Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Brie
Quinn
You there?
Quinn’s message pulls me away from the romance novel I’ve been pretending to read for the past hour—some billionaire-meets-spy nonsense that hits uncomfortably close to home. Outside the window, the maple wedged between my building and the street tosses yellowed leaves into the wind.
Me
Yes. Should I log into the portal?
My socked feet pad across the aged wooden floor to my desk, where I bring my laptop to life. The phone rings, showing Quinn’s name, and I answer, setting the phone to speaker.
“You’re going to want to see this,” Quinn says. “You were right. Didn’t take long to solve this mystery.”
I’m in the portal, but the video feed hasn’t loaded. My fingers hover over the keyboard, waiting.
“Where am I looking?”
A message pops up with a link, and I click it. The window that opens is of a direct feed to the corridor with the server room. The timestamp is from six minutes earlier.
I watch as Edward Thorne—Eddie—taps the glass. His head turns, as if looking down the hall. He’s in a dark suit coat and trousers, and a three-button golf shirt. The door slides open, and he steps in. The door seals behind him.
“So he’s inside,” I say. “What’s he doing now?” I check the time: 1:36 p.m., Tuesday. The Sanctuary is closed to members; the kitchen crew should be prepping for dinner service. “Is security on site?”
“No. Security isn’t scheduled to arrive until four.”
That tracks. The manual says that security arrives an hour before guests to run through standard checks.
The first member can arrive as early as five, when the club reopens for the week.
On Tuesday evening, the club is partially open, with only one restaurant, one bar, and the spa by appointment only.
A message pops up on screen, and I click the link. The pop-up window shows him at the desk.
“Can you see what files he’s accessing?”
“So far he hasn’t logged into anything. It’s like he’s using this room as his office.”
“It wasn’t soundproof, was it?”
“Cinderblock walls. Probably not technically soundproof, but he likely considers it a safer space to have a conversation than his office.”
“His office is in the building across the street, on the same hall as Adrien’s, right?”
“Yes, but it’s my understanding he doesn’t use that office much.”
“I suppose it makes sense. Plus, he splits his time between Miami and New York.”
“According to flight logs, about a quarter of his time is in Miami, but that’s mostly in January and February, with a few short trips the rest of the year.”
“Convenient schedule for someone running a side operation,” I murmur, scanning the file I’ve compiled on Thorne. “He’s got three kids. One daughter and two sons. Wonder what his wife thinks about his ‘travel’. He spends several days at The Sanctuary, too.”
“He’s probably not up for family man of the year. Think about where he works.”
She’s not wrong. And that’s another reason to support my decision to keep things professional with Adrien. Eddie works at The Sanctuary, but Adrien owns it. He’s surrounded by temptation constantly. His life has evolved since we spent a weekend together. As has mine.
Eddie’s on his phone, tapping away, not even using the computer.
“We have audio, right?” I ask.
“We do. But he hasn’t spoken to anyone.”
“Regardless, he’s involved.”
“If you trust d’Avricourt.”
“He’s not lying about this. It’s eating at him.” I study the man on screen. He’s got trimmed, dark hair, longer on top with a gelled flip near the brow, and a curved line, a partial tattoo, climbing from beneath his shirt collar up the nape of his neck.
“Long Island. Do you think he’s mafia?”
Everything on Eddie’s records looks legit. North Shore money or connected? He’s had steady employment for eighteen years, but a sex club that doubles as a high-end society club…a mafia connection feels likely. And those guys are some of the original extortionists.
“It’s possible. It’s a lot more challenging to draw those connections these days.”
“Why do you say that?” Quinn asks.
In the CIA, we had files on all the organized crime families the world over.
“It’s not like they get together every Sunday for family dinner anymore.
And crime has advanced. Organized crime isn’t limited to drugs or human trafficking these days.
Plus, most organized criminal organizations derive a significant percentage of revenue from legitimate, legal business enterprises.
” I bite the corner of my nail, watching the back of Eddie’s head.
“I suppose he wouldn’t even have to be part of an organized crime family.
He could be doing a favor for a cousin or something. ”
“If he doesn’t do anything but sit there and mess with his phone, it’s going to take us a while to figure out who he’s working with.”
“Maybe,” I say, clicking my nails against the top of my desk.
“We’re going to need to tail this guy. See where he goes when he leaves the club.
” That familiar weight settles in my stomach—the recognition that we’re looking at weeks, not days.
