Florence checked over her shoulders. She hadn’t expected to be left standing on the stoop, exposed, while awaiting an audience with the kingpin. Thank goodness she kept a pistol in her tiny handbag for sojourns downtown. To date, she’d never had to use it, but carrying the weapon gave her a small bit of reassurance.

Sooner than expected the other guard returned. He held open the door. “Come along, miss.”

Ignoring the fluttering in her belly, she climbed up the small steps and entered the club. The inside was huge, much larger than it appeared from the outside. Noise assaulted her, from the jeers and calls of the men watching a boxing match, to the music and laughter coming from the rear of the building. Was there a dance hall back there?

The guard veered away from that noise and led her to a staircase off to the side. They climbed two sets of ornate stairs, the walls decorated with green-and-white-striped paper. Eastern carpets lined the floors, cushioning her footfalls. Brass sconces on the walls and a fancy gasolier overhead lit the way. Quite a contrast to the Bronze House’s sparse inner sanctum.

The young man arrived at an oak door. He knocked twice.

“Enter!” a deep voice called from within.

The guard flung open the door, then stood aside to let her pass. Gripping her hands tightly, she entered the room, unsure of what she might find. What did a criminal kingpin look like? Did he have a desk resting on illegal stacks of money? Or was it worn and practical, like Clay’s?

Stop thinking about Clay.

A man rose from behind a huge ornate desk littered with papers. Not overly tall, he was sharply dressed, with a bespoke navy suit and green silk vest that had to cost a fortune. Gold watch fob and polished shoes. Goodness, he was handsome, with wavy dark hair and blue eyes. And young. Was he even over thirty?

She hadn’t expected any of this. By reputation, Mulligan was a hardened criminal who ate enemies for breakfast. The man in front of her could pay afternoon calls on Fifth Avenue.

She lowered the hood of her cloak. The young guard sucked in a breath and Mulligan seemed to freeze in his tracks. She patted her cheeks and smoothed her hair. Was there something wrong with her appearance?

Mulligan quickly recovered and approached. “I understand you are the woman caught counting cards inside Donnelly’s saloon the other night.”

“I was not counting cards.”

Mulligan jerked his chin to the guard, who tipped his derby and disappeared. The door clicked shut. Florence focused on her breathing, trying not to show her trepidation.

Show no fear until you feel no fear.

He bowed at the waist. “Enchanté, Miss Greene.”

Her jaw dropped. “You know who I am.” And he spoke French?