The only thing Renji disliked about the family business wasn’t how it was conducted, but where. As the son of the Sagawa patriarch, he made himself available for anything his father required that involved diplomacy and subtlety. He was a politician, after all, and unlike his elder sister, he needed no threat of violence to twist opinions in his favor.

That night, he was inside Club 13 on family business. As always, his father’s trusted hound stood silently behind him, arms crossed, watching everything. Across from him, the man he was meeting was sweating through his suit and trying not to show it, compulsively reaching for a napkin to blot his forehead.

They had to sit too close and speak louder than Renji preferred while discussing the clan’s interest in the business sector the man represented. Such matters should be discussed over wine in an elegant restaurant. But elegant restaurants weren’t run by the clan. And though the city had no clean politicians anymore, Renji had agreed long ago that clan affairs were best handled in places where the press had no eyes or ears.

That didn’t mean he had to enjoy it.

At thirty-six, he was past the age where he might have found this kind of establishment remotely appealing. The music was loud, the crowd reeked of new money, and his conversation partner was duller than playing chess with a toddler. The man stuttered, eager to please, reeking of the liquor he’d clearly consumed to gather the courage for the meeting.

Renji knew his presence wasn’t what had the man rattled. It was his name. Anyone could sit in this booth, drop the Sagawa name, and get the same reaction. That was the power he carried, and the curse.

“It’s... a complicated thing, what you’re asking, Mister Sagawa. You’re on the Board, you know these things,” the man stammered.

“I’m a Sagawa tonight,” Renji corrected him patiently. “Not a politician.”

“Yes, yes. I understand.” The man reached again for the napkin.

Bored and mildly disgusted, Renji let his coffee-brown eyes wander, giving the man a moment to regain some composure. The music faded for a beat as the white floodlights of Club 13 illuminated the low stage. Dancers, men and women, moved in rhythm inside suspended cages, their outfits little more than glitter and skin.

The bass dropped. One of the golden cages descended from the ceiling, stopping just inches from the floor. The dancer inside presented the crowd with her back. A pole stood in the center of the cage, but it was her who commanded attention, not the structure.

Her hair shimmered like liquid gold under the lights, more dazzling than the cage itself. She moved slowly, deliberately, commanding the beat instead of chasing it. He couldn’t see her face, but the moment she arched her spine and threw her head back, Renji knew.

She was exquisite.

The man talking beside him faded into white noise.

“You have one week, Mister Montgomery,” Renji said abruptly, cutting short whatever excuse the man had been gearing up to give.

Just as the dancer stepped out of the cage, he turned back toward the conversation. He caught a glimpse of eyes so piercingly blue he could see their color even from the balcony where he sat. The businessman stood hastily, bowing low but not daring to meet Renji’s gaze.

“Do you want him followed?”

The hound behind him only spoke once the man had vanished and Renji had relaxed into the couch. The hound was broad-shouldered, bearded, and calm. He spoke with the familiarity of an old friend, though his posture was all soldier.

“No. I want her brought over.” Renji gestured toward the stage.

The hound chuckled. “So that’s what got you distracted? Not like you at all.”

“Holding business meetings in underground clubs with men too frightened to speak isn’t like me either,” Renji muttered, loosening his tie.

“Waste of your talents,” the hound agreed, already signaling one of the men by the stairs to fetch the dancer.

“My sister is playing with my patience.”

“Your sister wants you more involved with the clan.” Renji took a drink. "Conflict of interests, then."