Page 89 of Tailored for You

There were going to be days when I couldn’t be there—I knew that. But it didn’t mean I had to like it.

“Okay. I hope everything is okay,” she said. I could hear the worry in her voice.

“Yeah, angelo mio, it’s only a last-minute meeting,” I said. “Ti amo.”

“One of these days I’m going to learn Italian so that I know what you’re saying.” Serena laughed.

I hoped she didn’t. That way I could tell her things she wasn’t ready to hear, but I was ready to say, like telling her I loved her, without her really knowing.

“I’ll be waiting for you in bed,” Serena said and hung up.

I tapped my phone on my thigh, debating if I should even bother with this excursion.

“Get out,” Rafael said as he opened the car door. “We didn’t come all this way to sit in the car and stare at the place.”

He adjusted his suit jacket and glared at me. I rolled my eyes and followed; Donovan and Angelo were close behind us.

We walked down the street and stopped at the doors of a building that took up half a city block.

It was the Art Deco style New York was known for, with a black flag bearing white letters that read “The Lexington Club.”

The most exclusive club on the East Coast. Famous for being selective, one of the country’s most elite and sought-after memberships. There were only two ways to become a member—through legacy, where fathers passed it down to sons, or by invitation.

Some billionaires couldn’t even get an invite.

And they had extended one to me several months ago.

I had never used it, but seeing as my target was a frequent member, it was high time I exercised my membership.

“Let’s do this. I’m missing story time,” I said.

“Oh no, not story time.” Rafael mocked me with a smile. He looked at me and raised his hands. “Kidding. Kidding.”

We went up the steps. The doorman opened the door and greeted us.

Stepping inside, it was like being sent back in time. While there were some modern additions, the owners had kept the integrity of the structure.

It was old-money opulence, reminding me of the show Serena made me watch about the Gilded Age—tall ceilings, thick columns, wide wooden staircases that shone with polish.

Men milled around on leather couches and at tables, some with laptops, drinks at hand.

“This is going to be fun.” Rafael clapped his hands and started walking to the staircase on the left. He knew where the target was.

Two floors up, we reached the closed double doors. We could hear music, not too loud but noticeable, and low voices. The stench of cigars seeped through.

I stood back as Donovan and Angelo threw open the double doors, causing everyone in the room to turn our way.

Women in skimpy lingerie jumped. Some were standing; others were in men’s laps.

They recognized us immediately. Some of them knew me specifically—they were Dmitry Popov’s women, the man who ran the Russians.

The women moved, walking in single file out of the room without being told.

Rafael stood at the door, bowing like a butler as the women exited, smiling as he said, “Thank you, ladies. You’ve been wonderful.”

Donovan cut the music off.

“Get out,” I said loudly.