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We step out of the nice car and onto the VIP carpet leading inside the art gallery. Damon offers his hand to help me out in a gentlemanly manner. I cling to him as we take our first steps up the intimidating red carpet. Paparazzi look up and aim their cameras at Damon and me, but my man casually raises his arm, and the paparazzi respectfully lower their cameras. They know who he is and his reputation. He has power here. He wants his privacy.
I notice Damon’s security isn’t following us inside. They hover by his limo. A tinge of panic catches in my throat. I don’t want to be entering a nest of gangsters without men loyal to Damon by our side.
“What about your bodyguards?” I ask him. “Aren’t they coming?”
“It’ll be rude for me to bring armed men inside here,” Damon replies calmly. “At meetings like this, we all show respect to each other by not causing trouble. We are bound by our code of honor. There will be no guns here. No fights. This is a meeting of the minds, not of steel.”
And so we enter the dazzling art gallery without any protection.
My head whips around, taking it all in. It’s all so minimalistic in here. All so modern and... well...arty.
Stepping into this world is like stepping into a kingdom I’ve never dreamed of being a part of in my wildest fantasies. Famous faces from magazines, movies, and TV shows surround me, mingling in the elegant ambiance of the fancy-pants art gallery. Impeccably dressed and well-mannered waitstaff move gracefully through the exclusive crowd, offering flutes of bubbly champagne from trays that gleam like polished mirrors. It’s a spectacle that leaves me in awe, and I can’t help but be utterly taken aback by the sheer grandeur and sophistication on display before my very eyes.
“I’d like to check out the art,” I say to Damon, looping my arm around his to stay close. “Or maybe meet some more celebrities...”
“We’re not here for the art or the cameras,” he says quietly. “We need to go upstairs. That’s where the real business is taking place.”
Damon nods at a burly-looking security man with a walkie-talkie. The man nods back and gestures for us to follow him. We make our way down the middle of the art gallery, passing by groups of people admiring the art and chit-chatting in voices that reek of old money.
A man stops us and shakes Damon’s hand. I instantly recognize him as the Mayor of New York. I’ve seen him doing press conferences on TV. He’s with some old senator who also shakes Damon’s hand. They are smiling and practically begging for attention from my man. It’s like they are of lower status than Damon and not two of the most powerful political players in the country.
This is insane.
But during all of these whirlwind interactions, Damon’s spare hand doesn’t leave mine.
The security man eventually wrangles us into a special elevator at the back of the gallery. It’s all painted in black and is very imposing. This feels very restricted.
This is definitely not part of the art gallery opening.
The security guy nods at Damon as he presses a button for the top level.
“You’re wearing a wire?” he asks my man.
Damon snarls.
“What do you take me for? A rat?”
“Just making sure, sir,” the security guy replies, a note of fear etched in his voice.
“You know my reputation,” Damon says in a near whisper. “You know how much I hate a rat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Don’t ever ask me such a fucking stupid question again.”
“We are secure now,” the man says as we start to ascend. “No one goes this way except on invitation from the boss.”
“This boss guy sure does like showing off,” I remark. Damon glares at me to remain silent.
I guess this is not the time or place to joke around.
Damon’s face is the sternest it’s ever been, and that’s saying something.
He is worried.
Really fucking worried.
And now I definitely feel frightened.
