Page 4 of Dominion’s Collar

She reads rooms rather than drinks. I tuck that away and take a sip of the Negroni, which is the best one I've had since Milan.

"So what brings you to Dominion?" Renata asks, already building the next order while she talks. "Beyond the ceiling."

"Research. I'm a writer." The cover story rolls out with practiced ease. "True crime, but my next project is different. Exploring private communities, consent culture, the intersection of trust and power in closed social structures."

"You're writing about kink."

"I'm writing about trust. The kink is the framework."

Renata's expression doesn't change, but something sharpens behind it. "That's a better answer than most people give," she says. "Most people who walk in here with a book idea lead with the sex."

"The sex is the least interesting part of what happens in a room like this."

"Careful." The tilt of her mouth is back. "Saying that to the wrong person in here will get you a lecture on technique."

The banter lands with the ease of two people who recognize each other's sharpness, and I catch myself enjoying it before I remember that enjoying things isn't the assignment.

My phone vibrates in my clutch. I pull it out under the bar edge, glancing at the screen. Nothing from Cécile. A news alert I don't care about. I put it away and refocus.

Renata gives me the atmosphere willingly. The music, the layout, the vibe of a typical Friday. When I steer toward anything behind the membership wall, she redirects so smoothly I almost don't notice. I ask about private rooms. She tells me about the cocktail menu. I ask about the upstairs levels. She describes the sound system. The woman could teach a masterclass in generous deflection.

At the far end of the bar, a man sits alone with a glass of bourbon and the bearing of someone who chose his seat based on sight lines. Close-cropped hair, solid build. The unmistakable grain of law enforcement that doesn't wash off with a change of clothes. I recognize him from a department photograph I pulled over a year ago, when his name kept surfacing in connection with one of the Dominion murder cases.

The drink Renata slides to his end of the bar without a word and the glance that passes between them tell me what the leather alone doesn't. He's comfortable here. He's known here.

A cop whose name came up in a Dominion murder case, sitting at the bar like he belongs here. That's either very useful or very dangerous for someone running a cover, and I don't know which yet.

Members circulate between the bar, the lounge clusters, and the scening areas with the fluid ease of people who know the unwritten rules of a space so thoroughly they've forgotten the rules are there.

Near one of the conversation clusters, a man catches my attention for the opposite reason the cop did. Where the detective wears his occupation like a second skin, this man wears warmth. He's talking to a younger submissive, his posture open and attentive, his hand resting on the back of the chair beside her without touching her. The body language says mentor, advisor, someone trusted.

Prosper Gaudet. I recognize his picture from my files. Former Elysium member, now a fixture at Dominion. Multiple forum posts from other members describe him the same way: helpful, knowledgeable, the person who makes newcomers feel welcome.

He glances in my direction, catches me looking, and offers a warm smile that crosses the distance between us. I return it with the automatic courtesy of someone who files everything and commits to nothing.

Another face I remember—Tomas Hébert is at a table near the far wall. His glass is full and untouched. His shoulders are tight. He watches the floor like a man expecting something he'd rather not see. Whether that has anything to do with Elysium remains to be determined.

A man comes downstairs from one of the upper levels wearing jeans and a faded LSU t-shirt. He looks nothing like security and everything like someone's charming bayou cousin who wandered into the wrong building. He's built, broad-shouldered and easy-moving. Renata greets him by name when he arrives at the bar.

"Ezra." She slides a beer across the counter before he opens his mouth. "You look like you've been wrestling alligators."

"Just the one," he says, and the grin that accompanies this is wide and absolutely lethal to anyone with functioning eyes. "The big one's still upstairs giving Luc all kinds of hell."

"That's not new."

"The hell or the alligator?"

Renata laughs, a real one, unguarded, and the sound changes her face. Ezra leans on the bar with the casual intimacy of a man who belongs here in a way that extends past membership, and the exchange between them carries the shorthand of people who see each other regularly and enjoy what they see.

I note him and the upstairs access. The information isn't enough to build on yet, but it nags. Pushing too early is how investigations collapse.

The glass in the corner booth registers before the man sitting behind it does. He's in the darkest curve of the room, positioned where the low light falls away and the shadows collect.

His stillness is what catches me, because everything else in this room is moving. The other members circulate, negotiate, gesture, laugh. This man holds a glass he doesn't bring to his mouth and monitors the floor with the concentration most people reserve for things they're paid to track.

Broad through the shoulders in a way that occupies the booth like it was designed around him. Dark scruff at the exact length of studied indifference. He sweeps the room with the methodical patience of a man who's been reading people long enough to know where the lies sit.

If the profile fits, this is the man they call Obsidian. Former Elysium. Never collared anyone. No real name in any source I've tried. Everything else in my file is blank space, and blank space bothers me more than information ever has.