Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,11

All are fast and flashy workers, hired for skill and sex appeal. I’m not ruling out the women, but I already suspect the men. Petra and Monique make a staggering number of tips from the lonely businessmen in the area. Bronson and Chaz do pretty damn well for themselves too, but in my experience, there’s a masculine greed that won’t allow a man to be satisfied with three hundred a night.

A good bartender is like a juggler and a magician all in one. They’re chatting with the customer while simultaneously flipping glasses, agitating shakers, and pouring twelve shots in a row. They make money disappear and alcohol rain down. They’re always doing ten things at once.

It takes a practiced eye to see what they’re really up to.

In twenty-eight minutes, I’ve spotted the thief.

It isn’t Bronson, with the bulging muscles and frat-boy charm. He slips a free drink to a giggling blonde, but he still rings it in, using his own tips to cover it.

No, it’s Chaz who’s the tricky little fuck. Chaz with the silver rings, hipster beard, and man-bun.

That egotistic little shit has two separate scams running at the same time. First, he’s taking payments from three or four customers at once, carrying the cash over to the till and pretending to ring it all in. But as his fingers fly over the screen, I see he’s only ringing in nine out of ten drinks, counting on the volume of transactions to hide what he’s doing from anybody watching.

Then, something Jonas hasn’t even caught: Chaz has a bottle of Crown Royal he’s snuck into the building. It’s a top-shelf liquor, eighteen dollars a pop. Any time a customer orders it, Chaz pours from his own bottle that he’s set on the shelf in place of my liquor. Then he takes the entire payment and drops it directly in his tip jar.

In the time I’m watching, he steals about seventy-six dollars. By my rough calculations, that means he’s skimming over nine hundred dollars a night.

I motion to Jonas, calling him over.

“It’s Chaz,” I tell him.

Jonas looks over at Chaz and his shit-eating grin as he pops the top off four bottles of Heineken, sliding them across the bar to a quartet of rowdy college girls. Jonas’s face darkens. He takes a step forward, like he’s going to grab Chaz by the shirt and haul him over the bar right then and there.

“Not yet,” I say, laying a hand on Jonas’s chest. “Let him finish his shift. We don’t want to be short-handed tonight. Grab him on his way out, instead.”

Jonas grunts and nods. A scuffle breaks out over by the bathrooms, and Jonas heads in that direction to make sure the bouncers break it up.

I lean back against the pillar at the corner of the dance floor, arms folded in front of my chest. The satisfaction of catching the thief is already fading away. My mind is turning back, as it always does, to the nagging problem of the Griffins and the Gallos.

Right at that moment, a girl walks into the club.

I see a hundred gorgeous women every night, dolled up in their tight dresses and heels, faces painted, hair freshly coiffed, skin dusted with glitter.

This girl catches my eye because she’s the opposite of that. Young, fresh-faced. So cleanly scrubbed that she almost glows. Her light-brown hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail. Her eyes are wide and innocent. She hasn’t tried to cover up the spattering of freckles across her nose.

She’s wearing a lightweight wraparound sweater, and under that a pale pink bodysuit, almost the same color as her skin. Odd attire for a nightclub. Her friends are dressed in the usual crop-tops and mini dresses.

As soon I see her, I get a rush of adrenaline. My muscles tighten like coiled springs, and I can feel my pupils dilating. I imagine that I can smell her perfume, light and sweet, over the scent of smoke, alcohol, and sweat.

It’s the reaction of a predator when it sights its prey.

Because I recognize this girl.

It’s Nessa Griffin. The cherished baby girl of the Irish mafia. Their little darling.

She’s wandered into my club like an innocent gazelle. Foolish. Lost. Ripe for the taking.

It’s like a sign from heaven. But I don’t believe in heaven. Let’s call it a sign from the devil, then.

I watch her as she weaves her way through the club with her friends. They order drinks from frat-boy Bronson. Bronson flirts as hard as he can as he