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He wasn’t poor like me. Okay, I wasn’t poor either, but I earned mine by hitting people, and he had the kind of wealth that looked like it had been sitting in the family vault since before cars existed. And he had hands everywhere. He could get whatever car he wanted, wherever he happened to be.

Fine. I could get a bike.

Jason had a motorcycle in the lot behind the guest house, a rented Ducati he’d insisted on for “the aesthetic,” and I had swiped the key from his jacket during the shuttle ride home. I’m a good friend. But I’m also a thief.

I gave the car enough of a head start that he wouldn’t see me, then I kicked the engine on and followed. The night was freezing. My eyes ran. My hands were numb inside my gloves, and I loved every second.

His car turned down a narrow street in the old part of the city, lined with dark brick buildings and lamps with halos of snow, and stopped at a place with no sign. Just a black door under a black awning, and two guys in black coats guarding it. Above the door, in tiny letters: THE SABLE.

“Oh, so this is where you go,” I whispered.

Maybe he’s looking for a hookup. I smiled at the thought. Maybe he’ll let loose. And I’ll catch it on my phone, and blackmail him, and turn him into my pet.

Where did that come from? Why was my brain making up dirty little ideas like that?

I was just going to mess with him, that was all, and there was nothing else to it.

I watched him give a nod to the doormen, and one of them, without checking anything, opened the door and stepped aside.

Members only, I thought. Great.

When I walked up, the two guys stepped in front of me like a wall.

“Hey. ID.”

“Sure,” I said, and slid a folded hundred into the breast pocket of the nearest one.

They let me in.

I laughed to myself in the dark of the doorway. Losers. You can buy anything with money.

Inside, it was warm and dim and smelled like wax and dark wine, with low red lights and a long bar of black wood. The music was some slow, sultry thing I didn’t recognize. There were people at small tables, talking quietly, in a way that seemed a little too careful. Everybody was pale, I noticed, and everybody was beautiful, and nobody was laughing.

I slid into a corner at the back and tried to blend into the wall, hood up, like a guy who’d never been noticed in his life. Which, for me, takes a real acting effort.

Maksim was already at the bar.

And there was a woman with him.

She had blonde hair, long and glossy, and a top cut low enough to cause a scandal in most countries. She was leaning into his arm with a big, slow smile, and I was sure he’d push her away. This was Maksim Volkov. He didn’t like anyone touching him.

He didn’t.

He turned toward her, and his face did something I’d never seen it do, and it wasn’t a smile, but it was gentle. Gentle. Like he was being careful with something breakable. He said something in her ear. She laughed.

Of course he wouldn’t push her away, because that’s what he came here for.

I took a beer from a passing waiter and drank it too fast. I told myself I was watching for evidence. She had a great body, sure, if you like that type, and I don’t, because she was too flat. The chest was obviously not her own, and I have to be honest, it wasn’t my thing at all.

Why was I evaluating her?

They stood and walked together to the back of the bar, toward a door marked STAFF. I dropped my bottle, remembered to leave a tip for the waiter, because I’m not a monster, and followed.

The back door opened onto an alley behind the bar. It was dark, with snow falling in slow, big flakes and a single bulb burning over a fire escape. I ducked behind a stack of crates about thirty feet away and pulled my hood over my eyes.

I didn’t know what I expected, probably a hookup, some sad, sweaty fumble against a brick wall, something disgusting I could take a picture of.

They were talking. I couldn’t hear. He had her hand in his, and she was nodding, and he asked her something and she answered, and she laughed, and he bent his head, and then they were kissing.