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“Come where?” I whisper, shifting to a sitting position. Ari is wrapped around my waist, and I ease her arms off, rolling her toward Hunter. I check the time. It’s past two AM.

“The Gentlemen’s Chamber… there’s been an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” I rub my face, trying to wake up. Hunter’s awake on the other side of the bed, listening.

“Just hurry. Please,” her voice wobbles. “Come to the back door.”

She hangs up.

Rolling out of the bed, I reach for the black jeans and hoodie draped over the desk chair.

“What’s going on?” Hunter asks. Ari is snuggled against his chest, looking warm and content.

“My mom,” I say quietly while yanking on the jeans. “Something went down at the Gentlemen’s club. She needs my help.”

“Well, you’re sure as hell not going to East End alone.” He sits up and peels Ari off his body. This time she wakes up, too.

“Jace and Slade can come with me,” I say, grabbing my phone and firing off a text, adding ‘bring the SUV.’

Ari sits up, hair messy, wearing nothing but one of Hunter’s WXFU t-shirts that’s bunched around her waist. He’s already pulling on jeans, rummaging around for a shirt, eyes sharp and alert despite being asleep moments ago.

“Where are we going?” she asks, finally processing that we’re both getting dressed.

“I’m going to help my mom with something. Hunter thinks he’s coming, but it’s not necessary.”

“Rikki needs help?” she says, becoming more alert. “Then we’re all going.”

I don’t have time to fight them, and truth is, I like having Ari close by all the time. Once we’re all dressed, Hunter and Arianette fall in right behind me and head out to the driveway. Jace and Slade are already waiting outside by the time we step into the cool night air, geared up and silent. We all pile into the nondescript black SUV–our dedicated body pickup van. The back is already stocked with everything we might need: tarps, cleaning supplies, heavy-duty bags, gloves, and restraints.

I take the wheel, jaw tight, and peel out into the night. The car is quiet, and everyone is close to awake when we pull into the back parking lot of the club. We take the back entrance like ghosts, slipping through the employee door Rikki left propped open.

The hallway reeks of stale smoke and cheap perfume. Hypnotic music pulses from the front, the club still active despite the late hour, and whatever it is, we’re here to handle.

My mom waits just inside the private room, eyes red, hands trembling, which is why I know something is really wrong. My mother is a hard ass. A hustler from the Stacks. It takes a lot to rattle her.

It only takes a minute to figure out why. There’s a dead guy sprawled on the floor in the dimly lit VIP room. Mid-forties, soft around the middle, wearing a cheap button-down and slacks. Definitely not anyone important in Forsyth. His head is at an ugly angle, blood pooling dark on the cheap carpet beneath him. One dancer is huddled in the corner in a silk robe, eyes wide and traumatized. Her dress is torn at the shoulder.

“Jesus,” I thrust my hand in my hair, “what the hell happened?”

“He tried to assault Jessica while she was giving him a private dance,” Rikki explains. “I heard her screaming from the bar. I ran in, and he had her pinned down, skirt shoved up, his hands all over her. I didn’t even think–I just grabbed him and shoved as hard as I could. He stumbled back, lost his balance, and hit his head on the sharp corner of the marble table.” That explains the blood. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I swear.”

“Sounds like he was asking for it,” Slade says, eyes sweeping the room. “We’re gonna head out front. Keep an eye out.”

I fight off an eye roll, knowing they just want to catch the show, but wave them off because there are too many people in here right now.

“He was asking for it,” Rikki says, voice cracking. “This wasn’t the only time he crossed the line. Last week, he was rough with Trinity. Real rough.”

Hunter crouches down and checks for a pulse, which we both already know isn’t there.

“This isn’t our kind of job, Rikki,” I tell her quietly. “Call the cops. Let the Princes handle their own territory.”

“I can’t,” she pleads. “I could lose my job, Dae, or worse–go to jail. They treat me good here, Damon. I need this. You’re a King now. You have power. Use it. Please.”

I stand, jaw tight. This is exactly the kind of messy shit I’ve been afraid of getting into.

Hunter steps forward, voice low. “You think Ashby isn’t recording every inch of this place?”

He’s right. Pace Ashby has East End wired.