My life is far from a movie, and I’m definitely not some prince charming. Yet, as I stand at the bottom of the grand staircase at Penthouse like Leonardo Di Caprio waiting for Kate Winslet in Titanic, I want to take Hazel’s hand just like Leo did. 

After last night, I didn’t think I’d see her again, so Hazel’s presence is a welcomed surprise. She was beautiful in her sparkly black dress, but today she’s more casual with jeans tucked into tan lug boots and a chunky knit sweater. Some might prefer the glammed-up version, but I find her more gorgeous like this.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.” She flashes a quick smile and adjusts the strap of her purse. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I was in here last night, and I think I lost my necklace in the bathroom.”

“Of course, I remember you.”

“Oh, well, um…” She fusses with her purse strap again as her eyes search the vast, empty dancefloor. “I remember wearing the necklace before going into the bathroom, but when I got home, it was gone. Is there somewhere I can ask about it?”

“Follow me,” I say.

And this time, as I lead her to the manager's office, I decide I’m not letting her leave without figuring out a way to see her again. 

The management office is located past the private rooms, so I take us through the oak double doors and into the corridor people rarely see since only a few can afford this area. I walk through here all the time, so it’s just an ordinary hallway to me, with several doors on each side leading to rooms where rumors are born. But when I look over my shoulder, Hazel is sizing up the walls with their black, velvety textured pattern and the oil paintings of half-naked men and women as if this were a gallery show. Most people are shocked by the sexually suggestive art, while others realize it’s a glimpse into what their night will entail in the private rooms.

“What is this?” Hazel asks.

“What’s what?”

She motions to the walls. “This.” 

“You don’t like it?” I grin and begin walking backward to face her. 

“It’s just… it’s a very different vibe from the rest of the club.”

“That’s the point.” I wink. “What happens in these private rooms stays in these private rooms.”

“And what happens in these private rooms?” 

“I can’t tell you. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

What our guests don’t know is that at Penthouse, we have cameras everywhere. And I mean everywhere, including the bathrooms. Of course, we’d never tell a soul since we’d get in too much trouble for doing that. However, with the number of high rollers we have gracing us with their presence, it’s easier to track down thieves if we have eyes everywhere. It’s also easier to catch assholes who attempt to lure vulnerable drunk women into dark corners. Most importantly, it comes in handy when we need to stop drug trading. 

“And here we are.” I open the door to the management office and motion inside. “After you.”

The gesture is mostly because I’m a gentleman, but it’s also because I want to look at Hazel’s ass, and I won’t apologize for it. When she walks ahead of me, there is zero disappointment. I’m an ass-man, and the curves of her hips match what’s on the other side. It’s not too big or small, but just enough to grab a handful. 

The management office has a surveillance room attached to it, so I escort Hazel past the large oak desk, where my boss, Gavin, does bookkeeping. The office is the only area in the club that feels out of place with its cream-colored paint, filing cabinets covered in nicknacks, and family portraits on the walls. On the outside, my boss seems like a hardass you can’t look in the eyes, but in truth, he’s a big softy. Sometimes he brings his five-year-old daughter to work, and the floor ends up covered in her toys as they play with her Barbies on the carpet. 

I like this about him.

When we enter the surveillance room, flickers of TV light from the flat screens covering the walls illuminate the darkness. Each screen shows a blink of images as the cameras sweep the club, and Hazel’s gaze bounces between them.

“Hey, Hal,” I greet the security guard sitting in a leather computer chair. His enormous belly rubs the desk in front of him where a half-eaten box of donuts and coffee rests. Crumbs are sprinkled on his chest, so he takes his meaty hand and swipes them away. 

With a mouthful, he says, “Sup.” 

“Got a sec?” I ask. “This is Hazel, and she lost her necklace here last night. I thought we’d be able to spot in on the cams.” 

“We don’t usually allow guests in here.”

“I know,” I reply. “Just do this for me, man.”

“If I get in trouble…”

“You won’t. I’ll deal with Gavin.”

“Alright, let me see,” Hal sighs. He leans forward, causing the seat to creak, and types out commands on the keyboard. “What time were you here last night, Ms…?”

“Mrs. Caruso. And I think I lost it around 11:30 PM.”

“Caruso, Caruso…” Hal says as he adjusts the time frames on the surveillance feed from last night. “I know a cop named Mario Caruso. Any relation?”

“Yes. He’s my husband,” Hazel replies, but her eyes dart to the ground for a second, then return to the screens as she adjusts her purse strap. 

Does talking about her husband make her uncomfortable? I can’t help but recall the conversation I overheard last night between Hazel and Natalie. She was nervous about being at Penthouse without her husband’s knowledge and judging by what Natalie said, Hazel’s husband is abusive. But what type of abusive? Verbal, emotional, physical, or the trifecta of all three?

Hal continues to toy with the camera's time frame, fast-forwarding through the recordings until Hazel appears on screen in her little sparkly black dress. 

“There,” she says, spotting herself at the bar with Natalie, so Hal stops fast-forwarding and lets the video play out. 

Another thing customers aren’t aware of is how excellent the sound is on our security system. If we wanted to, we could spy on conversations and hear them as clearly as if they were happening in front of us. One time, we overheard a pimp trying to traffic his drugged-out, high-end escort to Emilio Suarez, a cartel member, and frequent club visitor. Oddly enough, Emilio isn’t a fan of human trafficking and buried that pimp’s body somewhere in Lake Tahoe. The escort now works for him and is paid fairly, according to Gabe. 

But that’s neither here nor there. The point is we see and hear everything in this club, but Hal is smart and knows a civilian like Hazel shouldn’t be privy to it, so he mutes the sound as we watch the recording. Lucky for us, the camera captures the moment the necklace slips from Hazel’s gorgeous neck as the diamonds catch the strobe light. Within seconds, another guest plucks the necklace from the floor, tucks it into her tiny clutch purse, and snaps it shut.

