There’s more to this story. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he hates the color green. The man in the head has lime-green highlights in his hair.

  But we have bigger fish to fry right now.

  “At any rate, Miss Bianca,” Chet says, his grin pasted on his face like the freaking Joker, “I do believe you owe me a favor. You declared as much the night I allowed Dr. O’Rourke into the club. I’m here to collect.”

  I frown. “This is hardly the same thing.”

  Chet raises his snow-white eyebrows. “You asked me to break your sister’s rules. Now I’m asking the same in kind. Seems like a good trade-off to me. It’s not as if one can qualify favors. One can only quantify them.”

  I roll my eyes. More of his fortune-cookie mumbo-jumbo.

  “May I say something?” Jack asks.

  I turn to him. He’s been silent since the King went down. “Jack, I’m sorry. We’ve been ignoring you.”

  He chuckles. “I’m a server at Aces. A male server at that. I’m used to being ignored. It’s when people paid attention to me at the club that I knew I was in trouble.”

  I cross over to him, squeeze his hand. “You’re free of them now. We’ve killed the man who was sent to kill you.”

  Jack shakes his head. “No. There are three more Kings. And Rouge herself. I don’t think I’ll be safe until all of them are behind bars.” His gaze darkens. “Or better yet, in the ground.” He paces around the room, looks down at the King of Hearts. “At any rate, I’m no longer an employee of Aces Underground. I want to embrace the name I was born with, the name my parents gave me.”

  I look over. “What is it?”

  He swallows. “It’s Vanya. Vanya Dmitriev.” He runs his hands through his wavy hair. “My God. It’s a name I haven’t spoken for five years.”

  I wrap my arms around him. “Nice to meet you, Vanya.”

  “We’re going to do everything we can to make sure you can live the rest of your life as your authentic self,” Harrison says.

  “You’ll have my help,” Jack—Vanya—says. “I want to take Rouge down just as much as any of you.” He glances toward Chet. “But can we trust him?”

  “I have already made my argument that you need not trust me to ally with me,” Chet says. “I hate repeating myself, but I am truly your best shot at taking down Rouge. I still have Tim Mann’s head in my refrigerator in my home. Perhaps that will serve as evidence enough for you all?”

  “Christ, no.” Harrison rubs at his forehead. “I don’t think that would convince me anyway.”

  I walk up to Harrison, wrap an arm around his waist. “I’m not either, Harrison. But I think Chet makes a good point. And that story was too complex and specific to be a fabrication.”

  Harrison darts his gaze over toward Chet. “Not for him it isn’t.”

  I frown. “Perhaps. But”—I drop my jaw—“the teapot. That was you too, Chet. Wasn’t it?”

  His grin widens. “Indeed it was. I planted it in Dr. O’Rourke’s car. It was too easy to disguise myself as the valet at your apartment, Miss Bianca.”

  “And that led us to Vanya.” I turn back to Harrison. “Without Chet’s intervention, he’d be dead. That’s good enough for me. And there’s strength in numbers. Like Vanya said, there are at least three more Kings. We’ve taken down Hearts and Mr. Rose, but we still have the Kings of Clubs, Diamonds, and Spades. She could have more muscles at her disposal that we don’t know about, too. And don’t underestimate my sister’s own strength, either.”

  Harrison draws in a deep breath, sighs. “Fuck. Fine.” He leers at Chet. “But if you fuck us over once, we’ll slit your fucking throat.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Chet replies.

  Harrison looks back to the rest of us. “So what’s our move from here? Where do we confront Rouge?”

  “The club, perhaps?” Chet asks.

  I shake my head. “No. She’d be expecting that. It won’t be long before she tries to get into contact with the King of Hearts asking about taking Vanya out, and from there she’ll be able to figure out what we’re up to. We need to catch her by surprise.”

  “Where can we do that?”

  I draw in a breath. “We need to break into her home and confront her there.”

  “Great,” Vanya says. “Where does she live?”

