Page 15

Junior

T he tracker I’d slipped into Lauren’s purse was still working, pinging out her location somewhere on the West Side, far from her upscale neighborhood.

I didn’t like the idea of her being over there.

I knew who controlled each block of this city, who ran the drugs, who ran the girls, and where you were most likely to get mugged on a night out.

Lauren was in prime mugging territory. She better have that fucking taser on her still.

If not, our next discussion would probably end with her almost getting kneed in the crotch.

I revved my bike and switched lanes. It looked like half the city was out on the sidewalks, scantily clad women sashaying together in small groups, puffed up men peacocking as they tried to get their attention.

Traffic was just as heavy, moving at a crawl through the intersections as drivers swerved to avoid the drunken pedestrians.

Brake lights painted the night red. My pulse thundered with impatience. Move. MOVE , it demanded. I hadn’t raced home to shower and change at record speed just to be bogged down by idiots.

Fuck it.

I revved the bike again and threaded the needle, slipping between idling cars as my wheels traced the dotted white lines. This was stupid, dangerous, but I had so much adrenaline pumping through my veins at the thought of seeing Lauren again that I felt invincible.

A cab cut left in front of me, and I swerved around it at the last second, a smile splitting my face at the close call.

My parents complained about my motorcycle, but I’d never give it up.

I spent so much time having to be meticulously careful to keep from getting caught or accidentally starting a turf war or revealing too much to my family’s enemies.

Every word was guarded, I never let my expression belie my true emotions, and I kept my cool even under the worst circumstances—though lately that had become more difficult thanks to my temper.

This bike was my rebellion, a way to burn off stress.

I felt reckless on it, careless. Like I could do anything.

Like my whole family wasn’t dependent on me in some way or another. Like I was free.

A horn blared to life behind me. Someone shouted a curse out their open window when I zipped past. I ignored it all and kept riding. Two more blocks to go before I could see Lauren. Two more blocks before I found out if she was as bold in person as she was online.

Neon lights flashed in my periphery. The wind ripped at my leather jacket, and I grinned, feeling borderline unhinged.

Since dealing with Tommy, my interest in Lauren had shifted from a manageable obsession to something much darker.

Something closer to a feeling of possession.

Like I already owned her , body and soul, and all that was left to do was claim my prize.

I blamed the past decade. I’d spent too much of that time watching and not touching, and now, all the feelings I’d suppressed were roaring to the surface.

Those two weeks I’d spent fooling around with Lauren were some of my favorite memories.

They were moments I’d stolen for myself—the last real thing I’d let myself have .

My interest in her hadn’t suddenly sprung to life watching her work the carnival booth across from mine.

I’d been aware of her for years: since I was twelve and first realized girls weren’t as annoying as I’d once thought.

But even back then, I’d understood she was off-limits .

Lauren was a good girl. Nonna Bianchi expected her to go off to college, get a degree and a fancy job.

She was too respectable to be slumming it with the son of a mobster.

I’d kept my distance as long as I could, but that day at the fair had been my undoing. Going against my better judgment and finally letting myself kiss her, touch her, after denying myself for so long had been better than I could have imagined.

Maybe that was why I was so obsessed. Being with Lauren was the last time I’d let myself feel anything other than dead inside, and part of me wanted to remember what it was like to be alive.

A light turned yellow up ahead. I dropped low over my bike and revved the engine again, putting on one last burst of speed. My phone was mounted to my bike’s inner right handlebar, the tracker pulled up, guiding me to Lauren. Following it, I took a left down a side street.

I slowed as I approached the green dot radiating on the screen, indicating her location.

The device I’d slipped into her handbag might have been small, but it was a powerful, military-grade tracker that wasn’t widely available for civilian use.

It came with pinpoint accuracy, including elevation data.

Lauren was somewhere on the second floor of the building directly across from me.

Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I continued past and parked a block away. I stuck to the sidewalk on the far side of the street as I reapproached, my gaze glued to the building’s facade. It was four stories and built out of brick like everything else on the block.

