Chapter 2 #2
The staircase spirals beneath the streets, shadowing the elevator that drops from the exclusive garage above.
Flickering lamps cling to the stone walls, their light stuttering over iron railings, turning the descent into something that feels more dungeon than club.
As I descend, I remember the first time I walked these steps, terrified, but curious. If only I had known.
I drag the pads of my fingers over the jagged stone as the curves of the spiral staircase pull me deeper with each step.
Dry dust clings to the brittle air, but the descent brings a saturation of smoke that curls in the back of my throat.
On its tail is the warm, heady aroma of high-end liquor—caramel, oak, and vanilla, laced with something darker.
They mingle together to form something indulgent and tempting.
I shudder, anticipating the Market tonight, and a tight knot coils low in my belly.
This is Echelon Vanguard. Not a club, but a sanctuary. Where politicians, billionaires, and former mafia-elite sit side by side to rule Chicago’s underbelly, quietly feasting on the city’s money and power as if it’s their birthright. Deplorable, yet … influential.
When I reach the bottom of the steps, I’m met with another door, this one a rich mahogany.
A scanner pulses electric blue in the dim light, the sleek oval glass embedded into the wall beside the door.
As I step closer, a low hum sounds and a pale beam flickers to life, sweeping across my face before locking onto my eyes.
The flare intensifies, narrowing to twin points that dance over my irises.
There’s a muted chime before the hypnotic female voice purrs, low and toned to perfection. “Welcome to Echelon Vanguard, Slade DuPont. Enjoy your evening, Congressman.”
Her artificial words coax a smirk from my lips.
With a hiss, the door unlocks, and low, honeyed laughter, mingled with the clink of glasses and pulsing bass, spills out. Crimson velvet stitched with gold drapes the walls, and white marble floors shimmer underneath crystal chandeliers. EV oozes explicit decadence.
“Slade. Good to see you.” Knox, an EV guard, stands tall just inside the door. He’s a wall of solid muscle—broad shoulders, thick arms.
While most of EV’s security comes from the more prestigious nightclubs in Chicago, Knox is an ex-Marine. The man is deadly.
He smiles and crosses his arms when I offer him a nod, his sharp hazel eyes assessing.
I finger the bridge of my glasses up my nose.
“Henry not with you tonight?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Must not be back from Europe yet, huh?”
I shake my head again.
That’s one thing I appreciate about Knox.
There’s no bullshitting with him. No formality.
He uses our first names, no matter our rank.
Even when speaking with any of the Eight, he’s on a first-name basis.
Probably the only member of security who can get away with it, but that might be because of Kenji.
Knox widens his stance as a few other businessmen enter behind me. They have that gleam in their eye, the one most have before Market. He clenches his jaw, then dips his head to scratch his buzzed brown hair, and a few rebellious strands fall.
Fridays are his least favorite. Mine too.
I roll my shoulders back and wrinkle my nose at the indulgent perfume beckoning the men forward. Tipping my head toward the bar, I raise my chin at Knox, and he offers me a tight-lipped smile. “Have a good night, Slade.”
I turn, strutting in the direction of the bar, only to be distracted by the bodies moving to the sensual rhythm on stage.
Several dancers, with crimson silk thongs hiked high over their hips, move and sway.
They glide in slow, alluring motions while men watch them from their leather booths or chairs facing the white marble stage.
The dancers blur together—I don’t want them.
Never have. They’re just part of the noise.
I scan the club, cataloging the members here to see who will be bidding tonight.
Wilson Marks, an investment banker worth billions, Sergi Kozlov, former Bratva, and Chicago’s own mayor are some of the heavy swingers tonight.
Along with a handful of others creeping around the club.
Some members get their fill from the Jackpot high and a few lap dances, but others come for something far more sinister.
When I finally make it to the bar, one bartender raises a hand, signaling he’ll be a moment, and I lean an elbow on the obsidian stone. Veins of gold catch in the ambient light. Backlit shelves rise to the ceiling, displaying a generous selection of rare, high-end liquors.
That’s one consistency among the other EV locations: an opulent library of centuries-old cognac, aged scotch, and some of the most coveted imported liquors. That, and the propensity for red velvet and white marble.
