Page 112 of Sweet Ruin

His palm on my leg doesn’t help, either. I’ve never been stuck with a cattle prod, but I’ve got to imagine it’s the same kind of feeling. Searing heat, head-to-toe electricity, a sense of inevitable impending doom.

Black sedans nose up to the curb in a gleaming procession. Men in dark coats stand beside them with their hands folded over their stomachs, heads turning in slow sweeps as they watch the street. Women climb from back seats in fur and silk and diamonds that catch the streetlights.

And the building. I know this building.

It’s the old banquet hall on the corner. I always thought it was dormant. Just a relic of wild and reckless Nineties New York.

Tonight, every window in it is burning with gold light.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say. “That’s the dead hall. That place has been dark for years.”

“It’s been closed,” Kane corrects. “Not dead.”

“Is there a difference?”

“A big one. Everything I own that looks dark is just waiting for me to come turn the lights back on.”

I have several follow-up questions, but I don’t get to ask them. Stepan is slowing and my stomach is turning into a pretzel.

The rear door opens. Cold pours in along with a wall of noise. Laughter, yelling, glass tinkling, music playing.

The overstimulation is so real. I’d like to curl up in a ball and hibernate until winter is over.

“You’re going to be fine.” Kane steps out, buttons his coat with one hand, and offers me the other. “Come on. There’s a room upstairs where you can change, and a woman named Galina who will do your hair whether or not you consent.”

I look at his hand. Rings, knuckles, ink creeping past his cuff. A hand dragging me into a dark and uncertain future.

I put mine in it anyway, and let a mob boss walk me into my own neighborhood like I’ve never been here before.

The sidewalk is packed—but not for us.

Because when people see Kane coming, they scramble to clear a path.

I feel their eyes glom on me as we go by. It’s not the condescending glare of the woman from Maison d’Hiver. I’d say it’s more of a curious look.

Who is she?

Inside, the heat hits me like I’ve just stuck my head in an oven door.

The lobby looks nothing like the abandoned shell I imagined from the outside. Black-and-white marble tile gleams beneath hundreds of shoes. A grand brass staircase sweeps toward the second floor, with miniature soldiers sculpted into the metal.

There are already a hundred people in here, and it’s not even nine o’clock.

I swear almost every single one of them pays their respects to Kane as we go. It’s a never-ending stream of greetings, bows, and handshakes.

“Mr. Makov.”

“Kane.”

“Boss.”

“Pakhan.”

He nods at all of them but doesn’t stop for any of them. He walks me up the stairs with his hand at the small of my back and takes me down a hallway to a door at the end.

The room inside is small and toasty, with a couch, a mirror ringed in bulbs, and a table with a hair dryer and about forty other things on it.

A woman is already standing there with her arms crossed. Her lips are bright red with lipstick and her many gold bangles and bracelets rattle whenever she moves her hands.