Running a string of clubs and private venues was one thing. Managing the unspoken business behind it was another entirely—I couldn't even refer to it as a niche.
The escort network wasn't listed on any paperwork. Think of it as a whisper passed between men with too much money and too few morals. It was a service activated only through coded messages and long-standing favors. Even my brothers didn't know about this side of things, and I didn't intend for them to. Can you imagine? Dom would say I was feeding the devil's seed.
I interviewed applicants personally. Not because I enjoyed the power trip—okay, maybe I did. Only sometimes. But also, the combination of my sharp eye and psychic capabilities meant I could read them better than any vetting process. A shift of the eye, or a spike in tone, or a lie about "just needing the money"? I'd see straight through it.
Today, they sent a woman named Francesca into my office. She was in her early twenties. Confident. As soon as she walked in, my eyes couldn't help but notice her lipstick was the color of wet cherries. Good sign—I thought—she didn't waste time.
I asked her where she worked before. She listed two venues I owned. Funny enough—I couldn't recall her face.
I asked what she was looking for. She said, "Something upscale and private with clients who know the rules would be the preference."
I nodded.
Before I could ask my next question, she stood, walked around the desk, and dropped to her knees. I didn't stop her. Not right away. I should've. But it had been weeks. And I very rarely go without for longer than three days.
Her hands were practiced. Her lips were cool against me—only making the heat of her mouth stand out more. This was what I'd been missing here. A reminder. A power move. Proof of value. It was working for a moment. Until I saw Eleanor.
Only for a split second, and not very clearly, her face flashed before me. It had that unimpressed expression. I loved it. I hated it.
My chest heaved.
Francesca mistook it for pleasure and doubled down.
I grabbed her wrist firmly. "Stop."
She blinked up at me. "Was I doing something wrong?"
"No," I said, already zipping up. "That's the problem."
I stood and straightened my cuffs. She looked confused. Offended, even, but didn't argue. She was a professional.
"You'll get a call if we move forward," I said, and nodded to the door.
As it closed behind her, I sat back down—harder than I meant to. I ran both hands over my face. For the first time in centuries, it seemed I was on the verge of an existential crisis.
Shortly after, the door clicked open again—no knock, no pause.
Allegra walks in, her heels clicking like punctuation marks on polished concrete. She was wearing sunglasses and had her long hair tied in a cruel ponytail. She stepped into the room like she owned it, glanced at the lingering scent in the air, and gave me a look.
"Well," she said, peeling the glasses off and tucking them into her bag, "judging by the lipstick smear on your belt line, I'd say Francesca went off script."
I didn't answer. I just sat back down, folded my arms, and stared at her.
She grinned. "Too forward?"
"You tipped her off, didn't you?"
"She looked like your type," she shrugged, unapologetic. "All legs and soft mouth. Thought it might break the dry spell you've been pretending not to have."
"I'm not hiring anyone based on who can get on their knees the fastest."
"Obviously," she said, easing into the chair across from me, casual as ever. "If that were the criteria, I'd still be your top recruit."
Allegra and I had history. Once upon a time, she'd been more than just an assistant. Less than a lover, more than a fling. She was a goddamn storm in heels, and for a while, we enjoyed each other's chaos. Until she met Bronson.
Bronson was one of my operations managers. He was gynosexual, charming, used to flirt with my male clients just to throw them off their rhythm. I slept with him once. Correction—we slept with him. It was at a high-rise party, they had too much bourbon, I had too much fun. Long story short: they met through me, bonded through each other, and eventually tied the knot in Vegas. I even paid for the honeymoon.
Now? They were my most reliable pair. Allegra ran most of the US operations; Bronson handled talent and client liaison overseas. They'd never once developed feelings for me—and that's exactly why I kept them. Professionals to the end.
But sometimes Allegra liked to test the waters just to remind me of who she was.
"So," she said, crossing one leg over the other. "She didn't do it for you?"
"Not my type."
"You sure? You looked about ready to see God when I peeked in."
I met her gaze. "Until you walked in and killed the mood."
She grinned. "That's what I do best."
"Unfortunately."
She leaned forward, playful now, but her voice dropped. "Unless it's not me who's killing the mood. Maybe someone else already did. Someone who got under your skin."
I didn't respond.
She smiled knowingly and stood, brushing imaginary lint off her suit. "Bronson says hi, by the way. He's finishing up in Barcelona. Wants to know if we're still greenlighting the Tokyo expansion."
"We are. And tell him if he sends me one more shirtless selfie, I'm blocking him."
"Even if he claims it's 'business casual' in Europe?"
"Especially then."
Allegra laughed, already halfway to the door. "Noted."
She paused with her hand on the handle. "By the way, the girl—Eleanor, right? The one Dominus asked me to look into?"
I tensed. He'd been looking into her?
Pretended to know with a casual reply. "What about her?"
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes gleaming with something she wasn't saying. "She doesn't smell right."
The door shut behind her before I could ask what the hell that meant.