Page 17 of Duchess (Royal Harlots MC: National New York Chapter #1)

Caleb

T he Den was clean in a way that made you second-guess your own filth.

Not a speck of dust on the black marble floors, not a smear on the deep red velvet walls.

Everything gleamed under low golden lights.

It was tailored for the wealthy, controlled for the sinister, and seductive for all.

It was the kind of place that didn’t scream money, it whispered it through every polished surface and cigar-scented breath.

Reaper, or Ryan Simon to those who bothered with his real name, ran this club like a military fortress.

It had a reputation for keeping secrets.

No press was allowed in. Phones and cameras were left at the door.

There were absolutely no leaks. Whoever walked through those doors became a ghost the second they stepped inside.

Suits filled the booths; mobsters, CEOs, arms dealers, and foreign dignitaries who needed a place to take out their sins, without leaving a trail.

Crystal chandeliers cast muted light over leather seating with backs tall enough to hide any dealing.

Women worked the floor like they owned every man in the room, dressed in lace and leather that clung to curves designed to distract.

They didn’t beg for attention; they demanded it.

Every sway of the hip, every flick of a heel, all calculated to pull secrets from the mouths of the powerful.

You didn’t come here to forget your sins.

You came here to indulge in them, and the women knew it.

The booths were semi-private, curtained with heavy drapes when discretion was needed.

Further back were the luxury rooms. Those were soundproof, locked tight, booked by those who could afford secrecy.

Nothing here was accidental. Every inch of The Den was made to house power, deals, and appetites that weren’t meant for daylight.

It wasn’t just a strip club; it was a business empire’s neutral ground. And tonight, it was mine.

Killic Consolidated Holdings. That’s what the world knew me as.

The pristine face of a billion-dollar Turkish conglomerate.

Clean, efficient, yet ruthless. They didn’t know it was built on blood and bricks laid by the Turkish mafia generations before I ever put on a suit.

They didn’t know I was being groomed to inherit everything.

They didn’t know the monster who ran it.

I leaned back in the cracked leather booth, sipping a whiskey I didn’t taste, answering in clipped Turkish as the Yakuza pitched something about ports and distribution chains.

My jaw ached from clenching it too long.

My body felt too tight in this suit, my nerves thrumming under the skin like a loaded wire.

My mind was on her. My Duchess.

I hadn’t slept since the night my grandfather came to see me, since he showed up like the plague, determined to ruin my life.

The girl he’d killed had given him a name.

Her name. Stephanie Winters. He didn’t say it outright, but I saw the way his mouth twisted when he mentioned her.

And I knew. Knew he’d sent Ozan sniffing after her, and if that bastard found her first, there’d be no mercy.

No hesitation. She’d be gone before I ever got to see her again.

And yet here I was, stuck in a goddamn club, shaking hands and making deals with men I didn’t give a fuck about.

I was wasting time and energy I didn’t have on alliances I didn’t want.

The Japanese were promising access, ports, and expansion.

I was nodding along, playing the part of the calm CEO, but inside, I was burning.

Every second spent here was a second too long away from her.

I had to find her. I had to get to her before they did.

Taking a sip of the whiskey, a movement caught my eye.

Two women stepped from the back hallway, flanked by Reaper and some tattooed, menacing-looking men. The younger woman looked concerned as they walked out, her eyes scanning the room like she expected something to go wrong. But the other...

My entire world slowed.

The tilt of her head. The way her body moved, fluid and sharp like a blade wrapped in velvet. That fucking walk.

Duchess?

She wore a leather jacket over a black tank top, low-rise jeans, and red Jimmy Choo boots. Her hair was loose, wild, like it was the night we shared that stolen kiss. I could still feel the softness of those waves as I fisted her hair in my hand. I could still taste her, even years later.

I signaled for Leon without breaking eye contact.

He was already moving.

I stood, grabbed the envelope from the table, and slammed a thick roll of bills onto the wood, the impact loud enough to shut them up.

It wasn’t about generosity; it was about getting the fuck out.

