PREVIEW OF THE VINTAGE CLUB CHAPTER ONE Ran prizzzep as I stoop in front of a two-story brick building and stared at the nondescript logo on the crimson door: a lapel pin in the shape of a V. It was the fine print below that made my palms itch. Pd assumed The Vintage Club was a country club; that the most I’d have to deal with was the overeager attention of a frat boy wearing pink shorts and loafers. Luck and I, however, had never been on good terms. A rumble of thunder rolling across Chicago’s smoggy nighttime sky was my only warning before rain poured like a tipped-over bucket of water that splattered on my head and soaked my clothes. I sucked in a breath at the wet and ominous assault, and with a growl of resignation, I yanked open the door that read, “Gentlemen’s Club.” I wasn’t a prude on principle. I just disliked strippers. They reminded me of my mother. The door fell shut behind me, muffling the torrent of rain outside. Wet and tired, the toll of the day pulled on my muscles. None of the bus routes came to this part of the city, so Pd been dropped off twelve blocks from here. Chicago’s elite must have an aversion to public transportation and compassion. The entire entryway glittered: the tear-drop chandelier, crystal vases with real lilies, and a few ornamental mirrors. Even the glass desk sparkled as if it’d been carved from diamond. I took it all in like Alice did Wonderland. Most of the clients I delivered packages to were wealthy, but this place took loaded to another level. The strippers probably sweat gold. I pulled my attention from the décor to an Alfred-looking receptionist who stood behind the desk, dressed in a black suit with coattails. Cool eyes flickered with mounting displeasure as they swept from my messy ponytail, to the Angelo’s T-shirt and jeans I wore to work, to the