Page 28 of The Masked King

I’m not proud of my alter ego Brian, but I seemed to have stepped into his shoes with apparent ease, and dwelling on what this says about me as a person will mean digging deep, something I’m not prepared to do right now. It’s a game. One I never imagined in a million years that I would find myself playing, but now that it has fallen into my lap, I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Like Megan always says: the universe has a way of making these things happen, and this is my time to have some fun.

I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, replaying Nyx making herself come for me. It’s one of the sexiest fucking things I’ve ever experienced, which goes to prove what a little roleplay can do when two people are prepared to go all-in.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand beside the bed in the guest room. It’s a message from Megan. A photograph of their spaniel, Bella, wearing the pink collar that Demi and I bought for her in Rome. The caption:

I miss my Uncle Enzo.

I smile at the image and close the app. Sometimes, it feels as if Megan, Gio, the twins and Amber—and Bella of course—belong to a parallel universe, another dimension in which the Enzo they knew was someone else. This Enzo, the one I am now, isn’t the same person. I’m a fake. A fraud. The wonderful wizard of Manhattan, masquerading as the youngest Sabatelli son, and if anyone is going to catch me out, it’s Megan.

What would she think of JADED and Nyx? Silly question, she would try to convince me that I’m better than this. That I should be throwing my energy, time, and money into finding Demi and having a grown-up conversation about deep shit like life and relationships and love.

Tried that once upon a time, bared my heart, told Demi I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, and look how that turned out.

At least I know where I stand with Nyx.

I pay the fee, play the game, and walk away at the end of it. Fuck falling in love. I’m making a deal with myself right now: when Nyx begs me to fuck her and means it, I’ll call it a day, walk away from the club, and never look back.

I smile at the watery sunlight trying to break through the guest room windows. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. This whole scenario with Nyx is nothing more than drawing a line underneath my past so that I can move forward, if not healed, at least armed and ready to face the future.

A future without Demi.

It’s like a bachelor party without a wedding. One final fling before I get my head and my life back on track and make my family proud.

Make me proud.

A sound drags me out of my reverie and back into the guest room where the sun has dipped behind a bank of heavy gray clouds.

A door opening or closing.

The door to my bedroom.

I throw back the comforter, drag yesterday’s pants on over my boxers, and open the guest room door a crack, enough to watch my sister tiptoeing along the hallway with her shoes in one hand and a wide-brimmed hat in the other.

I could stop her, ask her where she’s going, but I don’t.

Instead, I text my driver.

Bianca is in the elevator. Take her wherever she wants to go and don’t take no for an answer. I hit send and type another message: I want updates.

I shower and get dressed in a hurry. By the time I’m ready, my driver has confirmed that Bianca has visited Club Monaco on 5th Avenue and is heading inside the Wraith, a sleek black glass hotel and casino resort, dominating the Manhattan skyline.

I take a taxi to the Wraith. It’s mid-morning, and the grand foyer is less busy than it is in the evenings when guests are visiting the restaurant or casino. The concierge recognizes me and inclines his head as I make my way through to the restaurant.

Bianca isn’t there.

I check the bar and lounge area, and there’s still no sign of her.

The casino is open. Some guests appear to have been there all night; their clothes are rumpled and they have dark smudges underneath bloodshot eyes. Others are fresh-faced, sipping brightly colored cocktails and champagne around the roulette tables.

I don’t see my sister.

I head back to the concierge and ask him if my sister checked in within the last thirty minutes.

“No, Mr. Sabatelli. Only one guest has checked in, a regular visitor to the Wraith with his current partner.” I’m about to ask for the partner’s name, when he adds, “His male partner.”

I smile and pass a tightly rolled wad of banknotes into his hand when I shake it. “Did she pass through the foyer? She was carrying a bag with the Club Monaco logo.” I don’t mention her black eye and swollen mouth; my sister has become an expert at covering bruises with makeup over the years.