A crimson carpet stretched across the front lawn of the Dressrious Salon, welcoming a parade of dignitaries in shimmering evening wear. They arrived for Connor Franco’s “Rebirth Celebration,” none of them realizing they were walking into the setting of a looming tragedy. Not even the team of detectives, currently finalizing their plan to dismantle Franco’s empire, had no idea how sideways the night was about to go.
Earlier that evening, the group gathered in a secure private room upstairs to run through the tactical map one last time.
“Adams confirmed there’s a performance scheduled for the party,” Patric said, his voice a low, steady hum. “Afterward, Franco will slip away to a private parlor to meet with a group of sirens. He’s going to finalize a business deal with them.”
“What kind of business could he possibly have with the sirens?” Trevor asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Smuggling,” Patric spat, his eyes flashing with anger as he looked at Alisa. “I can’t believe it. Your months of hard work at the Bureau, and he’s the one reaping the rewards of the new trade routes.”
“It’s hardly a surprise,” Alisa replied calmly, though her tone was clinical yet biting. “It’s no different than the Prohibition Era. Market-distorting policies always serve the same masters: gangsters and godfathers who buy their way into political circles. Men like Al Capone and Connor Franco don’t just survive these systems—they thrive on them. It’s how they get rich while everyone else loses basic economic sense.” Alisa looked radiant; she was attending the party as Trevor’s partner.
“Anyway,” Patric continued. “Franco probably won’t carry his phone in his tuxedo. He’ll likely hand it to Isabel, an assistant, or his lead bodyguard. I’ll stay up here and release the Black Hound to track the device’s signature. I’ll be your eyes from here. If you can’t get close enough to lift it, I’ll find a way to blend into the party and take it myself.”
“Don’t risk exposing yourself. We’ve got this,” Trevor said.
“Locate his head of security’s device as well,” Spion suggested. “We should keep our options open depending on who is easier to deal with.”
Patric nodded. “Understood.”
“It’s time,” Report Man said, checking his watch. “The guests are arriving.”
“We’ll keep in touch,” Lady News said, gesturing to the tiny earpiece masked by her cascading hair.
“You’re starting to look like a real field agent,” Spion joked.
“If you grew your hair out, you could wear one too,” Lady News countered with a sharp smile.
They exited the room with cheerful expressions and took the elevator down. When the door opened to the ground level, they were hit by a wave of laughter and orchestral music.
The party hall was bathed in ethereal blue light, decorated with intricate starfish and preserved coral—a sprawling, artificial underwater kingdom. Adams, ever the stoic butler, greeted them at the entrance. Sensing their arrival, Fiona and Mateo detached themselves from a circle of guests. They looked like a match made in heaven; Fiona wore a white and canary-yellow gown encrusted with diamonds from her bodice to her wrists, while Mateo wore a matching yellow silk tuxedo.
“Welcome, my favorite detectives,” Fiona said warmly. “My father and I truly cannot thank you enough for saving his life.”
“Your father looks remarkably energetic,” Trevor noted, glancing toward Franco, who was surrounded by high-ranking officials. “He seems to have recovered well.”
“He’s a survivor,” Fiona said proudly. She then turned to Alisa with a look of genuine, girlish surprise. “Alisa! I was so shocked to hear you were coming as a guest of the detective my father hired. What a small world! You have to tell me everything later.”
“It really is a coincidence,” Alisa lied smoothly with a smile. “We were actually high school classmates. We reconnected at your wedding after-party.”
“That’s wonderful!” Fiona cheered. “Well, please, enjoy yourselves. Your table is right near the stage. Help yourselves to the buffet, and we’ll catch up after the program.”
The team moved through the crowd, passing servers dressed as sailors and tables groaning under the weight of gourmet delicacies. As they took their seats, Senator Style approached, swirling a glass of amber whiskey.
“Cheers, ladies and gentlemen,” the Senator said, raising his glass. Then, leaning in, he added in a breathy whisper, “I hope everything is ready.”
“Everything is on track,” Lady News replied. “Though, we haven’t been able to reach your brother.”
“Yes, I sent him a progress report on Friday and a follow-up text yesterday,” Report Man added. “No response to either.”
The Senator winked conspiratorially. “If you’ve lost contact with my brother, he’s likely occupied with a woman. Don’t worry about him; he can handle himself in any kind of trouble.”
“I’m sure he can,” Lady News smiled politely.
“Well, I wish you all a successful evening,” the Senator whispered before vanishing back into the crowd.
Moments later, the man of the hour approached. Franco walked with Isabel, followed by two massive bodyguards. “My saviors,” Franco beamed. “Enjoy the night. The show is about to begin.” He didn’t linger, moving to a prime table directly in front of the stage. His bodyguards took up positions on either side of the platform, eyes scanning the room.
“The man on his left,” Lady News whispered, barely moving her lips. “That’s Andrew Douglas, the owner of the club.”
“I don’t see Victoria anywhere,” Trevor noted.
“Saw her a minute ago,” Spion said, chewing an egg bite. “She’s probably in the back booths, putting as much space between herself and Isabel as possible.”
The house lights dimmed. An emcee stepped onto the stage, showering Franco with praise before handing him the microphone. From his seat, Franco gave a short, polished speech about the “insights” he had gained after twice brushing with death. Trevor joined the polite applause, mentally noting that he had never heard a more expensive load of garbage in his life.
As Franco sat down, the music swelled—a jaunty, nautical tune. A dozen dancers in stylized sailor outfits flooded the stage, their movements synchronized and energetic.
Under the cover of the music, Patric’s voice crackled into Lady News’s earbud. “I’ve got it. Isabel has his phone. It’s inside her pink pochette.”
Lady News pressed her earbuds, a slightly excited smile playing on her lips. “Roger that,” she whispered. “Let the real show begin.”