17. Chapter 17
Marcus had spotted the wrought iron gate from two blocks out.
It stood full height, a formidable barrier against the world outside.
The iron was meticulously worked into a lattice of thorned vines, the kind of intricate ironwork that would have taken a real smith months to painstakingly forge.
Anywhere else in the city, it would have been seen as an ornate piece of decorative artistry.
But here, in this part of town, the thorns sat menacingly at exactly head height, and none of them had been dulled to a harmless point.
There was no keypad visible from the car, no call box to request entry.
Andre slowed their vehicle to a stop in front of it anyway, because that was clearly the point. The engine hummed softly beneath them, the only sound in the otherwise silent street. For four full seconds, time seemed to stretch out, and nothing happened at all.
Then, as if by some unseen command, the gate swung inward without so much as a creak. A red light Marcus hadn't noticed before blinked out above it. The sudden movement sent a shiver down his spine.
"They knew the plate," Andre said. His voice was steady, but there was a tightness around his eyes that betrayed his unease. It wasn't a question.
"They knew the plate three blocks ago." Marcus's voice was flat, his gaze already flicking to the mirrors, eyes scanning for any sign of movement. "This is just where they let you see it." His fingers drummed a restless beat on the steering wheel, the only outward sign of his mounting tension.
The descent down the ramp was a journey into a different world.
The concrete underfoot was freshly poured, its surface smooth and unblemished, a stark contrast to the century-old grime that clung to the streets above.
The ramp seemed to stretch on endlessly, burrowing deep into the earth beneath the church gothic revival church that had become Club Crimson and the Tower, above.
Ten years ago, with purchase records under seal and absolute secrecy, the abandoned cathedral had been purchased by an unknown, hidden behind scaffolding and wor crews, and reborn as what only some knew as the Crimson Company.
A ten floor tower had been errected to match the church, culmniating an an obscenely ornate recreation of the original steeple.
Gargoyles looked out over the city, red stained glass and black accents dominated.
It was a house of god turned into a fortress of sin and the man who sat at the top was known only as Bell.
Marcus found himself counting the light fixtures out of habit, a habit born from years of sizing up rooms in terms of board feet and hourly rates before he'd even fully stepped into them.
He stopped counting when he reached forty.
Forty fixtures, this deep underground, wasn't about illuminating the path ahead.
It was a statement, a testament to the vast amount of money that had been poured into this hidden project.
This wasn't a casual expenditure; it was an investment that could keep most international nonprofits running for a year.
And all of it had been spent on a place that no city inspector, no permit office, no aerial survey had ever flagged.
A cathedral on a riverfront didn't just happen to have five sublevels beneath it by accident.
It was the result of someone spending enough money, with enough discretion, that no permit office had ever caught wind of it.
When they finally reached the garage floor, it was vast and oddly empty.
It held maybe thirty vehicles but felt as though it could accommodate ten times that number.
Marcus assumed that those who worked for the Company kept their transportation elsewhere.
There was a different lot much higher up for the partygoers who swarmed one of the most elite and underrated nightclubs in the world each weekend.
A man was waiting by the elevator bank. He wore a dark suit and stood with an air of quiet confidence, his feet planted firmly on the ground, his hands loose at his sides.
There was no visible weapon, but his stance suggested he'd never once needed one.
His gaze swept over Marcus and Andre without lingering on either of them.
He didn't bother with introductions. Instead, he extended an open hand, palm up. Andre stared at it for a moment before Marcus understood and pressed two fingers briefly to the reader mounted at the man's wrist.
"Code," the man said, his voice as cold and impersonal as the concrete surrounding them.
"I wasn't given one," Marcus replied, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone.
"You were." The man's eyes remained fixed on Marcus's face, unblinking. "Dray has it. You called him twenty minutes ago."
Marcus recited the eight digits Dray had read off to him in the car, feeling a strange sense of being tested and an even stranger sense of relief when he passed. The elevator doors slid open without either of them touching a button, revealing the next stage of their journey into the depths.
Inside: a retinal scanner built into the panel where a floor directory should have been, and no floor buttons at all.
"Level one access is granted on the code alone," the man said, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space of the elevator. He stepped in after them, his polished shoes clicking against the metallic floor. "Everything past that requires your eyes. Some… require more than that."
His words hung in the air, a cryptic warning wrapped in a casual tone. The fluorescent light above flickered, casting an eerie glow on his face as he spoke. His gaze was steady, unblinking, as if he was used to delivering such unsettling news.
Marcus felt a chill creep up his spine, a sense of unease settling in his stomach. He glanced at Andre, whose face remained impassive, but his knuckles were white where they gripped the railing.
The man didn't elaborate on 'more than that.' His tone flattened on the last four words, a verbal door slamming shut. It was a clear signal that the subject was closed, and Marcus didn't dare to pry it open. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken questions and apprehensions.
The elevator hummed softly as it ascended, the only sound in the otherwise silent space. The man leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the retinal scanner. His nonchalance was unsettling, a stark contrast to the tension that hung in the air.
Marcus swallowed hard, his throat dry. He could feel Andre's tension beside him, a palpable force that mirrored his own unease. They exchanged a glance, a silent agreement passing between them. Whatever awaited them beyond level one, they would face it together.
The doors slid apart on silent runners. Bass hit him first, a low-frequency thump vibrating in his molars before he even registered it as music.
A wash of blood-red light, nothing like an exit sign, spilled from down the corridor and caught on gold filigree, flickering off the edges of a distant chandelier he could just make out, forty feet away through an arch that had once been the church’s chancel door.
