The nightclub corridor was dim, lit only by wall lamps that flickered whenever the bass from the main hall boomed through the floors. A heavy man in a tight gray suit paced back and forth, his shoes squeaking every time he turned. Sweat rolled down the side of his face even though the hallway wasn't hot—he was nervous, impatient, and very aware that his boss did not tolerate delays.
He wiped his forehead again, muttering under his breath. "We personally arranged a stage for Mr. Hughes tonight. Just one girl. One. And she still isn't here."
The young waiter beside him kept his head low, fingers twisting around the tray he held. "She arrived yesterday. They call her 'Number One Jewel'. She should already be on her way up."
"'Should'?" Silas Kane shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through glass. "If she makes Mr. Hughes wait, who's going to deal with President Steele's temper? You? Me? Can you even afford your own funeral?"
