“Take me to Le Vice,” I told the driver as I texted my cousin Nico. It was his club. Nico was the only solid cousin I had on the Delacroix side, and I needed to tell him everything.
The Delacroix estate faded behind tinted windows.
If I had to carry this empire, I needed to remind myself who I was outside of old French bloodlines.
The driver pulled up to the private entrance of the club.
Underground.
Mixed crowd.
Invitation only.
Tuxedo only.
Inside, it was velvet, gold, dark liquor, and women moving like art in the low light. Men in tailored suits shook hands over quiet deals.
This was my other world.
The one Marcel didn’t build.
When I walked in, conversations dipped for half a second.
Not because I was Marcel’s heir.
But because I was Ares Jackson.
Feared.
Respected.
I adjusted my cufflinks and stepped deeper into the room.
If they thought I was about to be embarrassed by a broken bride, they were mistaken.
I didn’t run from problems.
I absorbed them.
And I always came out owning the outcome.
Nico finally showed up at his own club. I was two drinks in when he slid into my private section, which he kept for me. A bottle appeared before he blinked. A girl with legs up to her shoulders moved slowly in front of us, her smile lazy and practiced.
I threw money out of habit, but my mind wasn’t here.
I kept seeing Yuna sitting in that alley.
“What’s going on? I was with the kids.”
“My bad, man. I just got a lot going on.”
“You look like you’re thinking too much,” Nico said over the music, sipping his drink.
“I’m thinking the family lied to me,” I replied.
He nodded slowly. “That part comes with the territory. But what happened?”
I looked at him. “I’m sure you heard I have to marry. Marcel wants me to be with a girl who’s hooked on meth. You understand how crazy that sounds?”
