Our gaze connected for three astonishing seconds during my brisk walk across a wide cement border, and I started to turn back to her before a touch on my shoulder reminded me to follow Harry and Meghan into the dark antechamber of Billionaire Sanctuary.
Deviation from the plan was risky for everyone involved, so I kept going.
But my thoughts remained on the sidewalk outside with the fiery bride.
CHAPTER 13
billionaire sanctuary iii
NICOLAI ROMANOV
Inside Billionaire Sanctuary,a members-only club with an extortionate initiation fee and an NDA bordering on omertà, a concierge greeted us. A valet offered to hang our suit jackets or any other outerwear we had brought with us through the blistering desert summer weather.
Magnus and Ryan had beaten us to the club by ten minutes, and they pushed through the crowd at the bar to meet us.
“Nico! Finally!” Magnus called.
His odd southwestern American accent had returned, no doubt summoned by Nevadan bartenders and waitstaff. “Konstantin rolled in about half an hour ago, from what he told us.”
With that, my whole body straightened, even rocking forward onto the balls of my toes, center-forward mass. I hadn’t seen my brother for months, though we texted and video-called often. “He’s here already?”
“He’s over by the bar. He’s actually legal to drink in the States now, so he didn’t have to dig out his fake ID and skulk around like a guilty puppy anymore.”
Konstantin had always been too much of a rule follower for his own good, or at least his own fun. “Tell me he’s not hammered. I’d like to actually talk to him for a few moments.”
“Not yet.” Ryan laughed. “The night is young.”
Even though the concierge at the door had recognized me and opened the entrance wide, I still dug my club membership card out of my wallet and presented it to the sturdy brunette behind the desk before I could turn to enter the bar area.
Some members grumbled that the club’s ID card should have the ability to be added to a mobile phone’s wallet app or the RFID chip should automatically trigger an approval in the computer, but belonging to a private club like Billionaire Sanctuary wasn’t about convenience. The exclusivity and privacy were the point, as was a human being recognizing you and welcoming you in.
The maître d’ examined the black card with a cursory glance. Acting as if I weren’t the sort to belong would have been rude.
Once inside the building, Billionaire Sanctuary patrons were no longer concerned with their own privacy.
Anyone accused of leaking photos should be prepared to defend their honor or face expulsion and lifetime banishment, and that was just the written rules. The tacit reciprocal agreement with every other private club worth membership was the real threat. No other club would touch them, either.
For most celebrities and billionaires, a lack of access to a private club like Billionaire Sanctuary meant the end of any attempt at a discreet social life, so everyone toed the line, no matter how arrogant they were in the rest of their lives.
Social media influencers’ applications were never accepted. People who made their money selling secret moments were not tolerated.
The main bar area occupied most of the Billionaire Sanctuary’s ground floor. High-top tables surrounded the central bartenders’ station. The glowy golden lights were subtle, but the other patrons were easily visible.
Because John’s bachelor party was in town for the week, half the people in the bar were relations of mine within a generation or three.
Yes, my family tree was convoluted, even twisted back on itself in places, but everyone knew exactly where they stood.
In our world, proximity was power.
I looked over the crowd, searching first for my brother and then, without realizing it, for the woman outside dressed as a bride.
Which was ridiculous. She obviously wasn’t a member. She wouldn’t be inside the Sanctuary’s bar, her dark eyes smoldering as her gaze met mine in the crowd.
However, my brother, Konstantin, who was one of the few people in the world to whom I gave any degree of trust, was sipping a lager from a tall glass at the far end of the undulating bar.
With a brisk slap on the back of Harry’s shoulder to signal farewell, I swam through the crowd toward Konstantin.
As I approached, Konstantin saw me coming and leaned forward, his deliberate move revealing our uncle Michel bellied up to the bar behind him.
