Page 92 of Savage Saint
"There!" Alessa points suddenly. "That's the club. The one with the blue sign."
I spot it, a nondescript building with blacked-out windows and a small neon sign shaped like a crescent moon. Nothing flashy, nothing that screams 'high-end strip club.' Perfect for keeping a low profile while trafficking women.
I drive past it, looking for somewhere to park that won't leave us exposed.
"What are you doing?" Alessa asks. "The club's back there."
"I'm not parking right in front. Might as well put a sign on the car saying 'please shoot us'.'"
She nods, understanding washing over her face. "Right. Sorry."
I find a spot between two delivery vans in an alley about a block away. The back entrance to the club should be nearby, if my instincts are right. And lately, my instincts have been screaming at me with increasing clarity.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. We're so close. The girls are in there. The answers are in there. And Nico might be too.
"This is it," I say, killing the engine. "You're staying here."
"I know." Alessa's voice is small but determined. "Dante would kill me if I put myself anywhere near Nico again so soon. Plus, someone needs to be ready for a quick getaway."
I turn to look at her, surprised by her practicality. "You've done this before?"
"Not exactly." She tries to smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Be careful in there. I'll tell you all about what happened when you come back."
When, notif. I appreciate her confidence.
"If I'm not back in twenty minutes—"
"I'll call Angelo," she finishes for me. "But you'll be back."
I nod, checking the small pistol I found in the glove compartment, tucked into my waistband. "Twenty minutes."
The service entrance is exactly where it should be. A nondescript metal door beside a stack of empty beer kegs. The lock is simple, nothing my hairpin can't handle. Five seconds later, I'm inside.
The narrow corridor smells of stale beer and cheap perfume. Dim red emergency lights cast long shadows on the peeling wallpaper. I move silently, hugging the wall, letting muscle memory guide me.
Wait. Muscle memory?
I pause, a chill running down my spine. I've been here before. I know this place. The corridor bends to the right, leading to the storage closet three doors down, and the service lift at the end leads directly to the VIP area.
How do I know this?
A flash—sharp and sudden—bursts behind my eyes. A hard piece of wood between my teeth. The sizzle of hot metal. Searing pain as someone presses an iron to my hip. The smell of burning flesh. My flesh. I don't scream. I don't move. I just lie there, taking it.
I blink, and I'm back in the corridor, sweat beading on my forehead. The brand. It wasn't random torture. It was... planned. Expected.
I shake it off and keep moving. There's a room on the right, just past the bend. That's where…
Another flash. Lying on my side on a leather couch. A man with tattoo-covered arms working a needle under my breast. The sting barely registers. I watch with disinterested eyes as he etches the outline of a cat onto my skin. A Blackriver Kitten. My cover. My way in.
Jesus Christ.
I wasn't a victim. I was—undercover? Infiltrating?
The sound of voices pulls me back to reality. Female voices, speaking in hushed tones. Eastern European accents. Polish, maybe. Or Ukrainian.
I slip past the room where I got my tattoo and follow the voices to what must be the dancers' dressing room. The door is slightly ajar, and through the crack, I can see five young women. They're beautiful in a hollow, haunted way that comes from knowing too much horror. They huddle together, whispering urgently, fear carved into every line of their faces.
I push the door open. "Are you guys okay?"
