Page 38 of Silent Schemes
Sienna ignores him, steps past to the door at the end. Pauses, then looks back at me. “How many exits in this building?”
“Four you can see. Two you can’t,” I say.
She nods, like she expected that answer.
I motion for her to lead.
She does.
The next room is the club’s main floor.
A spiral of sunken booths and one-way glass that turns everyone inside into voyeurs and prisoners at the same time.
Lights are down, but you can see the ghost shapes of the staff prepping tables, the slow vacuuming of the VIP carpets, the bartender lining up crystal tumblers with obsessive care.
She walks the perimeter, fingers trailing over the edge of a booth.
Stops at one of the tables, slips her hand beneath and finds the panic button with barely a glance.
She meets my eyes. “Cute.”
I shrug. “Some of the guests get excited.”
Will clears his throat, follows us at a distance.
He’s there to make sure she doesn’t try anything, but also to watch how close I let her get.
I introduce Sienna to the floor manager, Tracie, a tall woman with a cascade of black hair and eyes that measure every calorie in a hundred-meter radius.
Sienna flashes her a smile, just long enough to register as polite, then moves on.
We pass the kitchen—steam and meat and the head chef’s face, frozen with terror as he registers her presence.
Sienna waves, a little queen’s gesture, and he nearly drops a tray of foie gras.
In the next corridor, two busboys in black shirts are resetting linens.
Sienna notes the tattoos on their wrists, marks them as ex-military in less than two seconds.
She keeps walking.
The final stop is the secure room.
I don’t let anyone in here, not even Will.
Today, I let her.
A show of faith, I suppose.
The door is steel, no window.
She enters first, sees the layout: One desk, three monitors, a safe in the floor.
No chairs. No place to hide.
I close the door, lock it, and turn to face her. “What do you think?”
She leans back against the wall, crosses her arms. “You keep a lot of secrets for someone who wants to be king.”
