“Hey!” she says, “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“I know!” I grin up at her. “It’s been crazy.”

“So I heard,” Jada says, casting a significant glance in Callum’s direction. Jada has dyed-black hair, a multitude of piercings, and plum-colored lips. Her father used to work for mine, until he was sent to prison for unrelated mischief. Specifically, he tried to scam the state lottery. It was going great until he accidentally won twice in a row, which kinda tipped them off.

“Did you see the show?” Jada asks me.

“Yes! Francie’s the best.” I lean a little closer, keeping my voice low so it’s covered by the music. “Is it true she’s dating that Polish gangster?”

“I don’t know, “ Jada says, picking up an empty glass from the table next to ours, and setting it down on her tray. She’s not meeting my eyes anymore.

“Come on,” I coax her. “I know you two are tight.”

“They might be,” she says noncommittally.

“Does he come in here to see her?” I ask.

“No,” Jada says. “Not that I’ve seen.”

She obviously doesn’t like this line of questioning. But I don’t want to drop it just yet.

Callum reaches under the table, smoothly pressing a folded bill into Jada’s palm.

“Where does she live?” he says.

Jada hesitates. She sneaks a glance down at her palm to see the denomination.

“The yellow building on Cherry Street,” she says at last. “Third-floor walk-up. He goes there Tuesday nights. That’s when she’s off work.”

“There you go,” I mutter to Callum after Jada leaves. “If he doesn’t make contact after we fuck up his casino, then we’ll get him on Tuesday.”

“Yeah,” Callum agrees. “It’s still early—text your brothers and see if they need us over at the casino.”

I’m about to do so when Jada brings us another round of drinks.

“On me,” she says, friendlier now that I’ve stopped grilling her. “Don’t be a stranger so long next time.”

She slides a fresh vodka cranberry toward me.

I didn’t really want a second, but if it’s free . . .

“Thanks,” I say, raising it in a cheers motion.

“Roxy Rotten’s up next,” Jada says. “You want to stay for that one.”

As I raise the straw to my lips, I see a strange sheen on the surface on my drink. I set it down again, looking at the cocktail. Maybe it’s just the red light on my red drink. But the surface looks a little oily. Like the glass wasn’t washed well enough.

“What?” Callum says.

I’m not sure I should drink it.

I’m about to tell Callum to check his own drink, but he’s already slugged it back in a gulp.

The lights lower again, and the DJ introduces Roxy Rotten. Roxy performs her striptease in zombie makeup, under black lights that give the illusion that she loses several limbs over the course of her routine. Then, finally, her head seems to fall off. The lights go up again and Roxy stands center-stage, miraculously whole again, and displaying her lovely green-painted figure to the crowd.

“Should we go?” I say to Callum.

“Did your brothers reply?”

I check my phone. “Not yet.”

“Let’s leash, then. I mean leave.” He shakes his head. “Are you gonna finish that first?” he points to my second drink.

“Uh . . . no.” I pour half of the new drink into my old glass so Jada won’t be offended. “Let’s go.”

I stand up first, slinging my bag over my arm. When Callum stands, he stumbles slightly.

“Are you okay?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Just a headache.”

I can see how unsteady he is on his feet. It’s not the whiskey—he only had two shots, and I know from experience that Callum can drink a lot more than that without getting tipsy.

I see Jada standing next to the bar, arms crossed. She looks like a malevolent gargoyle with her leather fox ears, and her lips painted dark purple.

“Let’s get out of here,” I mutter to Callum, slinging his arm over my shoulder.

I’m reminded horribly of the day we met, when I had to carry Sebastian down the pier like this. Callum is just as heavy, slumping over more and more with every step. He’s trying to say something, but his eyes are rolled back, his voice mushy and incoherent.

If I can get him into the car, I can drive us someplace safe and call my brothers.

But just like on the pier, the door seems a million miles away. I’m wading through sand, and I’m never going to make it.

As I reach the exit at last, the bouncers surround me.

“Is there a problem, Miss?”

I’m about to tell them I need someone to help carry Callum over to the car. But then I realize they’re not coming to help us. They’re blocking the door.

I look around at the semi-circle of burly, looming men.

No time to call my brothers.

I do the only thing I can think of.

I slump down like I’m passing out, hoping it won’t hurt too bad when I hit the floor.

22

Callum

I wake up with my hands tied over my head, suspended from a meat hook.

This is not a great position for me. I’m a big dude, and all that weight hanging from my arms for god knows how long makes them feel like they’re about to be pulled out of the sockets.

Plus my head is fucking banging.

The last thing I remember is some dude that wasn’t actually a dude doing the tango across the stage.

Now I’m in some warehouse that stinks of rust and dirt. Under that, a cold, wet, rotting smell.

And it really is fucking cold. Even in my suit jacket, I’m shivering.

Maybe it’s the after-effects of the drugs. My muscles feel weak and shaky. My vision keeps switching from fuzzy to clear, like a pair of binoculars going in and out of focus.

Drugs. Someone drugged my drink. When I was sitting with . . .

AIDA!

I whip my head around, looking for her.

Thankfully, she’s not hanging from a hook right next to me. But I don’t see her anywhere in the deserted space. All I see is a table, covered with a stained white cloth. Which is not, generally, a good sign.

I want to yell for Aida. But I also don’t want to draw attention to the fact that she’s gone. I don’t know how I got here, and I don’t know if she was with me or not.

My shoulders are screaming. My feet can almost, but not quite, touch the ground.

I try twisting my wrists, turning them against the rough rope to see if there’s any chance of wriggling free. The movement makes me rotate slightly, like a bird on a spit. But it doesn’t seem to loosen the knot.

The only good thing is that I don’t have long to wait.

The Butcher enters the warehouse, flanked by two of his soldiers. One is slim, with white-blond hair and tattoos down both arms. The other looks familiar—he might have been one of the bouncers at Pole. Oh, fuck. He probably was.

But it’s the Butcher who draws my attention. He fixes me with his furious stare, one eyebrow permanently quirked a little higher than the other. His nose looks beakier than ever under the harsh light, his cheeks hollower. The pitted scars along the sides of his face look too deep to be from acne—it might be shrapnel wounds from some explosion long ago.