ll be a moment, and I lean an elbow on the obsidian stone. Veins of gold catch in the ambient light. Backlit shelves rise to the ceiling, displaying a generous selection of rare, high-end liquors.
That’s one consistency among the other EV locations: an opulent library of centuries-old cognac, aged scotch, and some of the most coveted imported liquors. That, and the propensity for red velvet and white marble.
Mint wafts from somewhere next to me, and I avert my eyes from the woman dancing to glance over my shoulder. There, Kenji mimics my stance, leaning into the bar and propping his right elbow up on the smooth stone. A slow, lopsided grin spreads over his mouth as his jaw works the gum between his teeth.
He blows a pathetic bubble, and I arch a brow.
“Thought you weren’t coming tonight?” Kenji says, his eyes glinting dangerously close to mockery.
I level him with a stare, pressing my mouth into a flat line. He knows better.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Always gotta take one home.”
He continues to move his mouth in lazy circles, the gum crackling and popping. It’s annoying—his addiction to all things mint. However, I study him while he turns his broad-rimmed glass in circles over the bar.
He’s my height—about six foot one—with shoulders thick and round. His long jet-black hair brushes his shoulders, but tonight it’s pulled back into a tight ponytail without a strand out of place. Sharp, angular features give him an almost sculptedlook, with dark eyes that catch every detail yet give nothing in return.
There’ve been a few former Yakuza members in and out of EV, but Kenji is in a league all his own. He came to Chicago from Boston three years ago after his brother was killed, and that’s about all I can get on his past.
Not that I care.
He shifts, motioning to the bartender I’m still waiting on, and the black leather jacket he’s wearing creaks. When he catches me staring, he adjusts the collar of his black button-up, further exposing the dragon head tattoo that wraps the thick cords of his neck. “I’d ask you what your problem is, DuPont, but I know you won’t give a damn answer.”
I smirk in time for the bartender to show up, and when he asks what we’ll be having tonight, Kenji grins and gestures for me to order.
Meeting the bartender’s gaze with a nod, I hold up two fingers, then point to a bottle of Louis XIII cognac. My grandfather’s favorite.
I take great pleasure in knowing the bottle will be open when he gets back from his trip.
The bartender doesn’t hesitate and, after opening it, pours it neat.
Kenji offers me a small nod, then lifts his glass to me and takes a slow sip.
I do the same.
The liquid is warm and rich with layers of fig, honey, and dried apricot. All followed by smoky spices that melt into something divine. Henry DuPont may have poor judgment on many things, but this is not one of them.
Laughter echoes as the show of seduction plays out on the stage while more members trickle in for a night of luxury and lust.
“Come on. We’d better grab some seats before everyone is finished at the bar,” Kenji says.
I roll my eyes but follow him to a round marble table nestled in the curve of a deep U-shaped booth. We slide in while the dancers on stage make their way off, all smiles and sheer panties dripping with cash.
