Page 47 of Beautiful Vows

“Good.”

I watch the door swing open and slam shut to an empty corridor. “And Rafe...”

“I know, I know. I’m on my way back now.”

As he signs off, I refocus on my screens. Outside, more police cars arrive, their sirens howling, their lights painting the night in red and blue.

The rap at my door breaks my attention. Glancing through my lashes, I watch as a curled finger beckons me to open the door. I hesitate for a split second before I slide out of my chair and approach cautiously.

“Mr. Saunders? Detective Quinn, Brisbane Police.” His gruff voice sounds like he smokes too many cigarettes. His weathered features and piercing eyes suggest he’s seen more than his fair share of crime scenes.

I lean against the door frame, projecting an air of restraint despite my racing heart. “I’d love to know the reason for your raid, Detective?”

“Of course,” he says dryly. “I’ll need to see your club’s license and permits.”

Without missing a beat, I stride to my desk and retrieve the documents from a locked drawer. Years in this business have taught me to keep everything unblemished. I hand them over, watching as Quinn scrutinizes each page.

“Everything seems in order,” he admits, though his tone suggests he wishes it weren’t. “But this raid isn’t just about tonight’s... activities. A detective named Sean Finnegan was investigating this club for illegal operations. He was found on a beach … dead.”

I maintain a careful blend of shock and concern. “That’s horrific. But surely you don’t think my establishment is connected? We run a sex club, Detective, not a crime cartel.”

Quinn’s eyes bore into me. “We believe he was getting close to something big. Human trafficking, underground auctions—the kind of depravity that hides behind masks and membership fees.”

His words hit uncomfortably close to home, but I don’t flinch. Years of playing high-stakes poker come in handy in moments like these. “Detective, I assure you, while our entertainment pushes boundaries, we operate strictly within the law. And honestly, I’m appalled by the crimes you’re describing. And I’m deeply sorry for your loss, but I have no knowledge that could help you.”

That’s not entirely true.

As Quinn speaks, a memory surfaces—a detail from months ago, when Mateo Conti eliminated a threat. On the dead man, they found a note with Amara’s name and the date, which was her eighteenth birthday.

That date came and went, and nothing happened at the club. The only thing that did was Lia eliminated Giuseppe Rossi. I wonder if his murder stopped what was planned.

Was it a coincidence?

Now, considering Quinn’s revelations, those puzzle pieces are aligning in a deeply unsettling pattern.

But I say nothing.

Not out of loyalty to the Syndicate, but out of a need to understand more. If this web extends to Amara, then rashly sharing information could put her and others at even greater risk.

Quinn observes me, frustration etched in the lines around his mouth. He knows I’m withholding something, but he also knows he can’t crack me—not here, not now.

“Like I told you, I know nothing, and I’m deeply sorry that you lost a colleague.” My gaze shifts to a screen.

“Are you?” Quinn leans in, his breath smelling of stale coffee and smoke. “Because right now, you seem more concerned with watching your monitors than talking about my murdered colleague.”

Over his shoulder, I watch the screens that show the road outside and see a girl running away from the club, heels in her hand. As a car nears her, my heart leaps into my throat.

Detective Quinn stands at the door and says, “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Saunders.” There’s an unmistakable warning in his tone as he turns back to me. “Don’t leave town.”

As he exits, I wait for the door to close, and then I collapse into my chair and press my earpiece, and say, "Rafe, where the fuck are you?"

When he doesn't answer, I scan through the rest of the screens, but my fingers stop when I see the girl is now in the middle of the road, prone, still.

“Fuck!” I rush to the door and yell for the detective. While he makes his way back, I dash back into the office and to the screen.

My stomach tightens with a sickening knot as I gaze at the screen and at the figure sprawled on the floor, my breath catching in my throat as I realize who it is.

Chapter 16

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