I was done playing polite. I had what I needed, and nothing they said would stop me from chasing what mattered.

"Enjoy your night on me."

One of the Yakuza called out something sharp in Japanese. Probably about respect, or the lack of it. I didn’t care. My eyes were already locked on the ghost I’d chased for the last five years.

I slipped out of the club quietly. I knew Leon was waiting for me outside the club.

As soon as I stepped out, he was waiting in front of the Rolls-Royce, holding the door open for me. I got in and told him to park across the street. I watched as Stephanie stepped out, followed by the two men and the woman.

She said her goodbyes to Reaper, her eyes flicking around the lot like she sensed something was off.

The other man stepped in, grabbed her arm like he had a right to touch her, and that was all it took for my fury to spike.

I gritted my teeth, hands curling into fists against my thighs.

Their conversation was short. Quick, sharp words were being exchanged, and I could read the tension in her stance.

She didn’t like being handled. Good. She still had that fire in her.

She took hold of the other woman a moment later, muttered something, and they turned to leave, straddling their motorcycles.

She glanced back down the street, feeling something was off, and it was.

My eyes never left her as I told Leon to follow closely.

I never expected to find her here, of all places. But fate had finally decided to hand me something worth taking. This wasn’t luck. This was the universe putting her back in my crosshairs. And I wasn't going to lose her again.

Downtown's Arts District. Gentrified grit. Old warehouses turned into overpriced penthouses for trust fund kids with too many secrets.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” I murmured, watching from the shadows of the idling car.

The building was high-end. Too high-end for someone trying to stay dead.

I watched from the backseat as the two women stepped through the building’s front entrance, the door closing behind them. Leon killed the engine but left the headlights off. We sat in the shadows across the street, silent, waiting.

I didn’t take my eyes off that building.

She’d looked over her shoulder before going inside. Not once. Twice. Like she felt me. Like she knew.

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen.

Every second made my teeth grind, every moment she was out of my sight dug deeper under my skin.

My fingers tapped against my thigh, restless.

I was already planning. Calculating entry points, elevator access, guard rotations.

Old instincts kicked in, the kind you couldn’t scrub out no matter how many suits you wore.

She was in there. And I was done waiting.

Leon shifted beside me. “Want me to… ”

“No.”

He paused. “Sir...”

“I’ve got this. I know how to handle her. You just wait here for me. If I need you, I'll call for you.”

He nodded once, then stared straight ahead.

Leon was the type of man who knew how to follow orders and not ask questions.

I’d spent years as the head of security for the Turks, and getting to people was my specialty.

I’d learned how to move like a shadow, how to disarm alarm systems in the dark, how to bypass biometric locks with the right tech and the right timing.

Observation, timing, and patience were my weapons before power ever made me a CEO.

I stepped out of the car and took in the building.

Cameras at the front, visible, but predictable.

I approached the side service entrance, slipped into the alley behind the dumpsters, and found the maintenance panel hidden behind a utility box.

Two screws, one slide, a custom key I still carried on my ring, and I was in.

The security system was decent, but not good enough to keep someone like me out.

I looped the live feed to freeze the hallway view and muted motion sensors just long enough to slip in through the rear service stairwell.

No elevators. No public access. You had to be smart and fast to do what I had done and not be seen.

I moved silently up to the penthouse floor, listening for any odd sounds, anything that might give me away.

When I reached her door, I didn’t charge in like some impatient thug.

I watched. Waited. Clocked the rotation of the building’s private security detail, counted the cameras, and noticed the added protection stationed two doors down.

Subtle, but not subtle enough for someone like me.

She had a man posted outside. Quiet, well-dressed, but too alert to be anything but hired muscle.

I doubled back, entered from the maintenance stairwell, and used the emergency access on the opposite side of the penthouse floor.

I slipped into a vacant service unit that shared an air duct with hers, an old school design flaw most developers overlooked.

From there, I disabled the secondary motion sensor near her door using a magnetic override. It gave me a thirty-second window.