I’d done enough surveillance work over the years that I knew how to keep a low profile, so I slowed my steps and dug around in my jacket pocket until I found the cigarettes and lighter I’d stashed there.

I didn’t smoke, not really, but I kept a pack on me at all times because it made a great excuse to stop for a minute or two to take in my surroundings.

I lit the cigarette and took a fake drag, holding the smoke in my mouth while I eyed the building.

It didn’t have any signage out front, and I was starting to think Lauren was over at a friend’s place until a quick Google search set me straight.

It wasn’t apartments; it was a club of some kind.

Velvet. Where fantasy becomes reality , read the tagline.

The club’s website was annoyingly unhelpful. It didn’t even have a navigation menu, just an address and a phone number listed beneath the words Call for inquiries .

Back to Google I went, which led me to an eighteen-and -up Reddit forum about underground sex clubs.

I scanned the comment section until I found the name Velvet and then read the words: “ Great atmosphere. Phenomenal security. We felt very welcome and safe. Definitely recommend the private viewing rooms, which have a rotating cast of performers. Last Friday, we spent a lovely night watching a man get pegged onstage by a woman with the biggest tits I’ve ever seen.

Great bouncing on both their parts. 10/10. ”

I sucked in a surprised breath and immediately started choking on smoke.

Jesus Christ, I wasn’t ready to read that.

The cigarette fell from my lips as I looked at the building with new eyes. A kink club. Lauren was currently inside a kink club. Where Reddit told me she could fulfill any sexual need she might have.

With someone else.

Oh, hell fuck, no.

I pulled up the club’s website and clicked on the listed phone number without hesitation. My SIM card was a burner, so I wasn’t worried about the number getting logged or traced; I’d have a new one this time next week, anyway.

“This is Velvet,” a woman said after the third ring, her tone low and smoky. “How may I help you?”

I smoothed the rough edge off my accent in an attempt to disguise my voice. “I’ll be in the city next week and would like to visit your club.”

“We’d be happy to have you,” the woman said. “You should know that we’re members only, and you’ll have to set up an account before gaining entry.”

I hung up on her. A membership meant giving out my personal information and undergoing some kind of background check, which meant I needed to make another call.

This time, a man picked up. “Yo, Junior. What can I do for you?”

It was Mack, my dad’s tech guy. I’d thought he was a top-notch hacker until I’d watched my cousin’s boyfriend, Josh, at work. Now I wasn’t so sure.

“That fake ID you gave me,” I said, “does it have legs, or is it just plastic?”

“It has legs,” he assured me.

“How long are they? I might need to run it through a background check.”

“Long enough. There’s an address, a social security number, and medical records attached to it,” he said, a note of pride in his tone.

“You’re sure it’ll check out?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” he said.

I thanked him and hung up. He’d better fucking hope he was right.

Half an hour later, I walked into the main room of Velvet wearing a courtesy mask provided by the hostess.

It was plain, black, made of plastic, and covered me from my forehead to the top of my mouth.

I felt like a fucking idiot in it, but the alternative was walking around a kink club—sorry, play club , as I’d been informed—with my whole-ass face on display for anyone to see, and that wasn’t happening.

My newly printed membership card was burning a hole in my pocket, ready to be used at any of the private rooms I wanted to pop into.

I’d say one thing for this place: It was well-run .

While a doughty older woman took my fake ID and ran a background check, the much more pleasant host staff led me to a well-appointed office and gone through the surprisingly extensive list of rules.

There were commonsense ones like respecting people’s boundaries and keeping your hands to yourself unless explicit consent was given, along with some more interesting ones like stopping if someone’s lips started to turn blue while you were choking them.

I’d cracked a joke about them not having to worry about me.

I strangled people for a living; didn’t want it encroaching on my me time.

Alec would have found it hilarious, but the staff just blinked at me, and I had to quickly backtrack and spew some bullshit about how I meant it financially .

Afterward, I kept my mouth shut. This was why mobsters and normal people didn’t mix well.