“The second someone is flagged, you press this. It sends a message to the security guys and they usually come quick. But here’s the thing…”
She stares into my eyes until she’s absolutely certain I’m listening.
“Uh huh?”
“You do not let on that you’re suspicious of them. You keep smiling as if nothing’s happening. Check them in, guide them to a table. Pretend everything is normal, okay? As soon as security arrives, they take care of it.”
I don’t want to ask what she means by taking care of it. My mind is still reeling over the prospect of having to press that red button in the first place.
My gaze drifts back to the couple sitting quietly in the corner.
“And she…” I search for words. “She’s good?”
Hallie swipes the screen until all we see is the Velvet club logo and her sigh is dripping with mild disappointment.
“Yeah. She’s just a voyeur. They met online but she’s pretty harmless.”
My gaze drifts to the couple sitting peacefully together, getting their kicks from watching others around them. Part of me envies them, but another part of me cannot get my head around this whole thing. That part of me is still in Boston, existing on minimal sleep, laundering scrubs and fretting about a father who hasn’t returned my calls as quickly as he used to.
“Okay,” Hallie says, as if she’s just taught me something benign like how to flip a burger. “You think you can handle that for five minutes?”
My heart jumps up into my throat. “Why?”
She squeezes her thighs together like her words might not be convincing enough. “I need to pee.”
“Yes, I’ll be fine,” I assure her. “Please, go pee.”
As she hurries away, I take my place behind the podium and shift my weight from foot to foot. I rarely wear heels, so my calves are killing me.
I focus on breathing steadily, conscious that I’m surrounded by some of New York’s wealthiest and most influential figures. There was a distinctive smell about the place that hit me when we entered the lounge and it’s taken me an hour to place it.
Money.
It’s the smell of money.
A short glance at the membership tiers in the guest database confirms that a small fortune is required just to walk through the door. Every person here is a certified millionaire—at least. If they wield political power too, they’re assigned a different category—their status rises.
Though I can only see what’s on the surface, Hallie and Vivienne’s talk of ‘Angels’ and the fact most people here have half their faces covered speaks to a darker undercurrent. This is the kind of world my uncle would give both testicles to be a part of, whereas I would happily prefer to not know it existed.
It’s too unnerving to look out at a sea of masks and uncertain glances, so I stare at the screen instead, hoping Hallie returns quickly.
But my skin prickles with the sensation of being watched.
I tentatively lift my gaze to the far corner of the room. On the wall hangs a stunning piece of art—a large depiction of angel wings made entirely of black feathers. I admire it for a moment, then my gaze drops to the source of the tingling across my skin.
Four men are seated around a booth, each wearing a dark suit, dark shirt, dark tie and dark mask.
Once my focus latches on to them, I can’t remove it.
Not only are there black angel wings above their heads, but there seems to be ahaloof awe around them.
People sitting at the surrounding tables are acutely aware of these men. All heads seem angled slightly in that direction, all hand gestures magnified in the residual glow of the booth.
The closest of the four men has his back to me, but as I watch, he turns slowly and his eyes lock onto mine. A shiver crackles down my spine, and I get the horrible feeling they’re talking about me.
I see the slight twitches of their mouths, ticking jaws and knowing grins wiped away by inked knuckles. The masks forbid me from observing anything else.
My heels wobble and I anchor my fingers onto the edge of the podium.Where is Hallie?
