I rub that one idly as I sit in a large leather swivel chair in the office of the very same club. The club I’m now in charge of.
If anyone had seen me that night, fucking in the back corner of the club with an ex-fling and a stranger, they haven’t said anything. Anyone who works for me or wants to remain a member of the club should know better.
It’s a miracle I don’t still feel sore from that night… Still, the hazy memories of pleasure make it difficult not to wonder if it really would be so bad to repeat the evening. Maybe not here, somewhere else.
I pour myself another drink and flip another page in the documents I’m reading about the club. I need to refamiliarize myself with the ownership and regulations for the club. Not that I plan on following them, but not knowing would just be fucking stupid.
Every drug that’s sold here is a risk to me and mine. Every deal made and every booth-side impromptu sex show. Even if they include me in the mix.Especiallyif they include me.
I chuckle and shake my head as I take a swig. “You’re fucked,” I mumble to myself. “But what else can you do?” I set the glass down and rake my fingers through my hair, messing it up and attempt to brush it back into place with no luck.
I have no choice but to keep going. Do my job.
I know that means I’m going to have to get my shit together soon, but right now this is the only way I can cope.
One drink after another.
One pain killer after another.
One mindless orgasm after another.
An hour ago, I let some twenty-year-old tourist blow me under my desk before tossing him a parting gift and watching him leave to tell his friends the story. He’ll probably make it out to be some sexy tale that expresses how amazing Italy is and how generous we all are here because “I sucked a strange, depressedItalian guy off and he threw five hundred dollars at me and told me to get out” isn’t glamorous enough.
The bliss from that quick come has long since worn off, and I feel the exact same as I did before. Maybe worse.
I take another drink, read another page.
And another.
Until there’s a knock at my door.
I know that no one is here, or should be. The club closed an hour ago. It’s four in the morning. Myself, two guards out front, and two guards manning the inside are the only ones here.
As I glance up at the partially open door, the dim lighting in the hallway reveals a familiar but inconvenient face.
Jackson Carvel. A nothing in comparison to the Dresvanni family, but a rival nevertheless.
“Jack. I’m surprised that you would really show your face here,” I say simply. I look back down at my paperwork, not particularly concerned.
Jackson’s boots thud on the floor with each careless step of his. He makes no effort to be quiet or discreet. Normally, I’d think that means someone has no intention of starting something, but with a Carvel? I’m not so sure.
“Really? Cause you shoulda been expecting this,” Jackson tells me. He slams a fist down on my desk. “Or are you stupider than you look?”
I blink at him. “I think you need a mirror, dick.” I close the case on the binder that the paperwork is in and open one of my desk drawers to slide it in. Then lock it and pull the key out, slipping it into my slacks.
“I didn’t come here to trade insults,” Jackson huffs. He folds his arms and squares his shoulders up to make himself look even bigger.
“What did you come here for, Jackson?” I ask. I tilt my head to the side, staring at him with narrow eyes.
He huffs again, his shoulders bouncing. “Don’t act like you don’t know,Carmine.”
“That is my name. Now, if you could stop imitating a fucking locomotive, and tell me what it is I’m supposed to know, I might let you leave with all of your fingers.” I place my hands on my desk, folded, and lean forward. My gun is across the room tucked into my holster which is hung up with my suit jacket.
I know better, and yet when that American twink had begged to get on his knees for me…I decided taking off my gun was the better option.
Jackson doesn’t know that though; not yet.
“I’m not playin’ a game here!” Jackson growls and launches himself across the desk. “I know you saw my wife here. What the hell were you doing with Vic?”
