Kaz never watched performances.

That was the rule.

And yet, here he was—standing in the shadows near the back wall, gloves pristine, eyes fixed on the stage. Your performance wasn’t loud or desperate like the others. It was controlled. Measured.

Professional.

When the song ended, Kaz turned before anyone noticed him there. “Pay them double,” he told the club manager quietly. A pause. “And make sure they leave with an escort.”

Protection wasn’t affection.

It was an investment.