  I bite my lip. “That’s the only problem. I have no idea.”

  33

  HARRISON

  “You don’t know where your own sister lives?” Vanya asks.

  Bianca whips her hands to her hips. “It’s not as if Rouge is a normal person. If she were, I’m sure she’d let me know her address. But she’s extremely private. She’s something of a celebrity in the city, so she keeps all her personal information on a need-to-know basis.”

  “It’s true,” Chet adds. “Even I am not privy to that information.”

  “Then why the hell are we bringing you along?” I fire back at him. “Your whole argument for joining us is that you know Rouge in and out.”

  “Emphasis on in.” Chet’s lips twitch.

  I have to swallow to avoid losing my lunch at the visual Chet just conjured. Once the nausea has waned, I pull out my phone. “Surely we can find her on one of those people-finding websites. In this day and age, no one has true privacy.”

  “Good luck,” Bianca says. “Remember when I told you Rouge had every document listing her actual date of birth scrubbed out of existence? Her birth certificate, her licenses, social security? She’s made it as difficult as humanly possible to track her down. When you wield the influence and power she does, you can make pretty much anything happen.”

  “But she must live somewhere,” Vanya says. “And it must be within the Chicago metro area. It’s not as if she’s taking a private plane in every day.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her. She has billions of dollars’ worth of diamonds in her safe in her office,” I say.

  Chet raises a hand. “I can say with near-absolute certainty that isn’t the case. Her Maj—I mean, Rouge—is too involved with the goings-on in the city. The only time she leaves the state of Illinois is typically when she is looking for replacement waitstaff.”

  “If you happen to be telling the truth,” I respond.

  Chet shrugs. “Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.”

  “What?” Bianca asks.

  “It’s Shakespeare,” Vanya says. “Cymbeline, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Excellent ear, Mr. Dmitriev,” Chet says. “You too are a student of the Bard?”

  “I read through his complete works to help me master English,” Vanya says. “This was after I spent months watching movies with Bianca to get my first grip on the language.”

  “Fascinating,” Chet says.

  “And remarkably far from the subject at hand.” I turn to Bianca. “Could we simply follow your sister after the club closes? It’s not as if she can disappear into thin air.”

  She shakes her head. “She might as well. She has a system in place. She has a private driver pick her up from Aces Underground every night. This driver takes her to a garage located in an undisclosed location. Rouge owns several vehicles of varying makes and models that she keeps in the garage. She selects one at random and drives herself home from there.”

  “So we could follow her to the garage?” I ask.

  “That would be futile,” Chet says. “The garage in question is a very busy one. The kind that has drivers filtering in and out at all hours, even late at night when Rouge departs Aces. By the time she arrives at the garage, she is in disguise, and the car she selects to drive herself home will have tinted windows.”

  “There won’t be any security cameras in the parking garage either,” Bianca says. “And I’ve already told you my sister doesn’t have a driver’s license. If she owns a home, it’s likely under an assumed name, like the one I used to book the hotel.”

  Chet begins to hum.

  “Will you stop that?” I ask. “If the home is owned under a pseudonym, then the public records would be of no use to us.”

  “And I doubt she’s registered to vote.” Bianca paces the room.

  Chet hums louder. The tune is familiar, and grating.

  “Shut the fuck up!” I yell at him.

  Bianca widens her eyes. “Wait. He’s humming the birthday song. Rouge’s birthday!”

  “What about it?” Vanya asks.

  “Her birthday. No one knows it except me. That’s why she uses it as the code to the employee entrance. No one would guess it because she’s wiped it off all official documentation. It’s the tenth of June.”

  “A Gemini…” Chet mumbles.

  I roll my eyes at Chet’s utterance. “Like that matters.”

  Bianca holds up a hand. “You never know. My sister loves a game.” She pulls out her phone. “Zero-six-one-zero. What if that’s a zip code?”

  “Zip codes have five numbers, though.”

