The Den is a place owned by a criminal and bastard, so naturally it’s spilling over with patrons when I show up at ten p.m. They wear suits and party dresses, laughter and drinks flowing freely when I step into the foyer. The crowd here is younger and more playful than the gala, but just as rich. Just as powerful in their own corner of the city.
From across the room I see Hugo with his head bent, speaking to Christopher and another man with a shaved head and muscles like whoa. I’ve never met the third man before. He stands and approaches the bar area, so I sidle up to him.
“Hi,” I say, dropping my rose-gold clutch on the mirrored surface.
He looks at me sideways. “Who are you?”
There’s a natural command in his voice, the kind that can only come from having been in charge of men for a l
