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Relief hits me harder than it should. I extend an arm, instinctively guiding her toward the stairs. As she climbs, my hand finds the small of her back. Yet, with barely a touch, the electricity crackling between us nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. Whatever I’m feeling from her is electric. That’s the only word for it. I pull my hand away. It’s like I’ve touched a live wire and run my hand through my hair.
We settle into a quiet corner of the Devil’s Playground overlook, far enough from the pulse of the music to hear each other speak, but close enough to feel it thrum beneath our feet. This area mimics the VIP section of the main floor. The seating is indulgent with buttery-soft leather chairs, low and wide, that invite you to sink in, relax, and enjoy yourself. They’re positioned around small, glossy oval cocktail tables that reflect the ambient light in muted golds and silvers. The polished stone, brushed metal, and smoked glass surfaces throughout the space gleam without being overly flashy. It’s the sort of place where people speak in measured tones and sign contracts worth millions.
Cassidy’s gaze bounces around the floor, seeming to take it in from a different perspective. I watch as she leans to one side to view the activity down below through the second-floor balustrade. The railing on this level is enclosed by modern half-walls of glass. Seamless panels curve around the perimeter like a transparent nest. From this vantage point, the entire club unfolds below us. You can take in the stage, the dance floor, and the slow tide of bodies moving between bars and small groups of seating. It’s designed for observation without participation. And for those who want to meet colleagues in a more muted atmosphere while not being completely removed from the energy of the main floor.
I can picture the many deals being made here. Handshakes sealed over crystal tumblers. Smiles that are as fake as a used car salesman’s.
Above us, ornate chandeliers spill warm light upon us, their crystals refracting into soft prisms that shimmer across the walls. Between them, elegant sconces line the perimeter, casting a gentle glow. Everything has been curated to feel extravagant.
And yet… I don’t belong up here. I prefer the more casual comfort of the main floor. Unless I need the quieter atmosphere for a more serious conversation.
Like this one.
A tall brunette I recognize saunters over with a silver tray carrying a crystal tumbler of scotch and a glass of water. I can’t recall her name, but am fairly certain she’s worked at DPG for as long as I’ve been a member here. The cocktail servers on the upper floors move differently. They’re more composed than the ones tending to the main level.
She elegantly dips low enough to deposit the drinks on the table beside us. “Good evening, Mr. Wilde. Cassidy,” she greets coolly. Her reception appears to catch Cassidy off guard. Her shoulders draw up, and her gaze ping pongs about the room warily.
I try to reassure her. “I can let you get back to work if speaking with me is making you uncomfortable.”
“No. It’s okay. I don’t come to the upper floors very often. Wouldn’t want the gossip mill to start after the girls spot me up here with you.”
Many of the servers on the upper floors have been promoted. They’re veterans of the chaos below who’ve been refined into something more polished. These women know the members by name, know their drink preferences by heart. They understand when to linger and when to disappear. I can’t imagine they’d risk their jobs by resorting to such gossip. Then again, they’re still human. I’m sure there’s always one troublemaker in every crowd.
Regardless, it seems to me Cassidy still belongs downstairs, where things are louder and less calculated. And not simply because that’s where I prefer to spend my time. I can’t help but hope she never makes it past the second floor.
“I owe you an apology,” I start. “For last night. I was out of line.”
Her brows knit together. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” I interrupt gently. “You caught me off guard. And instead of handling that like a professional, I snapped.”
She studies me, remaining silent.
The truth swells within my chest, needing to get out. I lower my voice. “The work I do when I’m here isn’t part of Secure Sphere.”
Her head tilts. “I don’t understand.”
“These are pro bono cases I accept on occasion. Some from people who can’t afford help any other way. Others who can afford the help, but haven’t gotten answers through the usual channels.”
“Through the police, you mean?” her tone sounds clipped. Almost defensive.
“Yes, sometimes. Some have hired private investigators without any resolution to their problem. And other clients have contacted me who know they’re crossing into unconventional territory yet don’t see any other viable option.”
Her face pales slightly.
“These cases are sensitive,” I reiterate. “And risky. If I’m discovered by the subjects I’m investigating, it doesn’t just affect me. It affects every individual connected to me.”
She shifts in her seat, keeping her tone low. “If you’re using unconventional means to investigate… what happens if law enforcement catches wind of it?”
I swallow hard, deciding to go all in. “Not sure. I consider each call that comes my way on a case-by-case basis. For the ones I take on, it doesn’t even feel like an option. It’s a necessity.” I pause, hoping she understands the seriousness of the matter. “It’s a risk I feel is worth taking. I’m not, however, willing to put anyone else in harm’s way. I need to keep a fine line between this and Secure Sphere, my employees, and my family.”
I catch sight of Anthony walking away from one of his men and do a double take. This conversation is clearly making me jumpy. Security is hidden everywhere here. Men in dark suits stand in shadowed corners, so still they almost blend into the architecture. Each wears a discreet mic in one ear, fingers occasionally brushing their cuffs or lapels in quiet communication. Nothing about them is aggressive. They’re a silent reminder that nothing truly escapes notice in Gianni’s club.
Her voice, softer now, brings me back to our conversation. “Knowing the risks involved, you still do it?”
“Yes.” I don’t hesitate. “Because most of them are desperate. And I don’t want to be another door slammed in their face.” I know this feeling better than anyone. But this is not something I’m sharing with her.
She shifts closer in her chair, not even realizing she’s done it. The movement eases something in my neck and shoulders I hadn’t realized was wound so tight.
