Chapter 21 - Collateral

The black Maybach slid to a stop under Eden’s private awning just after nine. Flashbulbs snapped from the public entrance out front, paparazzi hoping in vain to get a glimpse of the Don and the woman no one could name. Tonight they would see nothing: Jaxon had them routed through the employee ramp, hidden from every lens in the city.

Inside the service corridor, the bass line of Eden’s heartbeat throbbed through concrete. Raven followed one step behind him, her silk dress whispering around her knees. She had slept maybe two hours since their fight. When she looked in the mirror she saw a small crescent bruise where his teeth had grazed her collarbone, a private brand no one here would notice, but she felt it, the echo of last night’s brutal honesty pulsing beneath her skin like a second heart.

“Eyes front,” Jaxon murmured without turning. “Tonight we perform.”

Perform. Maintain appearances. Pretend everything inside them wasn’t cracked wide open.

Raven forced her shoulders back as they stepped through the interior doors. Light spilled across polished floors, dancers’ laughter twined with the dark synth pumping from hidden speakers. From this angle Eden looked exactly as it always had: decadent, untouchable, a playground for the city’s richest sins. Yet she saw the shadows now, the corridors where girls vanished, the alcoves where deals were whispered. Knowing changed the shape of every room.

A hostess in black silk approached, head bowed. “Good evening, Mr. Morreau.” Then, to Raven, a polite nod, equal parts respect and fear.

“Tell Dante I’m here,” Jaxon said.

The hostess vanished.

Raven felt him glance sideways. “Stay within sight,” he said softly.

She managed a smile that wasn’t one. “Always.”

The VIP mezzanine hovered above the main floor like a throne platform. Jaxon strode across it, Raven at his left shoulder, until they reached the cigar alcove where Dante Vincenzo waited by the glass rail, nursing an expensive Scotch. Perfect hair, perfect suit, perfect reptile smile.

“Don,” Dante greeted, offering his hand.

Jaxon ignored it. “Walk.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Dante’s features, but he obeyed, leading them into the sound-muffled cigar room. Doors shut. The hum of the club became distant thunder.

Jaxon took the center of the room. “Petra Milović,” he said. No preamble.

Dante’s brow creased. “The new Balkan dancer?”

“She quit yesterday, crying. Vanished.” Jaxon’s voice was low steel. “Your department processed her paperwork.”

“I process dozens of girls,” Dante said, spreading his hands. “They come, they go. The industry is fluid.”

Raven stood silent at Jaxon’s flank, studying Dante’s eyes, quick, calculating.

Jaxon moved closer. “She was recruited under the Morreau humanitarian work-visa umbrella. I authorized that program, Dante. If Petra was touched, if she was shipped...”

“We’d have logged a transfer,” Dante cut in smoothly. “No such entry exists.”

“Then someone bypassed you.”

Dante’s smile returned, colder. “Or someone is framing me.”

Jaxon’s stare never wavered. “Who controls third-party recruitment now?”

A beat. Dante’s gaze flicked away. “Your brother took an interest last summer.”

That was enough. Jaxon exhaled through his nose, confirmation of a suspicion, not surprise. “If one more girl disappears,” he said, “I will hold you responsible until proven otherwise.”

Dante swallowed, throat bobbing. “Understood.”

“Get out.”

Dante left without another word. The door thudded shut.

Raven released the breath she’d been holding. “He’s scared of you.”

“He should be.” Jaxon’s hand trembled once before he stilled it against his thigh. “Zane’s using Dante’s channels. I need proof.”

“You’ll have it,” Raven said.

He looked at her then, the flint in his eyes softening. “Just stay safe.”

“I’ll try,” she answered, knowing safety was a luxury neither of them owned anymore.

The threads began to unravel as Raven descended to the staff wing alone. She’d promised Jaxon she would keep a low profile, but information here moved through whispered gossip faster than any database.

Backstage was a chaos of feathers, sequins, last-minute body glitter. Familiar hands tugged costumes into place, pinned wigs, adjusted stage lights. Yet tension rippled beneath the sparkle, too many dancers missing, too many rumors humming in locker-room corners.