At the far end of the hall, a woman in a coral silk corset that surely cost more than Marcus’s entire suit drifted past, laughing at something he couldn’t hear. She didn’t spare the three of them a single glance.
“This is the Confession floor,” their escort said, deadpan, like announcing a subway stop. “Members only. You’re not stopping here.”
Andre went rigid beside him, shoulders locked, weight shifted back on his heels, eyes flicking over every door in the room without so much as a facial twitch.
“That a working girl?” Andre asked, nodding toward the woman.
“Member,” Marcus corrected. “Everyone here chose to be. I’ve never been above the third floor before, so I don’t know every rule.
But like Velvet, the Lords’ club, workers on this level earn over a million a year, easy.
Top-tier health care, retirement packages, paid time off.
And nobody’s stupid enough to violate the consent clauses, you break those, you lose access…
and last your next breath. Membership alone is five million a year, not counting side-business shares.
Bell takes care of his people. That’s why we partner with him, and why the Lords do too.
They treat their circles with more integrity than any congressman I’ve met, morals as unbreakable as they seem dark to outsiders. ”
The elevator doors slid shut on the red haze, the muted laughter, the scent of melting wax and clean sweat. Andre absorbed the correction without a word.
They rode upward in near-silence for what felt like an eternity.
At the next checkpoint, a flush metal door stood with no handle, only a narrow slot at hip height, like an IV port in a lab. The escort stepped forward, pressed his thumb to the slot, and the panel sighed open. He glanced at Andre.
“Just him?” Andre said, meaning Marcus.
He shook his head. “Both of you. Every time. Doesn’t matter who you are.”
The prick was fast and precise, a fleeting sting that sent a shiver up Marcus’s spine.
It was a stark reminder, more potent than the imposing ironwork, the steep ramp, or the sight of thirty luxury cars parked in a garage built for ten times that many.
It told him exactly how seriously this building, and the man who ran it, regarded the question of who was granted the privilege to stand in its inner sanctum.
The final stretch of their journey was not by elevator, but by stairs.
A narrow gothic spiral, its stone steps worn soft in the center by countless feet over the years.
The flickering light from real candles in iron brackets cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, their warm glow a stark contrast to the cold sterility of electric lighting.
The bass from the music below fell away, swallowed by the stone and distance.
His heart wanted to race, but he focused on calm. This wasn't the first time he'd met Bell in person. Just the first time he'd done so here. The escort didn’t bother knocking on it. Instead, he pushed it open with an air of familiarity and stepped back, his gaze flicking to Marcus and Andre.
“Go on,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the stone stairwell. His tone was indifferent, as if he’d performed this ritual countless times before.
Marcus exchanged a glance with Andre. The tension was palpable, a silent agreement passing between them once again. They would face whatever awaited them beyond that door together.
With a deep breath to steady himself, Marcus stepped forward into the unknown.
The room was a cathedral of decadence, occupying the entire top floor.
Stone arches, like the skeletal remains of a sanctuary, soared into shadow overhead, mirroring the sacred architecture two hundred feet below.
Stained glass windows, their hues a deep amber, glowed mysteriously in the night, their light source an enigma to Marcus.
To the left, a second throne sat on a raised platform, its black wood and red velvet stark against the stone backdrop.
To the right, a wooden platform cradled a four-poster bed swathed in black curtains.
Chains looped decoratively around each post, their metallic sheen catching the amber light.
A St. Andrew's cross stood sentinel against the stone wall behind it, an ominous silhouette in the dimly lit room.
But neither the throne nor the cross was what seized Marcus's attention first.
A slight blond man in a black leather kilt was astride a well-built, harnessed, hooded man on the throne.
He fucked him with an unhurried rhythm, his motions proprietary as if he were a king surveying his kingdom.
And indeed, he was. His accent was soft and rounded, each word dripping with Savannah charm as he called out without breaking stride or glancing toward the door.
"Just a moment," he said. "Y'all made good time. "
Andre's hand found the doorframe in a silent bid for stability.
Marcus remained silent, his years of legal training offering no script for this surreal tableau. A clinical part of his brain noted that the blond, Bell himself, knew exactly how long the drive from Lakefront took and had timed this encounter down to the minute.
Bell man finished with a low, satisfied sound and a roll of his hips that was devoid of any performative flair.
He gripped the hooded man's jaw once, gently, murmuring something too quiet to carry across the room and gave him an absolutely filthy kiss.
Then he rose off him in a single unhurried motion.
His shirt sleeves, black and frilled at the cuff, settled back over his wrists.
The corset laced beneath it remained as taut as before.
"Go on and take yourself a bath, darlin'," he instructed the hooded man without looking back settling into the chair as if he hadn’t just come, arranging the plaits of the kilt around him. "But no cummin'. That's for later. I'll know if you've been naughty, so don't even think about it."
The hooded man rose, bowed his head once in acknowledgment, and exited through a side door without uttering a word.
The blond then sank into the throne as if it were a porch swing on a lazy summer afternoon, crossed one knee-high boot over the other, and finally turned his full attention on the two men standing in his doorway.
His eyes were honey gold, and cold, a stark contrast to the warm smile that played on his lips.
"Now," he began, folding his hands in his lap like a genteel host welcoming guests. "To what do I owe the pleasure of Marcus Whitfield and his detective former lover, in my humble abode? Rumor is you boys have run into a spot of trouble lately."