Page 7 of Wicked Mafia Beast
The Redthorne building rises against the Chicago skyline like a blade forged from glass and steel. I stare up at it from the sidewalk, laptop bag clutched against my chest, and my brain starts firing on all cylinders.
I know this building. Actually, I know who owns it.
Six months of research didn't just cover the Malones. When you're investigating one criminal empire, you end up mapping all the others that orbit around it. The Red Letter Syndicate is one of the biggest.
I rummage through my mental database of names and the first one that pops up in Rafael Milano. He stands at the helm. His five "brothers" run different arms of the operation. Banking. Unions. Intelligence. Enforcement. Among others. If there's a dirty dollar to be made, they've got their hands in it. Fact is fact.
And now I'm about to walk into their territory and ask for help.
Either I'm desperate or I'm stupid. Probably both.
Color me a hypocrite. Then again, the enemy of my enemy and all that, right? I’ll need to tattoo that on my brain to make sure I remember it because I’m feeling many levels of slimy just thinking about it.
The driver who picked me up on the highway drops me two blocks away. Nice guy. Didn't ask questions. Didn't try to murder me. Low bar, but I'll take the win.
I smooth down my hair, wipe the mascara smudges from under my eyes, and try to look like someone who belongs at an upscale club instead of someone who just climbed out a window and ran through the woods. The scratches on my arms sting when I pull my sleeves down to cover them. Nothing I can do about the dirt on my jeans or the leaves still tangled in my hair. I pick out what I can and hope the lighting inside is forgiving.
The lobby of Redthorne Holdings is all sleek modern design, the kind of architecture that whispers money and power without having to raise its voice. I cross the marble floor toward the elevator bank, keeping my head high and my shoulders straight like I have every right to be here. Fake it till you make it has gotten me through worse situations than this.
Scarlet Thorn sits seven floors above the business offices, according to my research. I press the button and wait, forcing my shoulders down and my breathing steady.
The elevator arrives with a soft chime, and I step inside just as a couple glides in behind me. A cloud of perfume follows them in, so thick and floral it coats the back of my throat.
The woman is draped in ruby red silk that flows over her curves like water, diamonds glittering at her throat. The man beside her wears a suit that looks like he stood still while they tailored it tofit him down to the last detail. His hand rests possessively on the small of her back. Neither of them acknowledges my existence, which suits me fine.
The woman presses the button for Scarlet Thorn with a manicured finger, and I feel her gaze slide over my dirt-stained jeans and wrinkled shirt. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches just slightly, a microexpression of disdain so subtle it could almost be imagined.
Almost.
I keep my eyes fixed on the mirrored doors and pretend I don't notice. I've spent years being looked through by people who think money makes them better than everyone else. This is nothing new. Everyone likes to assume and judge you by your appearance. No one would ever think of me as a billionaire’s daughter.
And good. I’ve worked hard to distance myself from my family’s blood money.
The elevator rises so smoothly I barely feel the motion, soft classical music playing from hidden speakers, and I count the floors until we finally glide to a stop.
The doors open, and I have to stop myself from gasping out loud.
White marble floors stretch before me like a frozen sea, so polished I can see my own reflection staring back with wide, exhausted eyes. Crystal chandeliers drip from ceilings so high they make me dizzy, casting warm golden light across everything they touch. The air smells expensive, a blend of French perfume and top-shelf whiskey and the kind of sin that only people with unlimited bank accounts can afford to indulge in.
The couple exits first, the woman's silk gown whispering against the marble as she glides forward like she owns the place. Maybe she does. I slip out behind them, keeping my distance, trying to make myself small and forgettable. Trust me when I say it’s never good to stand out in my world.
A host in an immaculate suit stands behind a podium, a thick leather-bound book open before him and a fountain pen poised in his hand. His voice is warm but practiced as he greets the couple.
"Lovely to see you both again. Your usual table is prepared and you have fresh drinks waiting."
They sign their names in the book with the casual elegance of people who have done this a thousand times, their signatures probably works of art, and then they're gone, disappearing into the club's depths with the rustle of silk and the click of expensive heels on marble.
I'm left standing alone under the host's expectant gaze.
His eyes flick over my appearance, taking in the scratches on my arms, the dirt on my jeans, the dark circles I know are visible beneath my pathetic attempt at concealer. Something shifts in his expression, but to his credit, his smile doesn't falter.
I already like him.
“Hi there.” I’ve never been known to be shy. “I bet I’m not your usual client.”
His smile turns from the practiced greeting to something that feels genuine. "Welcome to Scarlet Thorn." His voice remains warm, though I catch the slight question in it now. "May I haveyour signature? A hostess will escort you to the floor of your choosing."
“Oh, I thought for sure I would be taken to a back room, hosed down and forced into a dress by dudes in black or something.”
