Chapter 7
LANTANA
Violent Delights looked nothing like a clubhouse.
That fact alone usually unsettled men stupid enough to walk through our doors expecting grease-stained floors, beer-soaked tables, and leather-covered bikers snarling at one another beneath cigarette smoke.
They expected the same tired stereotype every motorcycle club in America had been feeding the world for decades, and the second they stepped into our territory they realized how badly they had underestimated us.
The Royal Harlots never built power by pretending to be men. We built it by weaponizing everything they overlooked in women.
The lounge sat on the upper level of Violent Delights behind private velvet-draped doors guarded by two armed women wearing silk blouses, stilettos, and shoulder holsters hidden beneath tailored jackets.
The room itself glowed beneath low amber chandeliers and violet accent lighting that washed over black velvet furniture, marble tables, gold fixtures, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors framed in dark ornate trim.
Expensive perfume lingered in the air beside cigar smoke and champagne while rock music played softly through hidden speakers overhead, the music blending perfectly with the steady rain battering Manhattan outside the towering windows overlooking the city below.
The decor was exactly the way Duchess intended. Feminine yet dangerous. Because every inch of Violent Delights existed to remind people that women could build empires too, and ours happened to wear stilettos while carrying knives sharp enough to slit throats before dessert arrived.
I leaned back against the velvet chair at the long black marble table while slowly sipping my mimosa and watching Black Obsidian prepare the television screens lining the far wall.
Champagne fizzed lightly against my tongue while exhaustion still lingered beneath my skin from the previous night.
I had barely slept after getting home. Something had felt off the second I walked into my apartment.
There was nothing out of place enough to raise alarms immediately, but there was a feeling of tension.
And the strange feeling that someone was watching, the sensation crawled across the back of my neck and refused to go away.
I looked around the room, Duchess sat at the head of the table wearing a fitted white silk blouse and black leather jacket that screamed business and violence in equal measure.
Silver rings glittered across manicured fingernails that wrapped elegantly around a crystal champagne flute.
Her dark hair fell in sleek waves over one shoulder, and her makeup remained flawless despite the late hour.
A calm expression rested across her innocent face fooling anyone into believing she wasn’t capable of ordering executions before breakfast.
Beside her sat Roulette, lounging sideways in her chair with one Louis Vuitton stiletto propped against the table edge while she lazily stirred her mimosa using a black straw.
Her red lipstick had already stained the rim of the glass twice, and despite the sleepy expression resting across her features, there was still enough danger in her pale eyes to make grown men nervous.
Paramore sat farther down the table flipping a butterfly knife between tattooed fingers while glaring at the television screens impatiently.
Rainbow lounged beside her dressed in a fitted emerald blouse with her wild multicolored hair piled messily on top of her head while she sipped champagne with her pinky lifted dramatically in the air.
We were considered badasses in most circles. We had survived men who underestimated us, abuse, betrayal, violence, addiction, and things most people could never handle, yet hand us a passion fruit mimosa and we were just women, pinkies up and heels propped up.
“Every damn time,” Mirage muttered from across the table while lighting a cigarette. “You walk around carrying guns and threatening murder all week, but hand you a mimosa and suddenly you turn into royalty.”
Rainbow looked offended immediately. “Elegance and violence can coexist.”
Paramore snorted. “That sounds tiring.”
“It’s called range, sweetheart.”
At the front of the room, Obsidian tapped the screen, and the lounge dimmed. A series of news clips flickered to life.
The footage was grainy, shot from police bodycams and shaky cell phone videos.
Three different crime scenes. Three different men.
All of them were high-profile targets. Small time politicians, crooked developers, the kind of men who thought they were untouchable.
In every shot, the body was slumped in a position of absolute surrender, their eyes wide and pupils blown.
And resting on each chest, perfectly centered, was a small, square card of black velvet.
Black Obsidian paused the frame on the final victim, a man whose face had turned a bruised, mottled purple.
"The coroner's report just leaked to my source," she said, her voice a low drone. "No signs of struggle. No trauma. They didn't even have time to scream."
"What killed them?" Duchess asked.
"Poison," Obsidian replied. "A synthetic neurotoxin. Fast-acting, undetectable in a standard screen, and absolutely agonizing."
The silence that followed was instantaneous. Slowly, one by one, every pair of eyes at the table shifted toward me. I felt the weight of their gaze but I didn't even blink. “What the hell are you all looking at?”
Duchess and Roulette glanced at one another. “What do you make of all this?”
I just slowly raised my hands, palms open. "Hey, let me be clear," I said, my voice steady despite the drumming in my chest. "I had nothing to do with whatever this is."
"You're the only one here who knows the difference between a neurotoxin and a bottle of bleach, Lantana," Paramore grunted, matter-of-factly.
"That's a very narrow set of criteria for an accusation, Paramore," I shot back.
“I never said I was accusing you,” she responded.
"If I were going to kill people, I wouldn't leave a velvet calling card," I argued. "That's not science. That's theater."
"Maybe you've developed a flair for the dramatic," Rainbow suggested, a small, teasing smile playing on her lips.
Mirage exhaled smoke toward the ceiling while watching the news footage carefully. “Three bodies in ten days. Same black velvet card at every scene. Same toxin showing up in preliminary reports.”
Roulette’s expression darkened slightly. “And every victim connected to trafficking investigations or financial crimes involving women.”
That pulled silence across the table briefly. Because suddenly this stopped feeling random.
Duchess finally lowered her champagne glass before speaking calmly. “Tell them the rest, Obsidian.”
New crime scene photographs filled the screen, showing the same men laid out across expensive floors with blackened veins crawling beneath pale skin while foam stained their mouths and blood vessels burst violently beneath their eyes.