Mint wafts from somewhere next to me, and I avert my eyes from the woman dancing to glance over my shoulder.
There, Kenji mimics my stance, leaning into the bar and propping his right elbow up on the smooth stone.
A slow, lopsided grin spreads over his mouth as his jaw works the gum between his teeth.
He blows a pathetic bubble, and I arch a brow.
“Thought you weren’t coming tonight?” Kenji says, his eyes glinting dangerously close to mockery.
I level him with a stare, pressing my mouth into a flat line. He knows better.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Always gotta take one home.”
He continues to move his mouth in lazy circles, the gum crackling and popping. It’s annoying—his addiction to all things mint. However, I study him while he turns his broad-rimmed glass in circles over the bar.
He’s my height—about six foot one—with shoulders thick and round.
His long jet-black hair brushes his shoulders, but tonight it’s pulled back into a tight ponytail without a strand out of place.
Sharp, angular features give him an almost sculpted look, with dark eyes that catch every detail yet give nothing in return.
There’ve been a few former Yakuza members in and out of EV, but Kenji is in a league all his own. He came to Chicago from Boston three years ago after his brother was killed, and that’s about all I can get on his past.
Not that I care.
He shifts, motioning to the bartender I’m still waiting on, and the black leather jacket he’s wearing creaks.
When he catches me staring, he adjusts the collar of his black button-up, further exposing the dragon head tattoo that wraps the thick cords of his neck.
“I’d ask you what your problem is, DuPont, but I know you won’t give a damn answer. ”
I smirk in time for the bartender to show up, and when he asks what we’ll be having tonight, Kenji grins and gestures for me to order.
Meeting the bartender’s gaze with a nod, I hold up two fingers, then point to a bottle of Louis XIII cognac. My grandfather’s favorite.
I take great pleasure in knowing the bottle will be open when he gets back from his trip.
The bartender doesn’t hesitate and, after opening it, pours it neat.
Kenji offers me a small nod, then lifts his glass to me and takes a slow sip.
I do the same.
The liquid is warm and rich with layers of fig, honey, and dried apricot. All followed by smoky spices that melt into something divine. Henry DuPont may have poor judgment on many things, but this is not one of them.
Laughter echoes as the show of seduction plays out on the stage while more members trickle in for a night of luxury and lust.
“Come on. We’d better grab some seats before everyone is finished at the bar,” Kenji says.
I roll my eyes but follow him to a round marble table nestled in the curve of a deep U-shaped booth. We slide in while the dancers on stage make their way off, all smiles and sheer panties dripping with cash.
The next group won’t be smiling, though.
“Mind if we join?” Wilson Marks stands with Senator Graves, and I hold back a grimace.
Kenji looks at me, then says, “Not at all.”
It’s not like we could say no to Senator Graves; he’s one of the Eight.
Every chapter of Echelon Vanguard answers to the Eight—eight powerful men who pull every string behind the scenes.
No one becomes a member of EV without unanimous approval from all eight leaders, and there’s only one way in: a ruthless initiation known as the Carving.
“Bidding tonight, Slade?” Wilson asks, chest puffed and preening. The man is short, which explains the Napoleon complex.
I nod.
“He always does.” Senator Graves smiles over the rim of his glass.
“And where’s Vaughan tonight? Too busy with work, I take it?”
Graves’s jaw tightens at the name. He shifts subtly, brows drawn over narrowing eyes.
Vaughan Astor. Probably one of the richest members in all of Vanguard combined.
Because of that, the Chicago Eight hate him.
They view him as a necessary evil, though.
Vaughan is nonnegotiable, and the best at what he does.
Kenji answers. “He’s in the final negotiations for the island he’s purchasing in Greece.”
Graves snorts while Wilson curves his lip in disgust.
Jealous indeed.
“I’d think you’d be privy to his dealings, Slade. Didn’t you two use to be inseparable?”
Internally, I snort. We went to a private high school together. Inseparable is a far-fetched statement. I offer Wilson a blank stare.
“He’s not going to answer you,” Kenji says.