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“I suppose I owe her an apology.”
“You owe her more than that.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, and I smiled back at him.
Two minutes later, Celeste walked away with a thousand dollars and a very sincere apology from a man who looked as though each word had physically injured him.
“You’re terrifying, you know that,” she whispered when we reached the bar.
“I’m charming.”
“You smiled at him like you were deciding where to bury him.”
“See? Charming.”
She laughed, the panic finally leaving her face, and headed toward her next table.
I stopped at the service station to enter my cash-out, but the sales totals on the screen caught my eye first. There was something wrong with it. The discrepancy wasn’t particularly dramatic, which was probably why Gavin had missed it. Most theft in a club didn’t begin with someone cracking a safe or walking out with bags of cash. It happened in small amounts buried inside noise, starting with one comped bottle, one voided room charge, or even one cash table closed under the wrong code.
I scrolled back through the VIP tabs. Table nine had ordered three bottles of Armand de Brignac. The floor record showed two sold and one comped for service recovery. The table had received all three without complaint. I knew because I’d been standing three feet away when the server opened them. I checked the comp authorization.
It was Gavin’s code.
It was also time-stamped at 11:45, which immediately made me suspicious because Gavin had been downstairs at 11:45 dealing with a liquor delivery. I knew that because he’d complained about it over the headset for ten uninterrupted minutes.
Huh. Interesting.
I checked the previous night.
Same code. Different table. Same champagne. Then again three nights earlier.
Someone was pulling one bottle at a time out of inventory, hiding it under management comps, and either reselling it privately or pocketing the cash sale. It was small enough not to trigger the automated report, but repetitive enough to become a pattern.
I took a screenshot and sent it to Gavin’s secured work number.
Me: Your comp code is being used when you’re off the floor. Three bottles this week. Check terminal six and whoever has override access.
The reply came less than a minute later.
Gavin: Come to my office after your next set.
No thank you…
My phone buzzed again before I could lock it, but it wasn’t Gavin this time.
Raffaele: Call me.
I swiped the message away, and another appeared almost immediately.
Raffaele: Alessia, this concerns your safety.
I swiped that one away too, but then a notification from my bank came through.
Incoming transfer: Bellandi Holdings International—$50,000.00
I stared at it for a second, my jaw tightening.
Fifty thousand fucking dollars.