Rainbow grimaced. “Jesus Christ.”
“That toxin cooked them from the inside out,” Obsidian muttered while adjusting her glasses.
I slowly walked up to the screens, inspecting each image. “Looks like organ failure triggered by rapid neurotoxic collapse.”
Every eye shifted toward me again.I sighed heavily. “You all are deeply annoying.”
“You’re the toxicologist,” Paramore replied. “Do your thing.”
Obsidian looked back at the images. "Three dead men with a signature. Someone is wanting to play games with the Harlots name."
"The timing is the real bitch," Mirage added, her voice tight. "We're already on edge.."
"Which is why we keep this under wraps," Duchess said, finally turning her gaze to me. "I don't want a single word of this leaving this room. No one knows we've seen these clips. No one knows we're discussing the toxin."
"You want us to ignore it?" Rainbow asked.
"I want us to be invisible," Duchess replied. "I am not letting the Royal Bastards know we're spooked. They're our brothers in arms, sure, but the RBMC is built on a foundation of opportunism. The moment they smell a weakness in the Harlots' perimeter, they'll jump at the chance to tear us down.”
Rainbow rolled her eyes, leaning back with a loud sigh.
"Typical men," she muttered. "They can't stand a woman who doesn't need their permission to breathe."
"It's not about gender, Rainbow, it's about power," Paramore said.
"The Bastards have more boots on the ground.
If they think we're compromised or that we've got a rogue element doing high-profile hits, they'll use it as a pretext to 'stabilize' our territory.
Which is a fancy way of saying they'll take our warehouses and put us on a leash. "
"So we just sit here and wait for the fourth body to drop?" I asked, my introspection slipping into a challenge.
"We don't wait," Duchess said. "We investigate. But we do it internally."
I felt the shift in the room. There was slight suspicion even though no one came right out and said it, if they did I was sure Duchess would put them in their place.
I thought about the toxin Obsidian described.
Synthetic neurotoxins were a nightmare to craft.
You needed a controlled environment, specific precursors that were flagged by every agency from the DEA to Interpol, and a level of patience that bordered on the psychotic.
It was beautiful, in a horrific way. The idea of someone methodically shutting down a human nervous system, cell by cell, while they remained conscious but paralyzed, it sent a cold shiver down my spine.
"Whoever is doing this wants the world to know that death can be elegant. The way the bodies are displayed is profoundly disturbing."
"You're sounding a bit too appreciative of the killer’s strategies, Lantana," Roulette whispered, though there was a glint of curiosity in her eyes.
"I'm analyzing the profile," I snapped. "If you want to find a killer, you have to understand the ego behind the kill."
I exhaled slowly before setting my champagne flute down against the marble table. “You see those black veins? The vascular damage looks engineered. Whatever killed these men wasn’t homemade garbage mixed together in somebody’s basement. This required knowledge and time.”
Paramore leaned forward slightly. “Could someone replicate your work?”
I met her stare directly. “Not easily.”
“But possible?”
My jaw tightened. “Yes, I suppose.”
"And that's exactly why you're the only one for the job," Duchess said.
The room went quiet again. Duchess stood up, her presence filling the space. She walked toward me, the click of her heels echoed on the marble floor.
"I trust you, Lantana," Duchess said, her voice dropping to a low, intimate tone that carried across the room.
"But trust isn't a shield. It's a liability if it's misplaced.
I need you to figure out how that toxin was used.
I need to know how it was created, where the precursors came from, and who has the intellect to pull this off without leaving a damn fingerprint. "
"You want me to investigate a crime?" I stated.
"You are the only one who can prove the Harlots had nothing to do with these killings. If the RBMC or the cops start sniffing around, I need a scientific certainty that we aren't the source. I need a dossier that clears us and points the finger at the real monster."
“Using poison tied to women sends a message whether they intended it or not.”
“Meaning?” She asked.
“Meaning whoever did this understands exactly how people will react once toxicology reports leak.” My eyes drifted toward the television again.
“The second poison enters the conversation, every federal agency starts looking toward women first. Men use guns. Women use subtlety. That’s how law enforcement thinks. ”
Rainbow scoffed softly. “Misogyny remains exhausting.”
“It remains predictable,” Duchess corrected.
Roulette swirled champagne slowly inside her glass while studying me carefully. “Could one of ours be involved?”
“If it is it’s no one in this room,” Duchess answered confidently.
"What if I find out it's someone we know?" I asked.
Duchess leaned in, her eyes narrowing. "Then you bring that information to me and me alone.
No pointing fingers in the lounge. No whispers in the hallways.
We are a sisterhood first, a club second.
But if there is a traitor in our midst, I will personally ensure their exit is far less elegant than a velvet card. "
"I can do it," I said. "But I'll need access to the autopsy reports. The real ones, not the redacted garbage the news gets."
"Obsidian can get you the files," Duchess said. "But remember, your primary objective is to watch our backs. The Royal Bastards are lurking. They're watching for a crack in the armor. Don't give them one."
"I'll keep my eyes open," I promised.
"Do that," Duchess said, stepping back.
As the meeting broke up, I took a slow sip of my champagne as I looked at each member.
The women around me were the strongest people I had ever known.
But as I stared at that velvet card, I felt a sudden, piercing chill.
We were the Harlots, considered royalty by our brethren, but someone had just entered our kingdom with a poison we didn't understand and a level of cruelty that made our violence look like a game.
I didn't know who was behind the black velvet card, but as I felt the weight of Duchess's expectations and the looming threat of the RBMC, I knew one thing for certain.
The Harlots were targeted and when we found out by whom, there would be hell to pay.