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Gabriel, Taylor, and I have been members for years, though Taylor and my brother go exclusively for business reasons: either to schmooze prospective clients, or to meet with existing ones—A, to show them a good time, and to prove that their choice of legal counsel can “hang” with the dark underworld cool kids of New York. And B, because the anonymous nature of Venom gives an assurance of privacy when discussing sensitive legal issues to clients who may or may not be under the scrutiny of law enforcement.
I go to Venom for all of that, too, of course. But I also come here for fun. I even have two masks kept behind the concierge desk: one for business-Alistair, and one for playtime-Alistair. Wouldn’t want those two worlds colliding.
Lately, coming here has become slightly more complicated, now that Gabriel’s and my little sister, Tempest, has married Dante Sartorre, who owns and runs Venom. It’s not that Dante and Gabriel and I don’t get along or anything. I mean, yes, at one time, we were enemies. But a guy has a way of growing on you when he saves your sister’s life.
No, it’s become complicated because, as much as he assures me it’s never going to happen, the last thing on the fucking planet I need to see when I walk into an underground sex club is my goddamn sister.
Tonight, though, when I thank Michelle at the concierge desk and slip on my business-mode Alistair gold and matte black mask, I can rest assured that I won’t be having any unfortunate family encounters. I talked to Dante an hour ago, and apparently Tempest is out to dinner with his sister, Bianca and one of our best equity partners at Crown and Black, Fumi.
He also mentioned that he’d have some of his own security people close to Massimo’s private room and was tactful enough not ask why I might need extra muscle when meeting with my own client.
I make my way through the interior of the club, letting the low lights and sultry techno music piped through hidden speakers envelop me. I pass through one smaller lounge, glancing briefly toward the blood-red couch against the far wall. On it, a gorgeous dark-skinned girl is kissing a blonde on the mouth as they both moan, both getting fucked silly from behind by two men with Russian Bratva tattoos.
As I step into another smaller room, I’m greeted by the sight of a very petite brunette wailing in ecstasy as three Italian-looking guys take all three of her holes at the same time.
Welcome to Club Venom. And it’s only Wednesday.
It’s not late yet, though, so the “show” in the main room when I arrive is still minimal. Only a few of the array of couches and large beds in the middle of the floor are occupied, mostly by couples keeping to themselves, though, obviously, fucking in front of a crowd of onlookers.
I’m not here for anything but business tonight. So I bypass the show and make my way to the bar to grab a whiskey. I’m only one sip in when a masked beefy guy approaches and coughs discreetly.
“Mr. Black? Mr. Carveli is this way.”
I mean, the whole point here is anonymity, what with the masks and all. But I know from the jagged scar running down the man’s neck that this is Rocco, Massimo’s close confidant and fellow douchebag.
Wordlessly, I follow Rocco down a black hallway with brass sconces until we get to a dark, blood-red door with the club’s emblem of a viper on it, in black. Rocco nods at the two guys standing guard before we step inside.
“Ahh, Alistair.” Massimo, in a gold and matte-black mask with devil-horns, grins over the rim of his drink in greeting. He stands as I approach and shakes my hand firmly. “Please, have a seat.” He nods at my whiskey. “Need a top-up?”
“I’m good.”
Massimo smiles curiously at me, almost studying me. Here’s the thing about Massimo Carveli: as much as I’d love to write him off as a trust fund mafia ass-wipe who spends all day getting off on his own hubris via the silver spoon shoved firmly up his ass, I know there’s more to him than that.
I read people for a living: judges, prospective jury candidates, the legal counsel across the aisle from me, even my own clients. Everyone—and I do mean everyone—has a version of I that they want the world to see. Often, the truth is very different, hidden far away.
And that’s my superpower: the ability to pull aside the veils of bullshit to see the real person underneath. But with Massimo it’s nearly impossible for me to see what’s underneath, which means he either really is a machismo-huffing douche canoe, or else he’s very good at hiding the other part of him.
And much as I hate to admit it, I have a feeling it’s the latter.
There are too many random “strokes of luck” that have put Massimo where he is at the head of the Carveli family. His father’s untimely, oddly quiet death. The last-minute will that clearly stipulated Massimo as the heir to the Carveli throne and fortune, even though they’d been famously at-odds with each other for years.
And marrying Eloise, of all fucking people.
So when Massimo studies me with those piercing dark eyes, I’m sure to keep my walls up.
“Please, have a seat.” He turns and snaps his fingers at Rocco, who nods. Immediately, he and the handful of guards turn and file out. Massimo shrugs, smiling ghoulishly at me. “This conversation necessitates privacy.”
“Of course, Mr. Carveli,” I say. “But honestly, if you’d like to discuss business, I think my brother and Ms. Crown should be here, too. Perhaps even in place of me. As much as I enjoy Venom, Gabriel and Taylor are your legal liaisons at?—”
“How do you know my wife, Alistair?”
I’ve spent a career molding my entire body into an impenetrable fortress when it comes to showing my emotions. That said, it takes a lot to keep myself from flinching when I hear that.
“College,” I say easily, shrugging. “Though I’m not sure I’d really say we know each other. I was a few years ahead of her, and we didn’t run in the same circles.”
“Ahh, I see,” he nods slowly, sipping his drink. “But you obviously know her sister.” His lips curl into a devilish grin.
“I don’t.”
