Amani noted it and gave Sero a lazy wave as the bat headed for the elevator.
The night wound down. The crowd thinned. The music softened. By three thirty, the last Dom had collected his sub and headed upstairs, and Amani was alone in the club with the staff and the quiet.
He liked that part. The stillness. The club stripped of its performance, just a room with good lighting and expensive equipment and the smell of leather and sweat and musk that never quite came out of the furniture no matter how much the cleaning crew worked at it. He could hear the building settling around him, the hum of the ventilation system, the distant sound of traffic on the Strip. It was the one time of night where he could be what a lion was supposed to be: solitary, quiet, unhurried.
He did his inventory by hand because he didn't trust anyone else to do it right. Counted bottles, checked the taps, inspected the glassware for chips and cracks. He found a nick in the rim of one of the good tumblers and set it in the recycle bin. He wiped down the bar top with the wood oil that cost more per ounce than most of the whiskey, and he did it with the same care his mother used when she polished the brass fittings on the elevator. This place was their legacy. He treated it like one.
By four, the staff had gone. The club was his.
He locked up the way he always did, lights off section by section, alarm set, door locked, key turned twice. He stepped out into the warm Las Vegas night and let the door close behind him with a solid click.
Four blocks. The same four blocks he'd walked a thousand times. The warehouses dark and quiet on either side. The security cameras blinking their steady red lights. The distant glow of downtown throwing the sky into a permanent orange haze that made actual stars impossible.
He pulled his phone out and typed a text to his mother: "Heading home. Stop worrying."
She'd see it when she woke up. She'd text back something sharp and loving and slightly overbearing. He'd roll his eyes and smile at his phone the way he always did. The next night he'd do this again. And the night after that. And the night after that. On and on, the same four blocks, the same dry night air, the same absolute certainty that the world was exactly as manageable as he believed it to be.
He walked home under the orange sky, barefoot because his shoes were in his locker and he liked the feel of concrete under his feet, and he didn't look over his shoulder once.
Chapter Two
Saturday was family day, which at the Leo household meant brunch at eleven, unsolicited opinions by eleven fifteen, and at least one argument about Amani's life choices before the mimosas ran out.
He let himself into his mother's house with the key she'd given him when he moved out, though "moved out" was generous for someone who lived four blocks from the family business and ate at his mother's table three times a week. The house was absurd. White columns along the front porch, a foyer that echoed, rooms that Lady Leo had decorated in shades of cream and gold as if she were furnishing a very expensive cage. Amani had grown up there and still felt slightly underdressed every time he walked in.
Bethany was already at the dining table with her phone in one hand and a piece of toast in the other. She looked up when he came in, assessed his outfit, joggers and a tank top, practically formal for him on a day off, and went back to her phone. "You look tired."
"You look like you're about to say something I don't want to hear."
"Always." She took a bite of toast. "Mom's in the kitchen. She's making that egg thing again."
"The frittata?"
"The egg thing." Bethany waved the toast dismissively. "I don't learn the names of foods that take longer to pronounce than to eat."
Amani dropped into the chair across from her and stole a piece of her toast. She swatted at his hand but it was already in his mouth. Lion reflexes. She should have learned.
"Mom!" Bethany shouted toward the kitchen. "Your son is here and he's already stealing my food!"
"My son has his own toast on the counter," Lady Leo's voice came back, perfectly calm, perfectly carrying. "If he wants yours, he should’ve gotten here earlier. And if you're going to yell, Bethany, do it with your mouth empty. You were raised better than that."
Bethany rolled her eyes so hard Amani was surprised they didn't get stuck. He grinned and she kicked him under the table. This was family. He wouldn't trade it for anything.
Lady Leo emerged from the kitchen carrying the frittata on a serving platter that probably cost more than Amani's monthly rent. She was dressed the way she was always dressed, impeccably, as if cameras might appear at any moment. The cream blouse was silk with matching tailored pants. Her hair tied in the high bun that Amani had literally never seen her without. He sometimes wondered if she slept in it. He suspected she did.
She set the platter down, kissed the top of Amani's head, and took her seat at the head of the table. "You got home late."
"I got home at the same time I always get home."
"Four twenty-three. That's seven minutes later than Thursday."
Amani stared down the table. "You time me?"
"I check when your text comes in. It's not the same thing." She served herself a slice of frittata with surgical precision. "It's a mother's prerogative to notice patterns."
"It's a mother's prerogative to be terrifying, apparently."
Bethany snorted. "She has your location shared on her phone too. Don't act surprised."