  “Right. But we know that all zip codes in Illinois begin with a six,” she continues. “So what if I search six-oh-six-one-oh?”

  “Why not?” Vanya says.

  She pulls up her map app and punches in the code. “That particular zip code covers most of the Gold Coast Historic District. Definitely a place I could see my sister laying down her roots. Very ritzy, very self-contained. Low crime rate.”

  “Besides her own,” I add.

  “Fair point.” Bianca scratches her arm. “But I’m not sure where to go from here. A zip code is a pretty broad area.”

  “Wait!” I grab my own phone out of my pocket. “Rouge does have a pseudonym we know of. The fake name she uses as the CEO for Shinzo Life Center, the place that distributes the organs she harvests. Romeo Sturgeon. It’s an anagram of her name. What if we search within that zip code for that name?”

  Bianca widens her eyes. “You do the honors.”

  I pull up the White Pages website and search for “Romeo Sturgeon” within the 60610 zip code. “Oh my God. I think we found her.”

  “Really?” Bianca asks.

  “Yeah.” I read the text on the phone. “Ten East Burton Place, apartment six hundred ten.”

  “Her birthday again!” Bianca throws her arms around me. “It has to be her!”

  I plug the address into my GPS. “Looks like it’s about a half-hour drive from here. Let’s fucking roll.”

  34

  CHET

  Her Highness and Dr. O’Rourke embrace again, and the four of us leave the room, locking the door upon our departure, leaving His Majesty’s body behind. I assume they will come and collect him later.

  I don’t give a fig either way.

  “How did you get here, Chet?” Her Highness asks.

  I blink several times. “I got a ride.”

  “So you’ll need to come in my car,” she says, her voice quivering slightly.

  “I suppose I shall.”

  “I’ll drive,” Dr. O’Rourke says. “You can sit in the back with Vanya.”

  “My legs are quite long, like rivers,” I say.

  “I don’t give a fuck. I’m not putting you in the back with my girlfriend.” Dr. O’Rourke glares at me. “Take it or leave it.”

  I grin. “Take it.”

  They are always so unpleasant to me, despite the fact that I hold their fates in the palm of my hand.

  But I won’t provoke them. I will allow them to think they wield their own wheel of fortune.

  The three of them go to Her Highness’s car, a silver vehicle with headlights resembling cat eyes. They set my soul at ease. It is as if they are the eyes of the Egyptian goddess Bast, beckoning me toward Paradise.

  “One moment,” I say. “I need to tie my shoe.”

  They ignore me.

  They always ignore me.

  I reach into my pocket, remove my cellular telephone. It’s a newer model, the main one I use when I’m in contact with Her Majesty.

  I don’t like text messaging—it is so informal—but this will have to do.

  I type in Her Majesty’s number, and then a short message.

  My Queen—they are on their way.

  35

  BIANCA

  “Should we call Alissa and Maddox?” I ask once we’re all piled up inside my car. “They’ll want to be updated. This is their fight as much as it is ours.”

  I’m in the passenger seat of my Lexus, and Harrison is driving. Poor Jack is in the back with Chet, whose neck is bent at an awkward angle to fit.

  I suppose I should have offered him the passenger seat for his long legs, but I still don’t trust the guy. The prolonged diatribe he offered us after killing the King of Hearts didn’t completely subdue my concerns.

  Even if he’s truly, one hundred percent on our side, he’s still a creep. Nothing will change that. I’ve known him for five years and he’s never failed to put my nerves on edge.

  “I’d rather surprise them with good news than keep them on edge,” Harrison answers after a pause. “They both need several more days of rest before they can exert themselves—Maddox especially—and I don’t want to stress them out.”

  “That makes sense,” I say. “I just feel like this is their story, too.”

  “It is.” Harrison reaches over and squeezes my hand. “And we’re the ones in charge of getting them—all of us—a happy ending.”

  “Every story is a love story,” Chet says.

  We ignore him.

