Page 11 of The Masked King

I hand over my phone and the pistol I always carry around.

“Is that it?” Her eyes narrow briefly.

“Maybe I’m not your regular clientele.”

“Oh, you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I realize I’m risking handing over more cash before I’ve even discovered what’s beyond the foyer, but I don’t want to think that she’s sized me up and totally missed my unique selling point.

“You’re looking for a distraction. You kept the invitation. It was only a matter of time before you used it.”

She isn’t wrong, so I stay silent.

“Shoes.”

“Okay, maybe this isn’t what I⁠—”

“Take off your shoes or I’ll double the entrance fee.”

She has my wallet. I could wrestle it from her, but I didn’t see where she put it, and I’m not a hypocrite. A credit card can be cancelled, and I don’t make a habit of hurting women. That honor belongs to the kind of lowlifes and dickheads my sister gets involved with.

So, I toe off my shoes and hand them to her. “Is this some kind of swinger’s club? If so, it’s not really my scene.”

“Mr. Sabatelli. If you seriously believed this was a swinger’s club, you wouldn’t be standing here right now.” Before I can ask how she knows my name, she produces a document and a gold-lidded pen. “I’ll need a signature before we can proceed.”

“What is this?”

“An NDA. For the protection of our workers, you understand.”

I understand. They’re probably in the country illegally, and this NDA is to protect the slimeballs who brought them here in fucking shipping containers. I’ve already mentally checked out, but I’m going through with it because if I can catch one of the slimy fuckers out, then it’s less shit for the rest of the world to deal with.

“From this moment, you will be known as Brian,” she says once she has the signed document. “You do not reveal your identity to anyone inside this building under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

“Why?”

“Do you understand?” Her tone doesn’t alter but I sense the brittle edge peeking through.

“Brian,” I repeat the name.

“Now, give me your left hand.”

I extend my arm, and she clamps a metal band around my wrist. It’s cold. When I run my finger around it, there’s no clasp to unfasten it. “What’s this for?”

“You’ll find out if you break the rule.”

“What’s the rule?”

“Mask first, Mr. Sabatelli.” She hands me a black leather mask with holes cut out around the eyes, nose, and mouth. “You are to wear this at all times.”

“That’s two rules. Wear the mask and tell no one my real name.”

“You’re paying attention.” Her eyebrows slide upwards.

I place the mask over my face, and someone appears behind me to fasten it around the back of my head.

Before I can turn around to see who it is, the woman says, “When the door opens, you will enter a corridor.”

Her voice is muffled through the mask, so I focus on her over-painted lips through the eyeholes. It’s tight. I can already feel my skin growing damp beneath the leather.