She found one of her friends, Amara, at her vanity, touching up ruby lipstick. Amara grinned when she saw Raven in the mirror. “Back from the dead?”

“Hell never looked so good,” Raven replied, forcing levity.

But as she leaned in for a quick hug, she felt Amara’s shoulders flinch. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Amara lied. Her eyes darted left, right. “Actually, can you check my locker? Someone left me a note earlier. I shoved it back in, but my hands are shaking and I keep smudging my makeup.”

“Sure.” Raven grabbed the key card from Amara’s makeup tray.

She walked the narrow corridor to the lockers—silent now, all performers onstage or prepping. Fluorescents buzzed overhead as she slid the keycard through. Door popped.

A single envelope lay on Amara’s spare heels. Black. Unsealed.

Raven opened it.

Inside: a Polaroid of Amara from last night, walking to her car, someone watching from the dark. Across the image, printed in crude red marker: NEXT TIME WE TAKE HER.

Ice stabbed Raven’s spine. She swiped sweat from her brow and tucked the photo back, relocking the door.

Amara waited, eyeliner wand poised. “Was it still there?”

Raven forced calm. “Just a prank. I tossed it.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.” She smiled, kissed Amara’s cheek. “Go knock them dead.”

Amara’s shoulders eased. “You’re a queen. Drinks after shift?”

“Count on it.”

Raven left the dressing room, adrenaline surging, heading straight for the security annex. Two men in suits blocked her path until they saw her badge and Jaxon’s insignia. They parted.

Inside, monitors flickered with every corner of Eden. Victor stood over a console.

“We need footage from Staff Exit C, 00:30 hours last night,” she said.

He raised a brow. “Authority?”

“Jaxon’s.”

He keyed the time stamp. A grainy feed: Amara walking to her car, oblivious. A black SUV idling at the curb. The driver’s face hidden by a baseball cap.

"Zoom." Raven leaned closer. The license plate was deliberately mud-splattered.

“Copy everything,” she said. “Hand it only to Jaxon. No one else.”

Victor nodded without comment. Eden’s quiet fist. Loyal, only to Jaxon.

Raven turned to leave, and saw a sticky note on the console that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Black ink. Handwriting she didn’t recognize: YOU’RE IN DEEPER THAN YOU KNOW.

Her heartbeat thundered. She spun, scanning the annex which was empty except for Victor bent over a burner laptop, headphones on. No one else.

She slipped the note into her clutch and hurried back toward the lounge, mind racing.

Back in VIP, she found Jaxon near the balcony rail, gazing down at the dance floor: Dante nowhere in sight.

She touched his arm, discreet. “We need to talk.”

He tilted his head slightly, permission. They stepped into a shadowed alcove lit only by the glow of a sculpted lamp.

Raven handed him the Polaroid first.

His jaw flexed. “Amara?”

“Yes. They’re escalating.”

He slid the photo into his jacket pocket. “Security?”

“On her tonight, but this was inside her locker.”

She then showed him the note.

Jaxon read it, eyes narrowing to slits. “Zane.”

“Or someone on his payroll.” She lowered her voice. “He’s moving faster than we are.”

A muscle ticked in Jaxon’s cheek. “He’s provoking me, trying to make me strike first so he can paint me as unstable to the board.”

“What’s the play?”

“We keep the gala plan.” He looked at her, gaze fierce. “Tomorrow night you’re with me every second, but if Zane invites you away, even for a minute, you go.”

Her pulse spiked. “You just said..."

“Only if I give the signal,” he said. “You’ll know.”

“And after?”

“After,” he said, voice like quiet thunder, “we burn his world to ash.”

His hand found hers, squeezed, not gentle, but grounding.

Raven exhaled. “We should get back. People will notice.”

He nodded and they returned to the balcony rail, masks firmly in place. Below, Eden writhed in decadent oblivion, but Raven felt eyes on her, shadows shifting, doors closing, plots tightening.

She was in deeper than she’d ever imagined and tomorrow, she would sink deeper still.