“You’re late, Noir,” B. Nasty purred, swirling a drink the color of a warning. She sat on a velvet throne, legs crossed, looking like sin carved into a gown.

That night, the problem had a name: .

Miss B. Nasty leaned forward, her smile sharp as a stiletto. “Then you should’ve brought something prettier than that attitude. See, I don’t give. I take . And right now? I’m taking your reputation.”

“Takes one to catch one,” Kira replied, palming the hard drive that had just been slid across the table under a napkin. “Pleasure doing business.”