Page 83 of Make Them Bleed

I scrub a hand over my jaw. “It’s a sex club,” I say. “I’m not bringing a collection plate.”

“You’re bringing your eyes,” he says, and the humor fades. “And your rules. Club Greed has their own. Learn them.”

“Talk me through.”

He ticks them off. “Phones locked on entry—Faraday lockers, numbered bands. NDAs at the door—civil, not criminal, but violating them will make your life sticky. Consent system is wristbands—green, yellow, red. Green means approach is welcome; yellow means conversation only; red means no approach. Staff in black cuffs. Rooms themed and supervised. Pride is the gallery—drinks, controlled voyeurism. Lust is obvious; Gluttony is food play, believe it or not. Envy is mirrors—careful with angles. Sloth is… pillows.”

“Charming.”

He points a pen. “Your cover is simple. Dev comped you as ‘guests of the house’ on a trial membership. So, skip the wealthsignals. It reads counterfeit. Wear clean lines. Look like you belong to yourself.”

“Juno and I go together,” I say, already cataloging wardrobe and comm logistics. “Two of us inside, three outside. Ozzy runs BLE sniff. Render sits on exterior cams. Knight sits in the car for exfil. Gage spoofs a member lookup if we need to confirm a name.”

Dean nods. “Have Adele route you to a back corner where the wall sees a lot and the room sees a little. Club Greed has a patio. Sometimes members slip out to call Ubers, or have a smoke. If your man moves from cocktail bars to private clubs, he’ll have tells. Keep your eyes open.”

I’m already halfway out of the chair. “You’re a miracle.”

“I’m a billable hour,” he says dryly. Then, softer, “Arrow.”

I pause.

“You don’t have to white-knuckle this alone,” he says. “You and the girl—Juno—you’re good in a fight. Don’t forget to tag your corners.”

“I won’t,” I say, and I mean it.

I send Devereaux the legal names and receive a reply so fast I imagine him texting with one hand while steering a Bugatti with the other:

Devereaux: Adele will expect you at 10. Rules attached.

A PDF follows. I memorize it on the elevator down.

In the car, the plan clicks into place, a familiar hum. Send the intake forms to the team. Print physical map overlays. We’lluse bone-conduction earpieces on whisper volume. No external mics. The pen mic stays home (kind of sad about this, I won’t lie).

By the time I hit Juno’s block, the river’s thrown a sheet of late-afternoon light up over the brick, and my phone has three new messages from Render:

Render: Waiver stub looks normal. Dev’s legal is tight. Don’t sign with your blood.

Render: Etta liked your DM and didn’t reply. She’s the kind who holds info to make friends with it later.

Render: I’m on call if you need a rescue voice pretending to be anyone. Owner, fire marshal, ghost of bad decisions.

I text back a skull, because we’re adults.

Then I look up at Juno’s door cam out of habit and remember it’s dark. The Ring’s disabled. The boundary set. I swallow, pocket my phone, and knock our pattern.

No answer.

I knock again. “Junebug?” I call, and the nickname leaves my mouth before the etiquette committee in my brain can draft a memo.

The latch clicks. The door opens on a crack, then a foot, then Juno, and my chest goes cold.

Her eyes are raw, lashes spiky with salt. She’s in one of my old hoodies. It’s black, and way too big for her. Nothing about herlooks like the quick-tongued woman who fenced with a predator last night. She looks like grief dressed in cotton.

“Hey,” I say, uselessly gentle.

“Hi.” Her voice is paper-thin. She swallows, and tries for a smile, but fails it halfway. “Sorry. I—” Her mouth trembles. “I opened a box and the box had a bomb in it, I guess.”

I step in, kick the door closed behind me with my foot, and set my hands on her waist like that’s a lever that can lift her. “Come here.”