“I can’t join, Regina, I’m not a man!”
Gina stood up and ran to her mother, hugging her from behind.
“Well, Vera and I are going to have a young people’s night,” she continued, laughing. “Guess what else you’re not? Don’t take it the wrong way, Maa.”
Mrs. Meng rolled her eyes, defeated.
“Do you need me to drive you? I’m not letting you drive and drink.”
“No need. We’ll take a taxi, right, V?”
We were running late. The taxi had been waiting outside for almost twenty minutes while Gina and I decided how to proceed that night. Not knowing what kind of place Club Montari was, we weren’t sure how much money to bring. We concluded that the more, the better. The best approach was to divide it. If Gina stayed with me all night, we would still be following the rules of the letter. Gina put about a hundred thousand pounds in her bag, and I did the same. I felt both powerful and vulnerable at the same time.
We rode in silence to the address she had given the driver. I kept staring at the letter I’d received fourteen hours earlier, searching for some hidden message or clue. Time slipped out of my fingers, and it all felt like a cruel joke. Was the money fake? Were they planning to arrest me after the three days? Now I see the irony. At least, about that last part, I wasn’t entirely wrong.
One thing was certain: whoever sent me the letter with all that money knew me—really knew me. Why else would they think this was the way to reel me in? I went to law school for two reasons: to prove myself and to help people like Mrs. Meng, like Gina, like my mother, people the system chewed up and spit out.
Yeah, I see the irony now. Here I am, working for a big-shot law firm, defending a con artist. So, Vera, what happened to your whole “helping people” thing? Saving lives that sank? Well, here’s the deal: to help anyone else, I’ve got to help myself first. And Saidi pays well—can’t argue with that. Two sunken ships don’t save each other; they just end up in a watery graveyard together.
The important thing is, whoever it was had created that rule to screw me over. You can’t share the money with anyone. You’re a hypocrite. A fake. A fraud.
A man opened the car door for me. It wasn’t the taxi driver, but Enzo. Gina stepped out behind me after giving the driver a generous tip.
“Hi!” Gina thrust her hand out to Enzo, all smiles. “I’m Gina. Don’t worry if she’s never mentioned me; Vera’s got this bad habit of keeping the good things to herself.” She jabbed me with her elbow, leaning in close. “Wake up.”
Enzo shook her hand with a polite smile, then turned tome, greeting me with two quick kisses on the cheek, his lips lingering a moment too long. He seemed different in the shadows—darker somehow, like the empty alleys near campus where the streetlights didn’t reach.
“Ever been here before?” he asked, nodding toward a black, unmarked door that looked like it led straight to a basement. It was a solid metal door with no windows, no signs, not even a line out front. Just a door, stark and uninviting, sandwiched between two graffiti-covered brick walls that looked like they hadn’t seen a power wash in decades.
Gina’s eyes darted around the narrow, dimly lit street, taking in the faded flyers plastered to the walls and the trash-strewn gutters. “Doesn’t look familiar,” she said, a slight frown crossing her face.
Enzo’s grip tightened on my hand. “Good, now is my turn to surprise you. I promise it’s better inside,” he said, his voice smooth. He’d changed into a black shirt and jeans, blending into the shadows like he was part of them. I’d switched into a pink dress with little heart-shaped patterns, trying to bring some light into this gloomy corner of the city. Even in my heels, he towered over me. I clutched my purse, the strap digging into my palm.
“Let’s go,” I said, tugging him toward the door, trying to sound casual, though my voice came out a bit too high-pitched.
Chapter 12
For a second, it felt like I’d stumbled back into The Big Mediterranean—but a dark, distorted, after-hours version of it. Everywhere I turned, there was glass. Enzo’s hand shot out, catching my arm just in time to keep me from slamming face-first into a mirror. I blinked, momentarily disoriented. My own reflection stared back at me from every direction: front, back, left, and right, top and bottom. Enzo was beside me in each one, a dozen versions of him all moving in sync. Behind us, Gina seemed to splinter into eight different Ginas, her bright grin multiplying with each stepshe took.
The entrance to Club Montari was a labyrinth of mirrors, twisting and turning in every direction, making it impossible to tell where the room ended or began. The floor was glossy black, giving the illusion of endless depth. Neon lights blinked overhead, casting strange, angular shadows that danced across the glass. It was disorienting, like walking through someone else’s warped dream.
“Wow,” Gina breathed, her voice bouncing off the walls in strange echoes. “Think we’ll win something if we make it to the end?”
“A nice experience,” Enzo replied. His hand slid down from my arm to my waist, guiding me forward. In the mirror, his eyes flicked to mine, like he was daring me to say something. The walls seemed to close in, reflections multiplying like some endless, glossy purgatory.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. “Let’s hope it’s worth the maze,” I muttered, stepping deeper into the mirrored corridor,
He led us through the maze as if he were seeing the map of the place in his head. We took precise turns avoiding the mirrors and, as we progressed, the music, which had started as a murmur, grew louder. We emerged from the labyrinth. What we saw next took my breath away. This place was not an ordinary club. I had expected Club Montari to be a nightclub, but it resembled a miniature neighbourhood more. It was much larger than that black door had suggested. Ahead was a wide-open space filled with clusters of people chatting, dancing, or lounging on velvet couches. Overhead, a massive neon sign in bold yellow letters declared the area “The Square,” casting a warm glow over everything below. From there, five long alleyways stretched out like spokes,their walls entirely covered in mirrors, making the space seem endless. Gina’s eyes widened as she scanned the room, her lips moving, but whatever she said was swallowed by the pounding beat of the techno music. I leaned in, but the bass drowned out any chance of hearing her. Enzo’s voice managed to rise above the noise.
“Follow me.”
First, we headed to a massive cloakroom that looked more like something from a futuristic airport. Enzo tapped away at a tablet, and with a soft mechanical hum, a drawer popped open just for us. I slid a crisp £50 note into the machine, and the drawer clicked shut, spitting out a small key attached to a chain, which I looped around my neck.
With that, Enzo steered us out of the maze-like entrance and into the main square. He weaved through the crowd toward one of the five alleyways. Each one was marked by bright, flashy letters, the kind you’d see on luxury stores. Serrano, Fifth Avenue, The Champs-Élysées—names of streets reserved for the ultra-rich.
The first thing that grabbed my attention was the flickering neon sign of a tattoo parlour, the word “Open” sputtering in and out of focus. Next to it, a row of market stalls stretched out, each stranger and more eclectic than the last. Some stalls displayed silver and gold jewellery, glinting under dim, coloured lights. Others looked like makeshift bars, rows of unfamiliar bottles lined up behind matte black panels, their labels turned slightly away as if to keep the contents a secret. A few stalls were more brazen, openly showcasing small bags filled with various powders and pills, lined up in neat little rows.
Through the tall glass windows along the far wall, I caughtglimpses of smaller rooms.
