Chapter 4: No Underwear

The days between Sloan and the next client moved slowly. Nina walked the city like a woman in a trance, running the names Tello and Rojas through her head, wondering who had killed Tello, wondering if it was Sombras protecting his network or Rojas dismantling it. She checked the locks on her door twice. She varied her route to the grocery store. She slept with a gun on the nightstand.

Before every booking she built the client. It was the part of the job that still felt like police work, the part she could control. She pulled Asher Kane's public profile first, the easy layer, the magazine covers and the net-worth estimates and the ex-wives. Then she went deeper. Property records. Business filings. The boards he sat on and the charities he chaired. A map of the man's world, drawn from paper, before she ever walked into it.

Three ex-wives. Two restraining orders, both expunged. The first wife had dropped the charges. The second had settled out of court with an NDA that smelled like blood money. Nina read between the lines and saw a man who liked to own things and broke them when they stopped being his.

She built her cover legend the way she'd been retrained at narcotics: a backstory simple enough to remember under pressure and boring enough that no one would dig. Sacramento upbringing, father in logistics, mother a teacher, one brother, a failed engagement, a few years in hospitality that explained how she'd ended up in concierge work. She rehearsed it until it sat in her mouth like the truth, because the best lies were the ones that almost were.

The counter-surveillance she did without thinking now. A different route home every night. Three mirrors checked before she turned off any street. A walk past her building once before she went in, watching for cars that sat too long or faces she'd seen before. She swept the apartment for bugs twice a week with a detector Marsh had given her, the size of a pen, and she found nothing, and the nothing made her more nervous than something would have.

She checked in on the rotation. "Still no movement on the party. Whoever hosts it is a ghost on paper."

"Same here. I traced the Delaware shell further, the valet firm. It's owned by a trust in the Caymans, no named beneficiary. Dead end. But a catering invoice leaked two years ago, and Asher Kane's name was on the guest list. He goes every year."

Nina's pulse kicked. "Then Kane's my door."

"If you can get him to bring you. He's possessive. The women he books don't last more than a few months before he moves on. You'll have to make him want to keep you long enough to reach that party."

"I know how to be wanted."

"I know you do. That's what worries me."

"Anything on Rojas?"

Marsh hesitated. "Damián Rojas. El Alacrán. We ran him. The feds have a file six inches thick and zero actionable intelligence. He's suspected in murders across three states, runs a network that stretches from Sinaloa to Vancouver, and has never been charged with anything. He's smart, he's brutal, and he's patient. The working theory is that he and Sombras have been fighting over territory for at least five years. Neither side gaining ground. Both sides losing people."

"So Tello could have been killed by either one."

"Could be. Could also be someone lower on the chain, cleaning house on their own initiative. Without a name on Sombras, we can't even begin to sort the bodies."

"Then I get the name." She told herself it was just the job getting to her. She told herself that right up until Asher Kane's assistant called with a booking.

Asher Kane was a media mogul, tall, silver-templed, handsome in the way men are when they've never been told no. He met her at a restaurant, made her wear the dress he'd chosen and sent to her apartment, a black slip of a thing that left little to imagination. She'd opened the box and found, beneath the dress, a pair of heels and a note in his handwriting: *No underwear. I want to know you followed instructions.*

At the restaurant he didn't stand when she approached. He looked her over, slowly, from the door to the table, and when she reached him he put his hand on the back of her neck and guided her into the chair, not roughly, but with a firmness that said: I put you where I want you.

"You followed instructions," he said. Not a question.

"Yes."

"Good." He reached under the tablecloth and his hand slid up her thigh, fingers finding the heat of her through nothing, and she kept her face smooth and her smile in place while he pressed two fingers inside her, slow and deliberate, his eyes on the partner who sat across from them and pretended not to notice. "Smile," Asher murmured in her ear. "Look at him while I touch you. Don't react. Don't flinch. If you move, I'll stop, and you won't like what happens when I stop."

Nina smiled. Looked at the man across the table. Felt Asher's fingers push deeper, curling inside her, his thumb finding the place that made her breath catch, and she carried on a conversation about the weather and didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't react, and hated him with a cold fury that she kept locked behind her eyes.

In the hotel suite afterward he was worse. He was demanding and rough and careless about the rules. He told her he didn't like barriers. He told her he liked to finish inside because it made the woman his, because it was a claim, a mark, because once a man came inside you, you belonged to him, and that was a thing you couldn't take back. He said it while he held her wrists above her head with one hand, his other hand around her throat, not squeezing, not yet, just holding, just letting her feel the weight of his hand there, the promise of it.