“If he’s selling the intel, we may not see him move until an order comes in. Shit. This could take a while.”
“There’s no action right now. Nothing for him to record. Maybe we’ll get a better sense of what he’s doing when there’s activity in the club.”
That’s true. The only thing we could possibly see him do on an off-day is bookkeeping. “On the bright side, he doesn’t seem suspicious that anyone’s been in his space.”
“No. But if he’s been doing this for years, then…we’d have to do something stupid like leave trash in the trash can.”
“Was there a trash can in that room?” I think back over the room. I remember it was clean…
“No. I’m just saying figuratively…”
“Yeah. Well, he’s not the only employee who knows about that room. One, he’s not a tech guy, so he didn’t install everything. And two, it’s clean.”
“Cleaning it doesn’t mean you know what it is you’re cleaning.”
“Do you think he’s working alone?”
“No. Probably not.”
I’m back to tapping my nails on the table.
“Do you want to brief Adrien or should Hudson?”
“Hudson’s in the loop?” It just occurred to me he’s not on the line.
“Not yet. He had a meeting with the owners this morning.”
“The owner… You mean KOAN’s owners?”
“Very ones.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“He does not report to me.”
“Right, but you can reach out to him.”
“If you don’t want day-to-day with the client, tell Hudson.”
“That’s not—” I catch myself. This isn’t about avoiding Adrien.
I should shut it down. His words from yesterday come out of nowhere, playing on the audio in my mind.
If he shuts The Sanctuary down, we get nowhere. And something tells me a guy like Eddie isn’t going to talk if we let the feds take him in—especially if he’s organized crime.
“I’ll go visit Adrien. It’s better if I tell him in person.”
“If I were you, I’d tell him out of the office.”
“Why?” But even as I ask, the answer clicks into place. “In case Eddie’s listening in on his office. But we swept for bugs yesterday. And Adrien said that security checks…”
A security team that we don’t yet know is trustworthy.
Judging by Eddie’s behavior at the moment, even if he bugs Adrien’s office from time to time, nothing has piqued his suspicion yet that anyone’s onto him.
“I’ll have Adrien meet me outside of the office.”
“Sounds good to me,” she says.
“After I meet with Adrien, update him, and confirm he’ll let us play this out, I’ll reach out to Hudson and create a plan for surveilling this guy. Oh, and text me if you learn anything. You know, if he decides to do something other than play with his phone.”
After the call ends with Quinn, I call the number I have for Adrien, using my personal cell, which means he’ll now have my number. But, given I allowed him to learn where I live, my unlisted cell number is no biggie. After all, it’s easy to change a cell number, but it’s annoying to move.
He answers on the third ring.
“This is Adrien d’Avricourt.”
“This is Brie.”
“I thought so. Otherwise I never answer an unknown. If you’re calling to invite me to dinner, name the date, place, and time.”
“I’m actually…” The sigh that escapes is one of frustration, because he’s not treating this as a professional interaction, and what I’m about to say is going to make that situation worse. “Would you be up for a walk in the park?”
There’s a pause—I can practically hear him recalibrating. Yesterday I let him walk me home; now I’m creating distance again.
“Shall I meet you at your place?”
Of course he’d push. “Columbus Circle. By the fountain.”
“When?”
Knowing he’s going to insist on taking a car, I estimate the travel time on clogged city streets. “Thirty minutes?”
“Heading out now.”
I arrive at the Circle ten minutes early and scout the scene. The usual horse-drawn carriages are lined up down the street across from the park-facing apartment buildings and hotels. An artist sells his work, but judging from his easily moveable stand, I’d guess he’s lacking the required permits.
Residents speed by at quick clips, while tourists hold out phones, either to take photos or to check for directions.
A police officer on a bicycle passes and turns onto the black asphalt path that leads into the park.
Leaves scatter across the ground, and the sweet smell of sugared almonds from the nearby street vendor mixes with the faint scent of exhaust and horse manure.
Waiting for him, a memory ambushes me—not linear, but sensory fragments that refuse to stay buried.
The yacht deck at dawn, cool against my bare back. Salt air mixing with his sandalwood cologne. His voice, rough with desire. “You’re fucking gorgeous when you come.”
The way he’d watched me afterward—not like a conquest, but like I’d surprised him.
Later, in his cabin, silk sheets that smelled like him. My hands trembling as I reached for his belt—not performance, just want. The shock of that: actually wanting someone while undercover.