“No,” Hazel gasps, her hands slapping to her mouth.

“It’s alright.” I place my hand on her elbow.

“No, it’s not!” She drops her hands, and her eyes are watery. “My husband got that for me for our anniversary. He’ll know it’s missing. How am I supposed to explain that it got stolen at Penthouse when I wasn’t even supposed to be here!”

“Hazel, it’s ok. I recognize that woman. She comes here every weekend. You’re getting your necklace back.”

“How?” She crooks her brows.

“I’ll get it back for you,” I assure her with a nod and a smile.

“How?” She repeats.

“You don’t have to worry about that part. Just know you’ll get the necklace back.”

“Why are you helping me?” She wipes her eyes with a sniffle.

“Because you need help.” I shrug as if it were that simple.

“Thank you.”

“Give me your contact information,” I say, but Hazel’s eyes widen, and her mouth slightly parts. She’s about to give me an excuse, so I wave my hands. “It’s so I can message you once I get the necklace back. Don’t worry. I know how to be discreet. You can put me in your phone under Lindsay, and I’ll message you with a thumbs-up emoji.”

“Ok…” she says, but she’s still hesitant as she reaches into her purse to remove her phone while chewing her bottom lip. Yet, we exchange numbers anyway as her trembling fingers fly across the phone’s screen. “Is it ok if I put you under Charlotte? That way, my husband thinks you’re my coworker.”

“Sure. Whatever works.”

“I should get going.” Hazel half smiles and tucks the phone back into her purse. 

“Know how to get out to the club from here?” I ask. In most situations, I’d be a gentleman and escort her, but I need to pick Hal’s brain.

“I can figure it out.”

“Great. I’ll be in touch.” I stick out my hand for her to shake, and she stares at it for a few beats before accepting the gesture. 

As I expected, the palm of her hand is smooth like a flower petal, and when I stroke my thumb across her knuckles, it’s just as soft. My gaze trails up her arm to her face, and when our eyes meet, I’m pierced by how magnetic the color of her irises are. That honey glow is my new favorite shade of brown. Too bad I can’t freeze time to marvel at them a little longer. Instead, this exchange lasts two seconds, even though in my head, it felt like two thousand. Hazel probably felt nothing, but I felt her leave a brand on my soul, and it continues to scorch my heart as she exits the office. 

“Careful with that one,” Hal says from behind me, so I whip around to face him.

“Why is that?”

“You don’t want to get involved with her. Mario Caruso is a dirty cop who gets paid off by Richie Reddy to look the other way.”

“Richie Reddy, as in the heroine dealer who likes to come here and boss people around as if he runs this place? That asshole?”

“Yup. That guy is bad news, so I’d steer clear of anyone associated with him. Including that tasty piece of chocolate.”

“Hazel?”

“Yeah. She’s gorgeous and seems like a sweet lady, but I’d leave her alone. You don’t want that kind of trouble, Lucas.”

“Noted. Thanks, Hal.”

“Anytime, compadre.”

As I leave the office, I realize how small the dark underbelly of San Francisco is. In my line of work as a hitman, there’s an invisible web that interconnects everyone and the spider spinning that web is the Abramovitz Sisters. They send me clients who are looking to hire a contract killer. They also regulate the drugs going in and out of the Bay Area by controlling the drug lords, which means they control Richie Reddy. 

However, I wonder if they’re aware of him paying off cops. I’ve worked with the Sisters for seven years, and I don’t think they’d like that. Snitching isn’t my style, but someone should let Augusta and Jocelyn know. So, I bang out a text to Jocelyn, telling her I want to meet.

When I make it out to the club, I head straight for the bar to begin prep work. Today I’m in charge of slicing all the limes and lemons, creating olive skewers, and blending the mixers. It’s a lot of work, and I’ve already burned through thirty minutes, so I get busy.

After another thirty minutes, I’ve got all the limes and lemons sliced, but I stop, wipe my brow, and pull the phone out of my pocket to see a message.

Jocelyn: What will the meeting be about? 

Me: Mario Caruso. He’s a cop who Richie Reddy pays off.

Jocelyn: Interesting. Come by tomorrow.

Tucking the phone into my pocket, I pivot to get back to prepping the bar for tonight's guests but find Miguel, the bouncer, standing there. He has the soda gun in one hand and an empty glass in the other, yet he’s not pouring himself a drink. Honestly, he looks constipated, but he must be frozen for a reason because his brows are smashed together, and he’s staring at me as if the sun is in his eyes. 

“What’s up, Miguel?”

“Did I hear you say, Richie Reddy?”

“Uh… No.” Maybe. Did I accidentally say his name aloud while typing it? 

“Pretty sure I heard you say it.” Miguel shifts so he’s facing me, and he’s taller than I am, so it almost feels like an interrogation. 

But he doesn’t know what I really do for a living. If he did, he wouldn’t be getting into my business and would walk away—pretend he didn’t hear a word.

“What’s it to you?” I ask.

“I’m dating his ex-wife. We met at that divorcee support group I go to.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, he’s a piece of shit, so I was just curious about how you know him,” Miguel says, and finally presses the button on the soda gun to pour the Coke.

“I don’t. I just know he’s a prick whenever he comes here.”

“Well, I don't think he’ll be coming around anymore.”

I tilt my head, eyes narrowing in curiosity. “What makes you think that?”

“Just a guess.” Miguel shrugs and then walks away with his soda.

Strange.

I don’t know Miguel well, but I feel like he just hinted at something he prefers not to share.

Whatever it is, I hope he’s not part of the same sticky web I am.