5. Anastasia
We get to the club called Lumina Lounge. It’s a spectacle even from afar. The entire front is made of frosted glass, with each panel lit up in a hypnotizing gradient. It isn’t a place where just anyone can decide they’d like to go to for the night. Apparently, you need a VIP pass that requires a fingerprint scan to enter, and they’re given by invitation only.
Alistair sent my request weeks ago, leaving his name out entirely and making sure it couldn’t be traced back to him. It seems to have taken that long to get the approval, and now I recall the time he made me press my thumbprint to a document he claimed was for his own keeping.
I can feel the bass of the music before we even get out of the car, and my nerves start to rattle. This is what Alistair wanted me for. Not to fight or smuggle or participate in his blood money. I’m a power pawn, used only for my status, to gain for him prettily.
I resent it.
“Arrogance is everything to people like Silas,” Kenna says. “Don’t fuck this up.”
“Great confidence boost,” I mutter.
I’m trying to focus on my breathing so I won’t turn into a sweating, flustering mess. Silas is just another arrogant man with far too much money. I’ve dealt with his kind before.
“You’ll be going in first. I’ll have eyes on you, and I’ll be in the car when it’s over.”
My head snaps to her with my spike of adrenaline. “You won’t be with me?”
She shakes her head and my confidence wilts.
“Alistair doesn’t want to risk diverting his attention.”
“What will you be doing?”
“What I do best, just like you. If we’re lucky.”
I hope that doesn’t mean killing inside. Spying? I don’t know how she’s going to manage it in a bustling establishment.
“Go—we can’t linger. Everything you do and say will be analyzed.”
I nod, but I’m so awash with dizziness now it’s time to perform that the cool summer air does nothing to help me breathe when I step out of the car.
The doors are guarded by two giant men. They don’t speak, and that’s an intimidation in itself. I don’t give away my anxiety as one reaches into his coat and produces a finger scanner. I place my thumb on it, and after a second, it beeps and the man takes it back, reading what appears on the other side. Then they each take a handle, and I wonder what the fuck kind of movie I’ve stepped into with the ominous reception.
“Have a good evening, Miss Kinsley. Silas himself eagerly awaits you.”
I don’t smile at them, though it feels wrong. Arrogance is everything. I have to play like I’m above everyone, perhaps even Silas. I’m riddled with nerves with every step closer to the source of the music as my jacket is taken, my purse searched, and I step through a body scanner, which I assume is to detect concealed weapons or recording equipment.
This is a man who doesn’t take chances, and I doubt has ever given a second.
I’m escorted into the main room, which comes alive in an impressive hall. There’s a front stage at the far end and several smaller platforms with poles where women dance. It’s elegant and it gives off an air of prestige. As I continue to follow, I try to gauge the dancers who appear lost in their own world, oblivious to the eyes that drink them in. But they’re also aware of the attention, as if it’s what moves their bodies to the music with confidence. Their wears are sparkling and beautiful, some in short bodysuits and others in two-piece outfits. It isn’t the type of place sleazy men reach to grope and holler or toss and tuck bills; these patrons are awed and are in here to admire the performances.
Circular tables litter the ground level, and there’s a long bar at one side of the hall. Above, there are booths like in a theater, but in particular, one observation area spans the whole left side, and I’m led toward the stairs up to it.
I try to calm my racing pulse by listening to the music. It’s not pop or rock like I would expect to find in most clubs; there’s an element of jazz in the song playing, and I admire the saxophone all the way up the black-carpeted spiral stairs.
At the top I try not to balk at the dominant male ratio. I count at least a dozen men and only four women. There’s a smaller personal bar up here, a pool table, and several sets of sofas and armchairs facing each other for groups.
It doesn’t take me long to guess which of the wealthy men is Silas Balenheizer. I watch one of his tattooed hands bring a cigarette to his mouth, and he takes a long drag. I’ve only ever experimented with smoking if I’m drunk, but I’ve never seen someone make it look seductive.The way he watches the smoke he blows out toward the ceiling, it’s as if all the thoughts he had on the inhale scatter in the air before him on the exhale, and he’s oblivious to the liveliness of the night around him.
