I lean down near Alistair’s ear. “Remove your hand from the lady’s arm.”
He does. Immediately.
“You were leaving,” I say.
His throat bobs. “Savarese?—”
“You were leaving.”
The second time, I make it softer. Alistair hears me properly this time. His face drains of color, and the bravado goes with it. A man like him understands public shame poorly, but private death very well. He slides out of the booth too quickly to look calm and not quickly enough to make me shoot him for insulting my patience.
No one stops him. No one asks why.
The women around the table watch in silence. The men suddenly find their glasses very interesting. The room knows well enough to understand selectively. I let Alistair reach the stairs before I put the gun away.
Then I look at the others. “Enjoy your evening.”
No one speaks.
Maya is still seated, chin lifted, eyes bright with the temper she is barely containing. There is a mark on her wrist where his fingers were. Faint. Nothing that will last, but it still offends me.
My hand comes to her waist. “We’re leaving.”
“They were talking.”
“They are finished.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I was.”
Her eyes narrow, and I know she wants to argue. She wants to remind me that this was her work, her cover, her risk to manage. For now, she stands because she is intelligent enough not to make this room the battlefield. I guide her away from the booth, through the VIP section, down the steps, and into the main room. I keep my hand at her waist the entire time. Not for the role now. Not entirely.
The room watches.
Let every man who saw her on that stage understand the correction. Let every buyer, broker, associate, and parasite take the lesson with them: whatever they think Maya Reeves is, whatever they believe I paid for, whatever ugliness this performance requires, touching her without permission costs more than they can afford.
Outside, the humid night wraps around us. The valet sees my face and nearly trips getting the car. Omar appears near the curbas if the shadows alone produced him. His gaze moves from me to Maya, then to her wrist.
“Handled?” he asks.
“Not nearly enough for my liking.”
His eyes cut toward the club entrance. “Name?”
“Alistair Voss.”
“I’ll find him.”
“No. Not yet.”
Omar stops instantly. He hears what Maya doesn’t yet understand. No doesn’t mean mercy. It means not now. It means I want the man to live in utter fear before I decide how much pain I want to inflict on him for his misstep.
“Later,” I say.
Omar accepts it with a single nod, though I can tell he doesn’t like it.
I put Maya in the car before she can ask what I mean, following, the door closes us inside the dark. The driver pulls away before traffic clears. He has worked for me long enough to know when unsolicited questions are dangerous. With one last glance in therear-view mirror, he presses a button, and the privacy partition rises. It doesn’t fully click into place before Maya turns on me.
