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The next day, I’ll stand around Bronson and Paige’s daughter’s birthday gala for however much time is necessary to be polite. I’ll smile, joke, agree with how beautiful our little mafia princess is. How wonderful it is to finally welcome her as an adult into the family.
So on and so on.
Then I’ll get the hell out of that place. Okay, so it’s not technically Stepford. And I love every single person inside those walls. The Hamlet—it’s one of the compounds of our powerful family, so of course I don’t hate it. But it’s a place of perfection and that creeps me out. A self-contained town hidden behind a stone wall where all the people are beautiful, the families happy, and life passes by in a colorful array of school events, parties, and milestone celebrations.
Like the Princess of the Mafia turning twenty-one.
Her dad, Bronson, is legacy Bachman—the first child born in our secret society, the first to be raised in our Village behind walls in New York City. The Village is also a self-contained community, but step outside our gate, and you’re in my favorite city in the world. In New York, the Bachmans interact with the outside world. We even have businesses on the street, open to the public.
Unlike the Hamlet where no one ever seems to leave the Hamlet. Sure, they vacation, but that consists of a week on the family’s private Greek island, or a shopping weekend spent in one of the guest townhomes in the Village.
Maybe they’ll get crazy and catch a show after.
The Village is more like living in… a really nice, gated community right smack in the middle of a bustling city of excitement. Pleasures of all sorts. Which reminds me. Before I leave NYC for Stepford, I have an itch I need to scratch.
My body craves a release with no strings attached.
From a woman I’ll never see again.
There’s a high-end escort service we men in the Brotherhood use sometimes. Beautiful women, mostly blondes, mostly here from LA. Not having had any luck becoming actresses in Hollywood, they’re now bartending or waitressing, hoping to make it in New York.
I call ahead, ordering what I need. Waif-like woman my age with blonde hair and a dancer’s grace. No tattoos. Dressed in expensive clothing. No jewelry. Hair pulled up in a high ponytail.
It’s not a fetish for blondes. I don’t even have a type. The requests I make are strictly for release.
I give the woman running the show very specific instructions for the blonde to follow. “I’ll call you back with the room number when I have it confirmed.”
I crave The Mark Hotel tonight. I make the call, asking for the penthouse.
The penthouse is ten thousand square feet, twenty-five hundred of which is a rooftop terrace overlooking Central Park as well as the Metropolitan Museum of Art. There are five bedrooms, four fireplaces, six bathrooms, two powder rooms, and two wet bars. The living room—which can be transformed into a full-sized grand ballroom—has twenty-six-foot-high ceilings, a fireplace, and an adjacent wet bar.
I’ll only be using the terrace and the main bedroom.
Luckily, the penthouse is available at this short notice. The chipper receptionist asks, “How many nights, sir?”
“I won’t be staying. I only need a few hours.”
“Oh!” She quickly clears the surprise from her throat, The Mark staff trained to maintain their composure. “Right. We will have that room ready for you. Any special requests?”
“They’ve already been made,” I say, thinking of all the rules the girl’s been given.
“Okay. Well then, we will see you soon, Mr. Bachman. Nice speaking with you!”
We hang up and I call a car service. I don’t feel like driving. I walk through the gates of the Village, waiting for the car on the street. The ride to Madison Avenue is short. A few minutes of people watching later, and we pull up to the front doors of The Mark.
I lean forward toward the front seat, telling the driver, “Wait here. I’ll be back soon.”
My blood heats as I take the steps two at a time. The lobby is sleek, modern, but with heavy, comfortable furniture. It’s fairly busy tonight. I avoid eye contact with everyone but the staff member who waits for me at the elevator.
“Good evening, Mr. Bachman.” A tall, striking woman named Naomi who manages the place greets me. Tonight she wears a simple red sweater bearing the white crest of the hotel. She presses the door open button of the elevator. “Thank you for staying with us. Your guest has already arrived and been shown to the suite.”
The words “your guest” bring on sparks of anticipation. “Thank you.”
The doors open and I gesture for her to go first. We step onto the elevator. I hold down the door open button for her as she punches in the code that will allow the elevator to take me straight to the penthouse.
No stops. Eyeing my finger on the button, Naomi gets the hint. Her brand of escorting won’t be needed tonight.
She steps off, giving me a wide, white smile. “Enjoy your time with us!” I notice she doesn’t say enjoy your evening. The desk must have alerted her that I only need the room for a short window of time.