"Look at me," he said, his voice low and hard. "When I'm inside you, you look at me. You don't close your eyes. You don't look away. If you close your eyes, I stop. And you won't like what happens when I stop."

"Yes, sir."

"When I ask you a question, you answer. When I give you an instruction, you say yes sir. When I tell you to do something, you do it. You don't hesitate. You don't think. You obey. What are you?"

She swallowed, his hand still on her throat. "Yours."

"Say it again."

"I'm yours."

"Louder."

"I'm yours."

"Good. Don't forget it."

He smiled, and the smile was the smile of a man who'd been told no too few times in his life and had learned to take what he wanted regardless. He pushed her down on the bed, spread her legs with his knees, and put his fingers inside her, rough, perfunctory, not to give her pleasure but to check if she was ready. She wasn't, not fully, and he didn't care. He pulled his fingers out, held them up, looked at them, then wiped them on her thigh.

"Not wet enough," he said. "You're not trying."

"I'm sorry."

"You will be."

He pushed inside her in one hard stroke, and she gasped, her body stretching around him, sore and unready, and he didn't give her time to adjust. He started moving with a rhythm that was entirely his own, slow at first, deliberate, watching her face, watching her eyes, making sure she was looking at him.

"Tell me whose body this is," he said, his hips rolling into her.

"Yours."

"Whose."

"Yours, sir."

"Say the whole thing."

"This body is yours."

"Again."

"This body is yours."

He flipped her onto her stomach, held her wrists above her head with one hand, and pushed back inside her from behind, hard and deep, grunting with every stroke. She was sore from Calloway, not ready, and he didn't care. He fisted her hair and yanked her head back, curving her spine, and his palm cracked against her ass, hard, the sting of it sharp.

"Count," he said.

"One."

He slapped her again, harder.

"Two."

Again.

"Three."

Again, harder, the crack of his palm echoing off the hotel walls.

"Four."

Again.

"Five."

"Good," he said, his hand soothing over the sting, gentle now, the gentleness worse than the pain. "You count when I tell you to count. You finish when I say you finish. You breathe when I tell you to breathe. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"You feel so good," Asher growled, his hips driving into her, relentless. "This body is mine now. Every time I call you, you come. You wear what I send you. You do what I say. You eat when I tell you to eat. You sleep when I tell you to sleep. You fuck who I tell you to fuck. And when I finish inside you, you say thank you. Repeat it back to me."

"Every time you call, I come. I wear what you send. I do what you say. I fuck who you tell me to fuck. And when you finish inside me, I say thank you."

"Good girl."

She felt him swell inside her, felt his rhythm turn ragged, and she tried to pull forward, to crawl away from him, but his hand came down on the back of her head and shoved her face into the mattress, and his other arm wrapped around her waist, locking her hips against his, and he held her there, pinned, unable to move, unable to escape.

"Don't," he growled in her ear, his voice dark. "Don't you run from me. Where do you think you're going? This is mine. You don't get to leave until I say you leave. You take it. You take all of it."

She struggled, her hands clawing at the sheets, trying to drag herself forward, but he was too strong, too heavy, his arm around her waist like iron, and he shoved deep and held himself there, groaning, and she felt it, the hot flood of him, pulse after pulse, his cock jerking inside her, thick and relentless, filling her, and she couldn't get away, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but clench her jaw and take it while he held her down and came inside her like he was marking territory.

"Mine," he murmured in her ear, lips on her ear, his hips still twitching, pushing the last of himself deeper. "This is mine. You're mine. Every drop stays inside you. You don't clean up. You don't shower. You don't touch yourself. You leave it inside you until I tell you you can wash. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Say it."

"I leave it inside me until you tell me I can wash."

"Good girl."

He held her there for a long moment, still inside her, not letting her move, not letting her breathe, his weight pressing her into the mattress. She could feel him softening inside her, could feel the wet heat of them both, and he didn't pull out, he stayed, his hips flush against hers, his hand still on the back of her head. Then he pulled out, slow, deliberate, and she felt the wet rush of him sliding out, dripping down the inside of her thigh, and he grabbed her shoulder and flipped her onto her back.

"Open your mouth," he said.

She looked up at him. He was kneeling over her, half hard, wet with both of them, his cock glistening, and his eyes were cold and certain, the eyes of a man who had never once been refused.