He screams power and danger, with dark hair that gives off a sheen and a few strands that flick over his forehead. Tattoos crawl up his neck, and I wonder from the few undone buttons of his black shirt if his whole chest is covered. His arms too, since so many pictures decorate his skin from his hands to where his black shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His face has an impeccable sculpture, with his angular, clean-shaven jaw. I find his eyes a deep brown as he watches the venue below and a moving light catches on them.
When they slip to me, I realize my assessment of him has taken over my thoughts, and now I’m standing right beside the sofa that hosts the two men opposite him. He gives little away in that seconds-long stare he lingers on me, but the skin around his eyes flexes in recognition.
“I never thought I’d be hosting America’s First Daughter in my club,” he says in a deep voice of ash and smoke.
“I had to see for myself why people boast their membership,” I say.
Silas merely looks at those seated opposite him, and they stand, leaving the whole sofa vacant. I understand the way he can talk without words when his gaze falls back on me and I’m compelled to take their place.
He leans forward, tapping the ash off his cigarette. “And what do you see, Miss Kinsley?”
I wonder if I’m already failing since Silas seems so unimpressed by my presence. What’s another beautiful heiress to him?
“I see a man trying prove he’s not just his father’s son.”
“Is that so?”
I notice the lights dim below, and the music tapers off. The front stage is dark as a silhouette walks on. There are three poles, but no one joins her.
“When we’re born into a name that tries to define us, I think it’s inevitable we search for fulfillment in something we created ourselves,” I say, but I’m not looking at him—I’m attracted to this performance.
I realize why when the spotlight hits her, and I don’t react as I see Kenna posed on the stage. She’s changed into black tights with embellished high-waisted black shorts and a full-black diamond crop top, but she’s wearing the same platform heels.
When I remember who I’m sitting with, I snap my sight away from her, but Silas is watching her too, forearms leaning on his thighs.
“Why are you really here, Anastasia?” he asks, but his words are as vacant as I felt a moment ago as he seems to lose himself to Kenna’s dance.
“Rebellion, boredom ... Do I really need a reason?” I pick up the cigarette he set down, taking a long inhale. I’m not used to it, and it without any alcohol I decide it’s foul-tasting and not something I want to try again.
Silas says, to seemingly no one, “Miss Kinsley will have a French martini.”
He stands, heading over to the balcony and leaning his forearms on the rail. Shit. I’m failing already, and Kenna’s refusal to be with me so as not to distract him is only backfiring with her alternative plan. He’s fully engrossed, and as I stand, following him to watch, I can see why.
So she’s an assassin, a spy, and a masterful dancer.
Even I’m entranced by the way she moves.
Silas sees these women dancing likely every night—he’s got a taste for it—and I try to soothe my faltering confidence by believing he would have been drawn to watch any of his main performers.
But Kenna ... she’s got a form and elegance that stands out. I feel the answer nagging in my mind, but I can’t catch it. The dance is seductive, like modern burlesque, but there’s something different about the way Kenna performs it. The point of her toes, the arch of her back, the full split of her legs.
Then it hits me, so obvious now.
She’s a ballet dancer. Or at least she was once. For enough years that her skill will always be imbedded in the way she moves.
“Time is money, Anastasia, and I do hope you haven’t come to waste mine,” Silas says absentmindedly.
I’m pulled from my trance too. “Do you require all your guests to offer you something?”
“Like you said, we’re all searching for our purpose. I don’t come here every night to merely smoke and drink and watch the pretty dancers.”
I look around the venue again, seeing every polished individual as a business transaction. Is he trafficking women through this setup like Jacob? The thought turns me nauseous. I don’t know what I’ll do if I discover that to be true.
The French martini is brought to me, while Silas is handed a short glass of an amber liquor that could be whiskey or scotch. I take a sip, hoping it’ll help calm me.
“How did you know I’d want this drink?” I ask.
“You seem like a sweet girl, with just the right hint of bitterness.”
I hook a brow. “What do you base your assumptions on?”
