Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Brie
The stench from the street-cleaning unit that passed moments earlier lingers in the early morning air. I check the time, scanning the sidewalks for my team. Noah and Hudson are reliable—punctual to the minute—but if they were ever going to slip, with my luck, it would be today.
A light rain slicks the pavement, pooling along the curb. Noah’s train from DC would’ve arrived hours ago. Hudson’s flight from North Carolina—less predictable. If there’s a delay, it hasn’t hit my phone yet.
A man in a black knit cap and trench coat rounds the corner, stride brisk, certain. At that same moment, a dark gray Mercedes eases to the curb. The rear door opens, and Adrien’s on the sidewalk in a flash.
“You’re waiting? By yourself?”
The street’s quiet, half industrial, half forgotten—back-alley energy. I’m capable of defending myself if a leftover drunk from last night’s festivities gets ideas, but I keep that to myself.
Footsteps approach from my left. One glance confirms the skullcap is Noah. A yellow taxi stops behind the Mercedes; even before the door opens, I’d bet it’s Hudson.
“Good morning, Mr. d’Avricourt,” I say, loud enough for Noah to hear. Adrien’s cologne carries on the damp air—something dark and woody with citrus notes. Mediterranean citrus. Monaco citrus. My stomach tightens involuntarily, muscle memory from a weekend I’ve spent years trying to forget.
Adrien frowns, bends to murmur something to his driver, then shuts the door. Another car door closes and Quinn appears, wrapped in a marled gray scarf that hangs loose against her coat.
“Hudson sent you?”
“We’re evaluating tech. Easier if I’m here.”
It makes sense. Quinn’s the tech nerve center of our team. Still, it’s odd that Hudson didn’t come himself. Maybe another assignment pulled him, but that’s not something you ask in front of a client.
“Wondered if your flight would be canceled,” I say instead.
“I did too. Lots of delays.” She adjusts the heavy bag slung over her shoulder. “Beat the system that’s coming in. Not sure I’ll make it out before the heavier rains.”
“LaGuardia?”
She nods. “They’re temperamental with weather.”
“If flights get canceled, crash at my place. Closer than a hotel and my guest room has actual blackout curtains.”
A light pressure at my back—Adrien’s hand, not quite touching, but unmistakably Adrien—signals his impatience.
“This way,” he says.
We follow, our footsteps soft against concrete, the sounds of traffic dull beneath the mist. Adrien unlocks the door; motion sensors trigger a low wash of light across the entryway.
He waits until we’re all inside before pressing a code on the wall panel.
Another click. Overhead lights flare brighter.
“Thank you for meeting early,” he says. “Mondays are ideal—no employees scheduled, and discretion matters. Kitchen staff sometimes stop in later to check inventory.”
He taps an app on his phone, and the bar area glows fully to life. The glass globes recessed in the ceiling are just as I remembered.
“What about security?” I ask. “No live monitoring today?”
“They’re off as well,” he says. “Follow me.”
We pass through the same door Eddie used Friday night. I glance at the ceiling—smoked glass, perfect cover for cameras.
“Is surveillance shut off when the business is closed?”
“No,” Adrien says. “Video runs continuously. After twenty-four hours, footage records over itself. If there’s an incident, we pull it before that window closes.”
“And no remote access?” Quinn asks. “That app you’re using—it’s not connected?”
He shakes his head. “We considered integrating the feed but decided against it. Phones can be stolen. Too much risk.”
Quinn exchanges a glance with me; she approves of the caution.
“We reviewed your personnel records,” I say. “Five employees own properties worth over five million. Is that unexpected?”
“Probably not.” He slows as we approach an elevator.
“We pay well. Eddie Thorne, our managing director, earns seven-fifty plus under-the-table tips. Macon Chen, head of security—around seven hundred. The chef’s at a million.
I stole him from another venue, promised him a partnership once he gets ours running cleanly. Who were the other two?”
“Luz Delgado—VIP liaison. And Christophe Duret, your acquisitions coordinator. Both have verifiable income streams that match their assets.”
The elevator doors close, and without a button pressed, we rise. Controlled remotely—linked to his app. Typical of Adrien: convenience disguised as luxury.
The space feels smaller than it should, his height crowding the air.
Glass globes overhead form a geometric pattern—too deliberate for design alone.
I calculate automatically: three blind spots.
One near the panel, one behind the mirrored wall, one where Adrien stands closest to me.
His shoulder brushes mine; I shift a fraction.
The elevator stops after two floors. Adrien steps into a quiet hallway lined with labeled doors.
“This level’s staff-only—changing rooms, storage, everything an employee might need. And here’s the control room.”
A green light halos the door frame as he scans in. “Only fifteen people have visual ID access. The system logs entries, but it won’t raise alarms. I come in on closed days often enough that no one will question it.”
He holds the door for us, and I take care to avoid brushing against him as I step through into the room.
Video screens cover two walls. Adrien moves confidently to the control console, his touch steady and sure.
Despite myself, I track his hands—strong, practiced, ringless.
The same that once traced the curve of my spine.
The screens blink to life, revealing corridors, reception areas, and the main bar.
“No video inside the suites?” I ask.
“No. Only hallways—to verify consent. The suites are private. We have open event spaces with surveillance, and bouncers circulate. Safety first.”
His tone is professional, but the tension in his jaw betrays him. He knows how vulnerable his members are.
“If I trusted Chen, he’d be giving you this tour,” he adds.
“You don’t think you can?” Noah asks.
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Adrien’s reply is sharper now. “I can’t trust anyone. Chen controls surveillance, schedules—everything. If the blackmail originated here, he’s in the perfect position to manipulate footage.”
“And the surveillance is viewed here?” Quinn asks, lowering her bag onto a chair.
“Yes. Privacy is a close second to safety. That’s why I need you to find the source of the breach.”
“Alright,” she says. “Can I dig in? Will anyone be alerted?”
“No.”
“Good.” She’s already crouched, scanning the console. “We’ll need to install our own surveillance in here—discreetly. If anyone notices, we’re done. First, I’ll map your storage protocols.”
I lean against a counter, watching the screens as Quinn murmurs to herself. After she finishes her sweep, I’ll ask her about anomalies—any feed not looping back to this room could point to our mole.
“Do you ever have outside contractors?” I ask. “HVAC, pest control, maintenance?”
“Occasionally,” Adrien says.
“Can we see service records?”
“Of course. But we don’t let technicians in unescorted.”
“That’s the rule,” I say. “Rules bend.”
He glances at me—something close to approval flickers in his expression. “You’re more thorough than my own security experts.”
“It’s the situation,” I reply, though the warmth in his tone lingers longer than it should.
“Would you care to come to my office?”
“Your office is here?”
“Across the street,” he says, a faint smirk curving his mouth. The expression jolts a memory—how he’d looked at me the night we met after a drink and a dare. I keep my face neutral.
“Do you have floor plans?” Quinn asks, still bent under the console. “Electrical schematics?”
“Yes. When I bought the business, I received all physical plans—no electronic copies. They’re in my office.” He turns to me. “Come with me?”
“You go ahead,” Noah says, eyes on the ceiling. “I’ll start mapping hidden camera angles.”
If Noah were looking at me, I’d shoot him a glare. He still assumes Adrien’s presence rattles me because of my CIA cover, an assumption I haven’t corrected.
Adrien gestures toward the hall. “Shall we?”
The deep breath I take shouldn’t be necessary. I’ve been alone with arms dealers, double agents, and men far more dangerous than a club owner. But he’s not just a businessman. Adrien d’Avricourt is the only one who’s ever made me question the choices that built my life.