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Chapter 6
Later that day, and minutes before four o’clock that afternoon, Dmitri exited the stretch limo, staring up at the modern skyscraper in the heart of the Financial District of San Francisco. He inhaled the scent of bacon-wrapped hot dogs being grilled by a vendor farther down the street.
The driver shut the limo door behind him as a streetcar whizzed by. Dmitri noticed a sidewalk café on the corner, regretting there was no time to grab a cup of coffee. Exhaustion weighed on him down to his bones. Determined to get this meeting over with and return to Presley, he headed toward the tall black high-rise.
Black glass covered the exterior of the office building, and on one side huge bold silver letters read Holt Enterprises. The last time Dmitri had come to San Francisco to visit the Dominants Council, or DC, was just after Charles had died. Micah Holt hadn’t been working out of this building at that time. He’d owned a small three-story building on Union Square. Apparently the last few years had been good to Holt Enterprises, which Dmitri knew was a real estate company.
Charles had introduced Dmitri to Micah when they’d vacationed once in San Francisco—he wanted Dmitri to have good connections in the BDSM community. The friendship with Micah had stuck, and they’d also done some business together over the years. After Charles died Dmitri had gone to Micah for advice about opening Club Sin. That was when Micah had introduced Dmitri to the DC, the three other men who ruled the BDSM community in San Francisco.
Dmitri entered the building and headed directly to the security desk. The high-ceilinged lobby rose all the way to the top of the building, with balconies on each floor. Dmitri snorted; perhaps he should’ve gotten into real estate.
“Can I help you?” the security guard asked.
Before Dmitri could reply, a young man in a black suit intervened. “I’ve got him, George. Please, Mr. Pratt, will you follow me? I’m Neil, Mr. Holt’s assistant, and he is expecting you.”
“Thank you.” Dmitri fell into stride with the slender man.
When they arrived at the elevator, the man tapped a card against the black box beside the door and the elevator opened. Dmitri joined the assistant inside and classical music filled the elevator as it sped to the top floor. Once the door chimed open, the assistant moved quickly, leading Dmitri past the receptionist down a long hall. He scanned the doors he passed, noticing that most people in this office appeared to be real estate agents.
Dmitri had known Micah was a real estate mogul, buying multimillion-dollar buildings and flipping them. Now Dmitri realized he’d expanded his business to include high-end residential properties. Dmitri also knew from a magazine article he’d read recently that Micah was on the board of several other multimillion-dollar companies.
Once they reached the end of the hallway, the assistant opened the door and waved Dmitri inside. The room was rectangular, with the skyline of San Francisco visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His attention briskly shifted to the four men sitting around the large, dark wood conference table. Most people would know them only as four of the richest men in their city. Dmitri knew they made up the DC.
Micah rose from his chair and approached Dmitri with an imposing gait. At six foot three, Micah had a crooked nose, a square jaw, and enough muscles to show he spent quality time in the gym. He was dressed in a classic black suit, and his blue-green eyes regarded Dmitri as he offered his hand. “Good to see you, Dmitri. I hope your flight treated you well.”
“It did.” Dmitri shook his hand with a firm grip. “Thank you for sending the car.”
Micah inclined his head with a smile, then said to his assistant, “That will be all, Neil. Please hold all calls.”
He accepted the order with a nod and shut the door.
“Trouble in Vegas?”
Dmitri turned to Gabe O’Keefe, the youngest of the men. When Gabe was only twenty-two years old, he had opened his first Irish pub, O’Keefe’s, in San Francisco. Now, at thirty-three, he owned a chain of bars all over the United States. Gabe’s sharp and intense hazel eyes, prominent chin, and square jawline gave him a chiseled look. With his well-styled dark brown hair, dark blue button-down, and tailored black slacks, he looked like he’d fit right in over in Hollywood.
Dmitri replied, “Trouble is an understatement.”
Gabe’s expression tightened. “Sorry to hear that, man.”
Dmitri inclined his head in appreciation, taking a seat next to Micah, who was at the head of the table. “Thank you for making time for me.”
“It’s not a problem,” Ryder Blackwood said. His chocolate-brown eyes, warm and rich, studied Dmitri carefully. Dmitri knew he was head of a well-regarded security company, so it didn’t surprise him that Ryder seemed to be on alert at all times. He was dressed in black cargo pants and a black shirt, which Dmitri had seen him in before and took to be his daily uniform. His sandy hair hung down just past his eyebrows, drawing attention to his warm brown eyes, sharp jaw, honed cheekbones, and deep dimples.
“So, tell us, what’s going on?”
Dmitri shifted in his seat and slid his glance to the final man in the room, Darius Bennett, the CEO of Bennett Inc., a financial services and management company.
“There is trouble in my house,” Dmitri admitted.
Darius ran a hand through his dirty-blond hair. His clear blue eyes held depth and wisdom. “What kind of trouble?”
Dmitri let out a long exhalation. “Long story short, an ex-boyfriend of my submissive took pictures of the club’s members, intending to out them.”
Gabe’s eyebrows rose. “And he planned to do what with them?”
“Sell them to a tabloid.” Before anyone could comment, Dmitri added, “Earlier today I bought the pictures and had a copyright agreement signed. On that end, things are squared up.”
Ryder cocked his head. “I take it that you’re still worried about the club being exposed?”
