My mother calls my tendencies “quirks.” I call them habits. I like my shit clean.
“In the office,” I yell back.
Footsteps approach seconds before there’s a rapid knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Lyam opens the door and enters with our friend, Mario Rossi. Youngest brother of the Rossi family in America, we became friends a few years ago over a trade our brothers initiated. Weagreed it would be useful having mutual friends overseas, for both of us, and we weren’t wrong.
“Rossi,” I say warmly, extending my hand to shake his. “Didn’t expect you tonight.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t supposed to be in until next week, but duty called, and Romeo sent me out early. Grabbed the first flight out.”
The Rossi family has business in Tuscany, a short flight from here, and since we formed an alliance, they’ve begun to do business in Paris as well.
“You know you’re welcome here anytime.”
“You know why he’s here. Who wants a hotel when you can eat at Chez Gerard?”
The Rossis are sort of famous for their bottomless appetites and love of good food.
Mario playfully punches his arm, and Lyam dodges a second jab.
“I won’t lie,” Mario begins. “It’s true. So have you taken over here since Fabien tied the knot?”
I shake my head and walk toward the exit. “Not really. I was taking over business and surveillance before then. It’s just better to have me here now that Fabien’s traveling more.” And going off the grid and spending time with his wife.
For days and full weekends at a time.
I lead them to the door so I can lock up.
“Makes sense.”
“You want a drink?”
“You know it. Brought a case of wine from Tuscany to your mother.”
“Alright, then not only are you welcome, you can move in,” Lyam says.
The Rossi family wine from Tuscany is the best I’ve ever had.
I shut and lock the door to the office, one of the best rooms in this large, rambling house of ours. Though we each have residences in Corsica and privately, we always manage to meander back to our family home in Paris. Makes sense, though, since Paris is the hub for so much of the work we do.
“How’s married life treating you?” Lyam asks.
Mario grins. “Gloria’s amazing.”
“Been a while now?”
“Few years, yeah.” He chuckles. “You next, Thayer? I heard Fabien’s a goner.”
Me? Marriage?
“Oh hell, no.”
There’s a reason why every woman I’ve ever been with has been a member of Le Luxe. Le Luxe,the most exclusive club in Corsica—hell, theonlymaster/slave club in Corsica, is my primary place of business, so I haven’t taken a partner in a long time.
Women at the club don’t require affection. They don’t require aftercare, or coddling, or any of the other bullshit a real relationship requires.
