Page 4 of Savage Vows

I circle left, toward the staff corridor. We mapped the whole floor plan last weekend, during lunch service. Julie flirted with a bartender while I took photos of every exit.

The service stairwell is narrow, lit by a flickering bulb. I climb quickly, silently, pausing just outside the upper floor. I can hear them, barely. A low murmur. A laugh.

I slip along the side wall, stopping at the utility closet directly across from the lounge door. I press my ear to the wood. The mic should still be catching everything from Julie’s necklace charm.

This is it. The part where everything we’ve planned either works or crashes.

And I’ve got one shot to get it right.

The audio comes in muffled at first—bass echoing through the floor, the door thick and sealed. But then Julie shifts, and the charm mic swings just enough to catch Serrano’s voice clearly, like he’s sitting right beside me.

“…depends on how close you want to get to the source,” he says. “Some girls like to stay on the surface. Parties. Gifts. Nothing long-term.”

Julie’s voice follows, smooth and curious. “And if I wanted more?”

A beat of silence. I imagine him smiling.

“Then we’d have to trust each other. I don’t offer trust easily. Not in this city.”

Julie laughs softly. “That’s ironic. You seem like someone people trust too easily.”

“I am. That’s the danger.”

My jaw tightens.

God, he soundsreasonable. Polished. Even charming. If I didn’t already know what he was—if I hadn’t read the testimonies buried in lawsuits that were mysteriously withdrawn—I might think he was just a powerful man making smart moves.

But I do know.

I know about the missing girl whose name was redacted from police reports. About the shell companies registered under street addresses that don’t exist. About the “philanthropy fund” that somehow paid for luxury penthouses across three states.

“You’re very careful, Rafael.”

He laughs, and it’s not a pleasant sound. “Careful’s how you stay rich in this city. Careless gets you robbed, or worse.”

A pause. A clink of glass on marble.

“You ever work in real estate, Julie?” he asks.

“No, but I’ve watched enough people fake it.”

He chuckles again, but this time it’s slower. “Faking it isn’t what I’m after. I want smart. Discreet. Useful.”

Useful. That word always makes my stomach turn. I can feel Julie thinking it too, even if her voice doesn’t change.

“I can be useful.”

I hear the soft thud of movement. Chairs shifting. Someone leaning forward.

I pull out my phone, check the waveform. The mic’s still catching everything. The levels spike with Serrano’s next line.

“You ever move money? Not the legal kind. The stuff that doesn’t leave fingerprints.”

At the far end of the hallway, someone catches my eye. He’s taller than most of the club’s security, with broad shoulders that fill out a charcoal suit in a way that seems both effortless and unmistakable. His hair is dark, cut close on the sides, a little longer on top, casual like he ran his fingers through it instead of a comb. The collar of his white shirt is open at the throat, and there’s no sign of a tie. Even in the dim light, I can see his jaw, clean-shaven and sharp, and the way his mouth settles into a line that looks neither friendly nor hostile.

He doesn’t glance at the crowd the way the others do. His eyes, a pale, startling blue, move slowly over the hallway, pausing on every detail with a kind of quiet focus that’s impossible to fake. When they land on me for a heartbeat, I feel a shock run up my spine. There’s no threat in his gaze, just an intensity that makes me feel as if I’ve been catalogued, filed away for later. For one breathless moment, my heart skips and I forget what I’m supposed to be listening for behind the lounge door.

He isn’t just attractive; he’s magnetic in a way that feels dangerous, like the calm before a summer storm. Everything about him stands out.