He chuckled, a wet, rattling sound. "Do you have any idea who I am?"
"I don't care," I snapped. "Why did you bring me here?”
He leaned forward, his expression darkening. "I just wanted a dance, Midnight. But you turned me down. Now I want you in my permanent collection, like the others."
I frowned. Then it clicked. VIP 4. Dutch’s office. The twenty-thousand-dollar offer.
“You’re the guy,” I said slowly. “The one Dutch warned me about.”
His smile returned. “Yes.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning swept over me. “‘Like the others,’ you said. What does that mean?” I asked.
He stood up slowly and walked toward a wall I hadn’t noticed before. Glass cabinets lined it in dozens of rows. Inside were dresses, shoes, and jewelry. My stomach dropped.
“You see,” he casually said, “I collect beautiful things. The others were very beautiful, but none of them were quite as… captivating or as feisty as you.”
My heartbeat slowed. And not because I was calm. “The others?” I repeated.
He smiled wider. “You’ll meet them later, downstairs.”
Suddenly, every missing poster from the last few years flashed through my mind. Every six months for the last few years, a girl from the club would just... vanish. No body, no trace. Just a locker full of clothes.
"You're the one," I whispered. “You’re the reason those girls never came back."
"I am the reason they are immortal," he said, reaching for a glass of scotch. “They will never age. They will never be forgotten. They will—”
He never finished the sentence or took a sip of his drink. My mother taught me one rule growing up in Miami… never walkinto a room unarmed. My fingers slid into my hair, gripping the square razor blade I had bobby-pinned there. I lunged.
The blade sang as it crossed his throat. His eyes went wide, his hands flying to the fountain of red spraying onto his white silk shirt. He gurgled, falling back into the chair. I stood over him, watching the light leave his eyes, feeling nothing but satisfaction. He went still.
I didn't panic, but I moved quickly. I had to get the fuck out of there. I tore off that disgusting doll dress, standing in my underwear as I searched through his drawers. I found a pair of his silk pajama bottoms and tied them tight around my waist, then slid on one of his huge dress shirts. I went looking for weapons. In his desk, I found a heavy gold ring with a double-headed eagle—Russian Mob. Bratva.
"Great," I muttered to myself. "I didn't just kill a creep; I killed a Thief within the Code." It was some bullshit the Russians called themselves.
I looked up and saw the red blinking lights. Cameras. Everywhere.
I’d noticed a hallway monitor showing camera feeds. I checked it. Two giants in suits were standing guard at the front door.
"Oh, shit," I whispered to my reflection. "Midnight, you should kick your own ass for not watching your back, and you wouldn’t be in this situation."
I started searching the house, and my luck finally turned in the dining room. There was a gun cabinet with no lock. I immediately grabbed the black H&K and two extra magazines. I didn't wait for the men outside to decide it was time to check on their boss. I knew I had minutes, if not seconds, before this penthouse turned into my tomb.
I crept to the front door and peeked out the peephole to see where everyone was. I leveled the H&K at the height of a grown man’s chest against the door and squeezed the trigger. Pop. Pop-pop. The suppressed rounds coughed through the wood. I heard a wet grunt and a heavy thud. The second one started to shout; I adjusted my aim two feet to the left and emptied three more rounds through the paneling. The shouting stopped.
I waited a heartbeat, then I pushed the door open. I stepped over the dead bodies, and I sprinted toward the service stairs, the heavy gold Bratva ring digging into my palm. I didn’t even know why I brought it.
I made it ten feet down the hall and around the corner before I heard the apartment door crash open behind me. There were shouts in Russian. Then the boom of boots hitting marble.
I ran faster.
The service door slammed behind me as gunfire rang out. I hit the stairwell and started down, my bare feet slapping concrete, the H&K cold in my hand. I didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
Above me, I heard the stairwell door bang open. Footsteps descending. Fast.
They were chasing me.
I pushed harder, using the railing to swing around each landing, almost falling twice. Fifteenth floor. Sixteenth. My vision spotted. Seventeenth.