“Well, that was boring. Not a single threat of dismemberment.”
Vane snorts, loosening his tie. “Disappointed?”
“Devastated,” Knox corrects, reaching for the decanter. “I had my heart set on seeing Xavier’s ‘diplomatic’ approach.”
Landon examines the photos from Orlov’s phone, which he’d transferred to his tablet. “Their operation looks legitimate, but something feels off. The quantities they’re offering would require infrastructure we haven’t encountered.”
“Hence the test shipment,” I reply, standing. “Verify everything. Twice.”
“Always so trusting,” Vane drawls.
I straighten my cuffs, a habit when contemplating the next move. “Trust has nothing to do with it. Orlov wants our distribution network more than we need his product. That makes him dangerous—and useful.”
As my brothers continue debating Orlov’s proposal, my thoughts drift to the upcoming Hunt. New players, new complications, new opportunities—the board grows increasingly complex. But complexity has always been where I thrive. After all, a man with only one move is predictable. And in my world, the predictable rarely survive.
2
MIRA
Ipour the electric-blue cocktail, masking my thoughts with a well-worn smile. Three weeks undercover at Purgatory, and I’m still stuck mixing overpriced cocktails while the real story happens behind closed doors.
“Another Blue Devil for the gentleman in the corner,” I announce, sliding the drink across the obsidian bar top.
My fingers dance over my phone beneath the counter, recording the fragments of conversation that drifted my way. Working at Purgatory is like assembling a jigsaw puzzle in the dark—I’m collecting pieces without seeing the full picture.
The club thumps with bass music and hushed conversations. Through the haze of smoke and dim lighting, I spot Xavier Blackwood across the room, surrounded by his entourage. My real target.
“They’re prepping for the Hunt again,” a waitress whispers to another as they collect drinks from theserver’s station at the end of my bar. “Three new girls already selected, two more to choose.”
The Hollow’s Hunt. The third time I’ve heard it mentioned this week.
“When?” I ask, wiping down the counter.
The waitress stiffens. “Don’t ask questions if you want to keep this job.”
She walks away, but I’ve caught another piece. Three girls. Selected for what? The possibilities turn my stomach.
I glance toward the velvet rope that separates the main floor from the VIP section. Behind it sits a door with a keypad, through which the Blackwood brothers disappear night after night. Whatever the Hunt is, I’m betting the answers lie beyond that threshold.
“Mira, you’re needed in the storeroom,” my manager calls out.
I nod, but my eyes stay fixed on Xavier.
The Hollow’s Hunt. Something worth risking my career for, maybe even my life. But people deserve to know what happens in the shadows of Ravenwood Hollow’s most exclusive club. That’s why I’m here, why I’ll keep digging until I uncover the truth.
I may not have VIP access, but journalists like me have cracked harder cases than this. And with the Hunt fast approaching, my window of opportunity is narrowing.
I make my way to the storeroom, squeezing past gyrating bodies on the dance floor. The music fades to a dullthud as I push through the heavy door marked “Staff Only” and flick on the harsh fluorescent lights.
“What the?—”
A man in a rumpled suit sits on a crate of vodka, helping himself to a bottle of Macallan 25. The amber liquid sloshes as he tilts it toward me in a mock toast.
“Join me, beautiful.” His words slur together, eyes unfocused. “Too stuffy out there. Found somethin’ better.”
I step back toward the door. “Sir, you’re not allowed in here. I need you to return to the main floor.”
He staggers to his feet, knocking over empty bottles. “Don’t be like that. We’re just gettin’ started.”