“I make it my business to know every person who comes through these doors.”
That enlightenment coils in my stomach and I find myself scrambling through my past, which is boringly innocent for the most part, as if some skeleton I’ve forgotten I’m hiding will unveil itself to Silas Balenheizer.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Rhett Kaiser, wasn’t it?”
Fuck. He has no reason to look deeper into Rhett. He isn’t here.
My silence must last too long as he forces his fixed gaze from Kenna to me.
“I came here to forget about it.”
Silas smiles, but it’s not the kind of smile that curls fully on his mouth. It dances in his eyes like he’s playing a game I don’t know I’m part of.
When the song finishes and the room floods with applause, Silas leans in to whisper something to a man by his other side, who sets off. He finally gives me his full attention, leaning sideways on the balcony, facing me. His dark eyes trail over me from head to toe, and I try not to stiffen with the blatant assessment.
“What do you see, Silas?”
He’s finding entertainment in me, but I have a feeling it’s not in what I’m trying to achieve.
“I see a woman trying so hard to hide a broken heart under a steel guise. You could fuck any man you desired, that’s not why you’re here. So tell me: Lanshall or Forthson?”
My heart tumbles out of my fucking ass.
I don’t know how to respond, and Silas goes back to sitting, leaving me there like a dear in fucking headlights, but I keep my expression cool as I join him again.
“Neither,” I say. “And both.”
That sparks his intrigue.
“And which does Kenna Radley belong to?”
I don’t react, but my mind is spinning. It was futile from the beginning to believe someone like Silas Balenheizer wouldn’t be one step ahead. Or perhaps Alistair knew it was a possibility and still expects me to convince him to fall for me.
When I don’t answer, Silas reclines in his smugness.
“Neither.” Kenna’s tone is cold as it creeps up behind me.
She’s escorted by the man Silas spoke to after her dance.
“And both?” Silas adds.
“No.”
The way he looks at her is how I’d picture someone appreciating fine art. He savors her—it’s clear in every lingering impression of his eyes over her body.
Kenna drags her flat look from him to pin me with the accusation I meet sheepishly.
“I didn’t say anything,” I defend.
“I’m going to wager Lanshall,” Silas says. “I heard he acquired a rather high-profile alliance. Though I’ll admit, it was quite the surprise to conclude it was the president’s daughter.” He lights another cigarette, and again I study how it seems to untangle his thoughts. “Sit, Miss Radley,” he invites.
She doesn’t, and that only earns the most genuinely thrilled smile I’ve seen on him.
Silas goes on. “After the death of Everett Lanshall, his uncle recruits his sad, lost girlfriend. But what reason does she have to walk into the underworld now? To be used for this? To gain my alliance, but how—?” He pauses and his head cants, eyes on me as he seems to conclude it too easily. He gives a short, deep chuckle. “I’m more interested in your friend, Anastasia. No offense.”
I’m taken aback but admittedly relieved.
“None taken,” I say.
“Speak for yourself,” Kenna cuts in, low and cold. “We’re not friends. And I’m not interested in you, rich boy.”
His eyes spark on her as he takes a drag of his cigarette. “Money isn’t an insult, sweetheart.” He blows out the smoke and sets it down. “But I will fuck the word ‘boy’out of you.”
“A woman has never told you no before, have they?”
“Oh, they have. It’s just never stopped me.”
I tense, and Kenna’s eyes heat and narrow on Silas.
“You ever touch me, it’ll be the last thing you feel at all.”
Silas grins, and I wonder what’s the truth and what he’s saying just to provoke Kenna from the wild thrill in his stare. “When I touch you, you’ll be begging me not to stop. And no other man ever will touch you again, or their hands will arrive in a pretty package on your doorstep. I don’t share.”
Kenna seems to have a venomous response lingering at the tip of her tongue, but she thinks better than to provoke him. We need him.
This night has gone to complete shit and I haven’t even finished my first martini. Thinking of it, I lift it from the table and finish it off in three gulps.
Silas says, “This is the most fun and intrigue I’ve had in years. And something tells me we’re just getting started.”