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Chapter 736:
The space was larger than expected—a lounge area with mirrors and soft lighting and the particular silence of places designed for private conversation. The woman, blonde and late twenties, wearing a dress that cost more than June’s monthly rent, stood at the central counter applying lipstick with the precision of long practice.
She saw June in the mirror. Her eyes flickered, assessing, cataloging. “Help you p>
June didn’t approach. She reached into her clutch, withdrew the black card Easton had provided, and set it on the marble between them. “Fifty thousand dollars,” she said. “In an account that doesn’t exist. For ten minutes of your time p>
The woman’s hand paused. She turned, leaning against the counter, her posture shifting from defensive to speculative. “That’s a lot of money for conversation p>
“I don’t want conversation.” June withdrew the second item: the micro-transmitter, smaller than a shirt button, matte black, invisible against dark fabric. “I want you to put this under the cushion of the booth where Richard Beasley is sitting. The left side, where his head rests when he’s drunk enough to slump p>
The woman—Lexi, according to the name tag June had spotted—looked at the device. Looked at the card. Laughed.
“Fifty thousand?” She pushed the card back across the marble. “Try five hundred thousand. Try a million. Do you know who owns this club?” She leaned forward, close enough that June could smell her perfume—something expensive and forgettable. “Lucas Romano. You heard of him? His grandfather ran numbers for the Genovese family. His father expanded into legitimate business. Lucas—” she smiled, showing teeth that were too perfect, “—Lucas prefers to keep his hands clean. But he has people. People who handle problems. People who make other problems disappear into the Hudson River with concrete shoes and no witnesses p>
𝘚𝘩𝗮r𝘦 yo𝗎𝘳 𝘧a𝘷𝗼𝗋i𝗍𝗲s 𝗳𝗿𝗈𝗺
June didn’t flinch. “I can offer protection. New identity. Relocation to any country without extradition p>
Lexi laughed again, harder this time, genuinely amused. “You think I need protection? You think I’m some victim waiting to be rescued?” She straightened, gathered her clutch, and moved toward the door with the smooth confidence of someone who had never been desperate, never been cornered, never needed anything from anyone. “I make three hundred thousand a year, tax-free. I have a condo in Miami and a boyfriend who thinks I’m a pharmaceutical rep. I’m not risking any of that for your fifty thousand, or your protection, or your—” she glanced at the transmitter, “—your little spy game p>
She pushed past June, shoulder-checking her hard enough to send her stumbling. June caught herself on the counter, felt her ankle twist, felt the sharp protest of damaged tissue, and bit down on the sound that tried to escape.
The door swung shut. June was alone.
She looked at the transmitter in her hand. At the card on the counter. At her own reflection in the mirror—pale, determined, failing.
Then she saw it: in the shadowed corner of the ceiling, a small red light blinked with metronomic regularity.
She hadn’t noticed it before. Hadn’t thought to look. But now she understood—the restroom was private, but the corridor was not. Someone had watched her enter. Someone had watched Lexi leave. Someone was, at this moment, deciding what to do with that information.
The light blinked once more, then went dark.