Page 66 of Ricardo

The problem with exclusive clubs is that they never look as ridiculous as they are.

They look tasteful.

That is how they get away with everything.

The one in question is the Halstead Club, a private country club outside the city with mature trees, manicured grounds, and the kind of long drive designed to make arrival feel like an event.

No sign announces it from the road. Of course not. A sign would suggest the club needs to be found by people who have not already been told where to turn, and that would offend the entire premise.

I have known about the Halstead Club for years.

I am not a member.

That is the problem.

My father belongs to plenty of places where important men pretend they are gathered for “tradition.” The Union League. The Saddle and Cycle. Two dining societies that host black-tie dinners and never actually accomplish anything useful.

The Halstead Club is simply not one of them.

Which is a long way of saying I cannot get inside.

I stare down at the file on my desk and resist the urge to press my fingers against my temples.

Mario needs a signature from Alistair Valecourt today. The signature part is not complicated. A narrow consent attached to one of the licensing transfers for the museum-adjacent redevelopment project. Valecourt is an investor with an old family name, an older trust, and the infuriating habit of treating his personal schedule as if it were classified material.

His assistant confirmed he would sign.

His assistant also informed me, with great apology, that Mr. Valecourt would be at the Halstead Club until midafternoon and unavailable afterward.

Lorenzo was supposed to go with me.

Lorenzo is now behind a closed conference-room door with department heads. Diego is already out of the office for the day on a personal task.

I could ask Mario directly, but the thought makes something inside me reject the option before I can fully consider it.

Mario gave me the task.

He expects me to solve it.

I want him to know I can.

That is absurd, probably. He has not made me feel incompetent once. He has never treated me like a girl playing assistant in a grown man’s office. He gives instructions, sometimes too many at once, then expects execution. It should be simple.

It is simple.

Except my brain has an irritating talent for turning a logistical problem into a moral referendum on my usefulness.

I look through the glass wall of my small office toward the corridor. Mario’s office sits behind me. Lorenzo’s office is down the hall. Diego’s is dark. Ricardo’s office is in the other direction, same executive floor, same stretch of polished tile and glass.

I know exactly where Ricardo’s office is.

I have known since my first day.

I have also avoided looking into it unless necessary, which has been a personal accomplishment considering how often my mind strays there.

I glance at the file again.

Alistair Valecourt.