If they expected shock or outrage, I was the wrong boss to be speaking to. Not many people knew this neighborhood better than I did. There was always someone around who was willing to steal a bunch of shit—from high-end electronics to fucking stuffed animals—and resell everything.

Everyone had to have a hustle.

I didn’t even particularly begrudge someone for this one, since we didn’t want the neighborhood knowing it was partially my club.

“Alright. What’d they get?” I asked, watching Gav’s brows knit.

“The flooring.”

“The… flooring?”

“Black marble tiles. Go for about fifteen per tile.”

“And how many tiles were there?”

“Seventeen hundred. That’s—”

“Twenty-five grand,” I supplied. “Marble tile, that’s heavy, right?”

“It would have been a project. Something like ten pounds per tile.”

“How long a gap was there between when the shipment got here and when you got here?”

“An hour,” Gav said. “Max.”

“Any chance the dumpster is missing?”

“The… dumpster?”

I moved past them, going down the alley beside the building toward the little opening behind where, the day before, there’d been a mini dumpster.

“What…”

“Work smarter,” I said, shrugging. “You said Soren is on his way over?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

Good.

He could deal with the cops.

I wasn’t going to get my ass chewed out by Renzo for getting my face on anyone’s radar.

“What?” I asked, catching Gav staring at me.

“Your hair is different.”

Shit.

The rest of the dye must have washed off in the shower.

Great. That was just great.

“Nope, same as it was,” I lied. Better to gaslight the contractor than have Soren find out I was secretly dying it each time I saw him, so he didn’t get suspicious about my credentials. “Alright. I’m gonna let Soren handle this. I have… somewhere to be.”

I had to see a man about a dumpster.

More specifically, I had to see a local crew about a dumpster. Because there was no way one guy had pushed that damn thing full of that much marble.

Before Gav could object, I slipped back down the alley.

“What is it?” Renzo answered on the first ring, sounding distracted.

“Someone jacked a shipment of marble from the club,” I told him. “Twenty-five grand in product.”

“Shit.”

“I want to get it back.”

“No shit you do. Alright, look,” he went on, sounding more focused. “I don’t want them knowing you’re involved with that club. At least not directly. If you want to spew some shit about not wanting the club to take this as a sign to choose a different location, when we planned to lean on them, go with that.”

“Got it,” I said. I hung up, then called Bastian.

“You’re calling me?” he asked. “Did something happen?”

“I need some muscle. Literally.”

“For what?”