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The fact that I can’t shove the heel of one of my stilettos up his urethra and then set him on fire is…ugh, life is so unfair sometimes.

But Dame is right. Sorel is the head of the snake. And to get to him, we need to get into Varga’s good graces.

Guards meet us inside the lobby of the building, give us a quick pat down, and then escort us up the elevator to the penthouse suite with Varga’s little social gathering of like-minded human skid-marks.

It’s a stunning penthouse, or it will be, with a huge, double-height ceiling and full-length windows overlooking all of midtown. It looks like the place is in the latter stages of construction, with work lights and plastic sheeting taped up in a corner where the walls have been cut open to expose pipes and wiring. Drop-cloths cover most of the sparse furniture, and tools and construction equipment lie here and there.

“This way, sir,” one of the guards says stiffly, ushering us through the massive penthouse until we get to a set of double doors.

Inside, a handful of men holding drinks are talking and laughing near the windows at the far side. The whole room feels is decorated like a hyper-masculine smoking lounge, with heavy shelves of old books, wood-paneled walls, and deep leather sofas and chairs. Though it’s also under construction: plastic sheeting covers a portion of one of the walls, and a table littered with more tools sits nearby with a big dusty sledgehammer lying against it.

“Showtime,” Dame murmurs under his breath as his hand goes to the small of my back.

Ladies and gentleman, Tucker Fannybottom and his femme fatale girlfriend are here, ready to mingle and prepared to invest in some fucking horrifying shit.

A waiter swings by with a tray of champagne. Damiano shakes his head, but I take a glass to fit the part.

“Ahh! You must be Tucker!”

A man who might be mildly handsome if he wasn’t here to invest in literal child trafficking walks over and shakes Dame’s hand.

“Joel Edlemen.” He flashes a smarmy smile at Dame, utterly ignoring me because, you know, tits and misogyny. In this case, though, I’m more than happy not to have to utter a single word to him.

He and Dame make small talk. He asks us how much we’re thinking of investing in Sorel’s “high growth market”.

I swear to fuck, I almost smash the champagne flute against the side of his head and shove the jagged stem through his throat.

But then Varga appears, entering the room flanked by three big guys in dark suits who usher the waiters out of the room before closing the doors. I do a quick head count out of habit: One Tucker. One super-hot girlfriend prop. Two other investors including Joel, four inner-circle members of Sorel’s organization, two guards, a third guy I can’t get a read on but might be another guard, and one Viktor Varga.

He’s a shortish, squat man with a heavy shadow on his jaw, silver at his temples, and thinning hair. He smiles a toothy grin that makes my skin crawl as he steps into the room. Then he starts to make the rounds, shaking hands with his associates and welcoming the other potential investors.

Then, chillingly, his eyes land on me and don’t look away.

I swallow thickly and pull closer to Dame as Varga approaches.

“Well, well,” he murmurs, his eyes glued to my boobs. “Mr. Fannybottom… You neglected to mention the lovely companion you’d be bringing.”

Damiano’s hand presses more firmly on my back as I swallow the bile in my mouth and force a smile.

“Thank you for having us, Mr. Varga.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he murmurs.

I am so close to throwing up in my mouth as he takes my hand and kisses it.

I’m cutting it off. I can go through life with one hand, right?

Varga’s eyes travel slowly down my dress.

“Tucker’s a very lucky man.”

“I remind him of that hourly.”

Damiano’s fingers press into my spine.

Varga laughs, but then his attention shifts over my shoulder.

“Ahhh, perfect. Tucker, this is Caleb Nyack, my number two.”