JoJo entered a ballroom of twenty people. Twenty impatient people who couldn’t wait to see him.
A tuxedo-wearing pianist with muttonchops played classical music at a grand piano in the corner of the sumptuous room replete with a glossy checkered floor, a million-dollar chandelier that reminded JoJo of a web, and heavy golden curtains with skinny windows overlooking the city encrusted with snow.
And his potential clients—they were dressed in tuxedos, and ball gowns with plunging necklines and gaudy jewels. The place smelled like money. It wouldn"t have surprised him if some of these people had henchmen in the parking garage with literal suitcases full of money, waiting to pay up.
Normally, folks met him in the back alley behind his bar if they wanted demons. But this clientele...they wan