She opened her mouth. He pushed inside, slow, past her lips, over her tongue, and she tasted it, tasted both of them, the sharp salt of his cum and the musk of her own body, the bitter tang of it coating her tongue, and he held her head with one hand and moved his hips, slow, deliberate, sliding himself across her tongue, making sure she tasted every part of it.

"Don't swallow," he said. "Hold it in your mouth. Let me feel your tongue on me."

She did what he said, her tongue moving under him, tasting them both, the salt and musk filling her mouth, and he watched her face, his eyes half closed, his hand on her jaw, tilting her head, controlling the angle, controlling the depth, controlling everything.

"That's what we taste like," he said, his voice low. "That's what belongs to me. Every time I call you, this is how you end. On your back, with me in your mouth and my cum inside you. What do you say?"

She couldn't speak with him in her mouth, and he knew it, and he held himself there, watching her struggle, watching her eyes, and then he pulled out, slow, the head of his cock resting on her bottom lip.

"Thank you," she said, and her voice didn't waver.

"Swallow."

She swallowed, her throat working, and he watched her swallow, watched her throat move, and he smiled, the smile of a man who owned something completely.

"Good girl. What are you?"

"Yours."

"Whose cum is inside you?"

"Yours, sir."

"Whose cum is in your mouth?"

"Yours."

"Who do you belong to?"

"You."

"Say my name."

"Asher."

"Say it again."

"Asher."

"Good girl."

He rolled off, satisfied, and lay smoking by the window, the city spread below. Nina pulled the sheet around herself and sat on the edge of the bed, playing the adoring woman, and waited.

"Asher," she said, soft, idle. "That party you're taking me to. The one in the hills. Who hosts it?"

He looked at her, and for a moment something sharp moved behind his eyes, a flicker of warning. "Why do you want to know?"

"I'm curious. A party that mysterious, everyone must wonder."

He smiled, slow, and looked back out the window. "Nobody knows. Nobody asks. You go, you drink, you leave an envelope, you get what you came for. The host is a man nobody sees clearly."

"Sounds mysterious."

"He's the most powerful man in this city, and you'll never know his name." Asher stubbed out his cigarette. He glanced at her, and for a moment his expression shifted, something like actual concern crossing his face before the vanity closed over it again. "Listen to me, girl. At that party, you don't ask questions. You don't wander. You stay on my arm and you smile and you do what I tell you. There are men there who don't have my patience. Men who don't ask permission the way I do."

The hypocrisy of a man who'd just held her by the throat and taken her without asking was so thick she almost choked on it. But the warning beneath it was real. She heard it and filed it.

"Buy you a dress for it. You're coming as mine. A woman like you at that party, doors will open."

Nina's pulse roared in her ears. She kept her face sleepy and uninterested, tracing a line on his shoulder. "Can't wait."

Her cover was cracking open a door to the man she'd been hunting for months. She lay in the dark beside a man who thought he owned her body and smiled into the pillow, her heart hammering.

The door was opening. She just had to walk through it.

In her car afterward she called Marsh. "I'm in. The hills party. Asher's bringing me as his. The host is the man we want, Marsh. I can feel it."

Marsh was quiet. "Nina. If you're in the same room as Sombras, and he sees you, and he's interested, you understand what that means. You'd be alone with him. No extraction. No wire. Nothing."

"I know."

"Are you ready for that?"

Nina looked at herself in the rearview mirror, her lipstick smeared, her hair a mess, a stranger's spend inside her, the marks from his hand still on her throat, and the woman looking back was already gone.

"Yes," she said. "I'm ready."

"Nina. Listen to me. If he approaches you, if he takes you somewhere private, you cannot call for backup. You understand that? You'd be on your own. Whatever happens, you handle it, and you get out, and you report in. That's the protocol. Can you live with that?"

"I can live with it."

"And if you can't get out?"

"Then you'll know something went wrong. And you'll come looking. And you'll bring backup. And you'll hope you're not too late."

Marsh was quiet for a long time. "This isn't protocol. This isn't even close to protocol. This is a woman walking into a lion's den with nothing but a red dress and a prayer."

"It's the only way in, Marsh. You know it is. We've tried everything else. Surveillance got us nothing. Financials got us nothing. Informants got us dead. This is the door. I'm walking through it."

"God help you, Falcone."

"He's been quiet lately. I think he's busy."

She drove home through the empty streets at three in the morning, the city asleep, and for the first time in weeks she felt something other than dread. She felt the pull of the hunt. She was close. She could feel it in her bones. The ghost was about to become real, and she was going to be the one to find him.