“I’m going to do everything I can to ensure you never forget me.”
He’d said it like a promise, and I’d let myself believe it for exactly one night.
His fingers in my hair, his voice commanding: “Don’t belittle this.” The way he’d taken me apart with a precision that felt like devotion. That impossible fullness, his body over mine, his breath hot against my neck.
And afterward—the part that broke me—when he traced patterns on my shoulder and asked, “Tell me something true.”
Drowsy and unguarded, I’d whispered, “I’ve never felt anything like this before—it’s unsettling.”
His arm had tightened around me. “Good. Then I’m not alone in that.”
Even then, I’d known: whatever came next would require me to leave him behind.
The wind knifes through the city, dragging me back to now, cutting through my sweater and sending dried brown leaves scattering across the sidewalk.
I step back, aiming to distance myself from the street, and bump into a hard, firm chest. On instinct, my arm bends, elbow poised—then the familiar hint of sandalwood reaches me, and my muscles relax into recognition.
“No coat?” He’s shrugging out of his black trench—cashmere-lined, probably costs more than my rent.
“I’m fine.” But he’s already draping it over my shoulders, his hands lingering just a second too long at my collar.
The lining is still warm, the weight of it unmistakably his.
I should shrug it off. Instead, I pull it tighter.
“Better?” His voice is low, intimate despite the public setting.
“We’re supposed to be professional.”
“And I’m professionally concerned about hypothermia.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Humor me.”
The hustle and bustle of the city slips away, and the wind’s chill is replaced with a buzzing warmth. I clear my throat, stepping back, and gesture to the path that leads into the park.
“I have news.”
He quickly matches my stride, and I wait until we’re far past the fountain, and in a section with no one too close to speak. Watching him closely, I say, “Eddie Thorne entered the server room.”
His jaw flexes slightly, barely noticeable beneath his trimmed beard, and his thick lashes flicker for the briefest of seconds. “Did you uncover what he’s doing? Who he’s selling to?”
“The only thing we know for certain is he’s sitting in the server room. He hasn’t accessed anything.”
Adrien’s Adam’s apple shifts as he swallows. He waits until a jogger approaching passes, and says, “I need to shut it down.”
“Please don’t.”
The words may have come out too quickly, but if he pulls the plug, we lose the thread. From what we’ve seen, Eddie is a professional, and there won’t be any clues or trails to follow once we take the server room out.
We walk for about a block in silence. I steal sideways glances and almost always meet his gaze, but when he’s not watching me, I sense he’s deep in thought.
“If I let this continue, I could lose everything.”
I’m prepared for this. “If you don’t have answers, you’ll never regain the trust of your membership. There will always be questions.”
“You’ll stay on the project?”
My assumption had been I would continue, but as he asks the question, there’s a part of me that recognizes this is an ideal juncture to step back, to slip away, to move onto the next assignment, and to let the KOAN team follow this lead.
It would be easier to walk away. It always is. But I don’t move.
“To be clear, the only way I continue with your team is if you stay on the project.”
“Is that wise?” The question doesn’t come from a place of professionalism. No, it’s me being real with him, and possibly speaking my thoughts out loud.
“Wise or not, it’s the only way. Otherwise, I fire Eddie, clear the servers, and never look back.”
“If you do that, you’ll never know who else is working with him.”
“Oh, I’ll clean house. Entirely new staff. Send a notice to the membership that there’s been an issue. Alicia’s connected me with a private consultant to handle the hiring and vetting.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“I’ve been preparing.”
“This is bigger than you. We already know of one other client being blackmailed, and it’s not with information from your club.”
“These are the kind of projects you work on now? In the private sector?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“It’s important to you?”
“It’s worth pursuing. Look at what the senator’s being blackmailed with. Don’t you think that’s a lead worth following? Learning who out there thinks they can buy legislation? Possibly government contracts?”
He stops. I turn to face him.
“I’ll leave the servers,” he says. “Two conditions.”
“Name them.”
“You stay on the team.” His eyes hold mine, and there’s something raw in them—not manipulation, but genuine need. “And you have dinner with me. Tomorrow night.”
“That’s—”
“Non-negotiable.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “You asked me to keep the servers running. I’m asking you to have dinner with me. Fair trade.”
The wind lifts, scattering leaves like paper confetti. I should say no. Keep it professional.
“Deal.”