Page 90 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

One hour.

Another man comes in with the look of the Chicago mob. He scans the lobby while he waits for them to process his card. He sees us but he doesn’t show he sees us.

A woman working on a laptop across the lobby has Storm worried. Business suit, sleek blonde bun. After his last sweep-through, he texted me that she didn’t feel right. West chimed in from the other side of the lobby:

Agree. Too on-the-nose biz traveler. Cop?

People are on edge because we don’t want Razvan to spook, and this woman feels wrong.

Orton and I are quietly discussing whether to send West over to hit on her when we get a text from him. It’s just one word:

FUCK.

“What’s West upset about?” I mutter under my breath, risking a glance his way.

“What the fuck,” Orton suddenly says. I follow the line of his vision and see a pair of delivery people up at the reception desk, each holding a massive bouquet. But these are no ordinary bouquets; they’re large, cellophane-wrapped cookies.

And those cookies are in the shape of diamond rings.

In other words, circle cookies. Lots of them.

“Christ,” Orton says. “If Razvan sees that? He is gone.”

“No shit. A man like that? He’s careful and old-school. He’llbe in the wind. All these weddings,” I add, knowing it doesn’t matter. The damage is done.

The Athleisure guy is on his phone, whispering urgently. He gives us a dark look and beelines for the door.

“So hewasa soldier,” I say.

Orton’s on his feet. “Let’s get outta here.”

“Easy there, cowboy.” I slide a few bills across the coffee bar and get up slowly.

As if on cue, Florian walks through the door, proceeds to the desk, and stops short, frozen in his tracks. He pulls out his phone and presses it to his ear, pretending to get a call, before he spins around and walks out.

We head out.

“Circular cookies and a possible cop in the lobby. What the fuck?”

Orton frowns. “Let’s reconvene elsewhere.” That’s code for linking up at the Trevor Street bar. He really is spooked.

“Gotcha,” I say.

Chapter Thirty-Five

LUKA

Orton slides onto the stool beside me with a scrape of wood against linoleum. The bartender barely looks up before setting down a glass.

“I assume you got a picture,” I say, voice low.

“Already sent it.”

No need to say where. The facial recognition guy—our inside man—will run it. A Fed we have in our pocket.

“This is some fucked-up bullshit,” I mutter.

Orton grunts in agreement, his fingers tightening around his glass.

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