Page 56 of The Rook’s Obsession

It’s private, tucked at the end of a corridor that smells like leather and burning candles. Dim lighting, the kind designed to soften everything, to make a room feel smaller and more intimate than it actually is. Red undertones in the walls. A heavy door with a lock on the inside. Soundproofing—I can tell by the way the noise from the rest of the club drops to nothing once the door clicks shut behind me.

And then there’s the table.

It runs along the far wall, arranged with the kind of care that suggests ritual. Everything in its place, everything deliberate. Leather restraints. A riding crop. A collar with a short lead attached. Candles, maybe for wax play? Probably. A blindfold, silk by the look of it. A paddle. A few items I recognize from experience and a few I’d need a longer look at to identify.

Whatever Vincenzo Russo does in this room every Thursday night, it isn’t vanilla.

I slide the mask into place. Black lace, covering everything from my hairline to the bridge of my nose. In the mirror across the room, I barely recognize myself. The auburn wig, the heavier makeup, the corset, the mask. I’m someone else entirely, which was the point.

“I’m in the room,” I murmur, my lips barely moving. The earpiece picks it up anyway.

Nick’s voice comes back, low and steady. “What do you see?”

“Vincenzo has a hobby.”

“Meaning?”

I run my fingertip along the edge of the riding crop without picking it up. “Meaning there’s an entire table full of things that would add up to a real problem for our friend if anyone found out what he likes.” I glance over the rest of the spread. “The works. Restraints, crop, collar. Whatever the old man is into, he’s very specific about it.”

“Is the camera running?”

I adjust the pinhole on the corset so it faces outward at chest height. The angle will capture most of the room. I checked the feed on my phone before tucking it away. Clear image, good resolution. “Done.”

“Good. Now we wait.”

Yes. We wait. For me, it means standing in the middle of the room with my hands clasped in front of me and my spine straight, because that’s what the role requires. A woman like the one I’m pretending to be doesn’t sit. She doesn’t fidget. She occupies space like she owns it and waits for the person who’s paying for her time to arrive and submit to her.

The word submit keeps circling back in my head. I glance at the collar again. The restraints. A man like Vincenzo, who has built an empire on dominance and fear, comes to this room every week to be the opposite of the man in control of everything and everyone around him. It’s textbook, in a way.

No wonder Gabriel wouldn’t tell us the specifics.

A few minutes pass before the door opens. I straighten, expecting to see the man I once considered my protector, the closest thing to a father I ever knew. Instead, I find a woman in her forties with sharp cheekbones and a tablet balanced on one hand. She’s dressed in the kind of understated black dress that tells me she’s management. She’s wearing an apologetic look. “Mr. Russo called in a moment ago.” There’s a slight accent to her voice. “Something has come up. He sends his apologies and says he’ll be in next Thursday instead.”

Goddammit. Does he know? Is this a message? How could he have found out?

“Son of a bitch,” Nick mutters in my ear.

It takes everything I have not to show my disappointment and the fear touching the edges. “I see.”

“However,” she continues, looking down at her tablet, “we do have another client who’s been waiting, and he has specifically requested someone with your… skill set. If you’re available.”

In my ear, Nick’s voice goes tight. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I keep my expression neutral. Controlled. This woman is watching me, expecting an answer. The answer matters because a real employee doesn’t turn down work. A real employee doesn’t look rattled. She says yes because saying no raises questions, and questions are the last thing we need right now.

“Send him in,” I reply.

“Ivy, you’re fucking kidding me,” Nick mutters. There’s a warning in his voice.

I don’t respond because I’m not alone. The woman nods, taps a finger to her tablet, and leaves. The door closes.

“It’s fine,” I murmur once she’s gone.

“It is not fine.”

“If I say no, they’ll notice,” I hiss. “If they notice, they’ll start asking questions about the new girl who showed up for Vincenzo and then refused to work. We can’t afford that. Not when we need to come back next week.”

The silence on his end is thick. “Nick?” I whisper.