Archie hurried forward down the hall, leaving the underage girl, but when he reached the foyer, Jack and the men were gone. The door to the hall that led to Jack’s office was closed, and a new goon was standing in front of it. The goon had his arms crossed over his chest and was staring, heavy lidded, into the middle distance. He wasn’t wearing an earpiece and he wasn’t wearing a mask. He also wasn’t wearing a suit. He had big hands and a broad nose and a leather jacket that looked like it weighed twenty pounds.

Archie looked down at his drink. It was half empty. He drained it. Then he held it up in front of the goon. “Do you know where I should put this?” he asked him. The goon didn’t respond. Archie held the glass between them and then opened his hand and let the glass drop. It hit the floor with an explosion of splintered glass shrapnel.

“Dolboeb,” the goon snapped under his breath. He stepped back a few inches and kicked the broken glass off his shoes.

Russian?

Archie smiled.

The Russian straightened up again, his dead gaze fixed over Archie’s shoulder. He didn’t make a move to clean up the glass.

“Sorry,” Archie said. “I’m a little drunk.”

Archie waited. The Russian didn’t move. He didn’t leave the door. He didn’t call for someone to clean up the glass. Archie turned his head and glanced back at Razor Burn, across the foyer, still leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. He wasn’t in any hurry to help. These two didn’t work together. They had different bosses. The Russian had come with whoever was in the office with Jack.

Archie was considering the pros and cons of dropping another glass, when a woman appeared at the top of the stairs. It was hard to miss her. She was wearing a black dress that was made out of some sparkly gauze material. A triangular piece of fabric harnessed each breast and then attached behind her neck. Her back was bare all the way to her waist. Her dark curly hair was twisted up loosely on top of her head. She was carrying a reusable grocery bag. Her head was turned so that Archie couldn’t see her face, but he recognized her body.

Star. His lap dancer.

Razor Burn saw her, too. He’d lifted his shoulders off the wall and pulled his hands out of his pockets. It was a predatory move. His posture shifted forward to put his weight on the balls of his feet. He was leering at Star as she descended to him. She kept her head down, a classic ploy to avoid interaction. But she had to pass him, and when she did, Razor Burn caught her by the waist.

The Russian across the hall unfolded his arms.