  No one speaks for the rest of the long drive back into town to Rouge’s neighborhood. Her building has a garage, but we’re not going to keep my car there. We park on the street a few blocks away and walk over.

  Her complex is an imposing building lined with chrome accents in an Art Deco style. It’s lit by golden sconces surrounding the building, and a parking attendant cocks his head as we waltz through the glass revolving door. The building’s lobby is ornately decorated with angular patterns of gold leaf on the dark walls. The heels of my shoes clack against polished white tile as we approach a mahogany desk where the night attendant sits wearing a dark-green baseball cap.

  I approach him with a smile. Time to turn on the same charm that got Harrison into the club last week. “Hello, sir.”

  “Name?”

  I come up with an explanation on the spot. “We’re a troupe of performers from”—I utter the first few syllables that pop into my brain—“Snicker-Snack. It’s a…private entertainment company. We’re here to visit the tenant in apartment six ten.”

  The night attendant raises an eyebrow. “Private entertainment?”

  I wink. “You know… The sort hired for bachelor parties and the like.”

  He blinks. “You’re strippers?”

  Vanya approaches the desk. “We prefer the term ‘dancers,’ sir.”

  The attendant rolls his eyes. “Sure. Whatever.” He turns to his computer. “And you’re here for six ten?”

  “Yes, sir. Romeo Sturgeon.”

  The attendant widens his eyes but then nods slowly. “Right. Mr. Sturgeon occasionally does host…entertainers.”

  “Good.”

  He holds out his hand. “IDs?”

  Time to think fast again. “Um, actually, we don’t carry ID when we’re on the job. We all operate under pseudonyms, sir.”

  “Pseudonyms?”

  “Fake names,” Vanya clarifies.

  The attendant frowns. “I know what a pseudonym is.” He sighs, takes out a sheet of paper. “I don’t get paid enough to do this shit. What are your pseudonyms?”

  “I’m Whitney Royale.” I gesture to Vanya. “This is my partner, Jack Corrington.” I point back to Harrison. “This is Harry March, and the tall gentleman is our procurer, Chad Tigre.”

  “The tall gentleman?” The man asks.

  I look over my shoulder. Chet has wandered off.

  Damn it.

  Problem for later.

  The nightman writes down the names, and I can tell from the stiffness in his arm that he thinks they’re incredibly stupid. He looks up. “Do you have an employee ID from your organization? I can’t just let you up to the apartments on your word alone.”

  I swallow. “Actually, sir, as I previously mentioned⁠—”

  Chet pops up from behind the night attendant’s chair. He grabs a small statuette from behind his desk and smacks it against the back of his skull. His eyes roll back and his head comes down to his desk with a loud whack that reverberates through the lobby.

  “Chet!” Harrison hisses. “What the fuck, man?”

  Chet dusts off the statuette and replaces it where he found it. “He wasn’t going to let us in.” He places two fingers against the attendant’s neck. “He’ll live, have no fear. It takes more than a few blows to the cranium to withdraw the spirit from the body. I could have snapped his neck instead, but I chose to restrain myself.” He scans the buttons behind the desk and pushes one. “That should buzz us up to Her Majesty’s apartment.”

  “Her Majesty?”

  He blinks. “Rouge. Rouge’s apartment.”

  Sure enough, an elevator dings behind us. We all turn around but don’t move.

  This elevator is brightly lit with vivid pink lights, similar in color to the Hearts section at Aces.

  Normally this would be a welcoming color. The color of gentleness, love, even femininity.

  But this elevator? It might as well be taking us into the bottomless bowels of hell.

  Harrison takes my hand, squeezes it. “You ready?”

  I take a deep breath, squeeze his hand back. “Let’s end this.”

  36

  HARRISON

  I keep Bianca’s hand in a death grip as the elevator climbs to the apartment’s penthouse. I assumed we would stop on the sixth floor based on Rouge’s apartment number, but it feels like we’re ascending all the way to the top of the complex.