Page 52 of Bronson

She looks me over. “Which are you?”

“Bloodline.”

“And how do the others join? Is it like a gang initiation or the mafia or something?” she asks with a nervous giggle.

She isn’t far off. The process of becoming a Bachman man… brutal. It’s secretive, grueling, and once you’ve undergone it, you’re a Bachman for life. Or your life ends. I swallow hard and say, “You aren’t too far off the mark for the men.”

“And the women? How do they join?” she asks shyly.

My heart tugs, a feeling I’ve only known her to bring out in me. I say, “One can only become a Bachman woman by marriage. There is no divorce in our world.”

Too much to lay on someone for a first date? Though going out with the head of New York’s largest crime ring is hardly a normal experience. I press my thumb. The door opens. Leaning towards the panel, I say, “Home.”

All the lights in my house flicker on.

“Impressive,” she says. Her eyes are wide. Her hand grabs mine.

“Thank you. Joshua handles all our tech. He’s great. His wife⁠—”

She interrupts me. “Wait. Let me guess—his wife does the vacuuming for the town? Stays home ironing the suits?”

“No. She’s our lawyer. Best in the state.”

Paige gives an impressive nod. “So the women are allowed to work outside of the home?”

“We’re doms—not cavemen. Trust me—no one respects the strength and intelligence of women like the Bachman men. We just like to spank their asses when they get out of line.” I give her ass a swat.

She shoos me away with her hand. “So, this Joshua… he doesn’t mind if his wife makes more money than him?”

What a strange question. “Of course not. Why would he?”

“And Mary—she chooses to be a stay at home wife?”

“Of course.”

“It’s just that you all don’t really fit into any mold,” she says, eyeing me.

“Neither do you.” I flash her a smile, showing her into my foyer. Having her here with me, I feel relaxed. Almost jovial. It’s what she does to me.

The familiar scent of home greets me. Lemons and lavender. A fresh bouquet of white flowers graces my entryway table. The cleaners must have come today. Which means my fridge is stocked and there will be white wine, chilled.

Sometimes it pays to be the boss.

Paige looks around, taking in the décor. It’s all white and black. Classic bachelor pad. If the bachelor has good taste and limitless funds.

“It’s beautiful,” she says.

“Thank you. I enjoy decorating it.”

“You have impeccable taste,” she says.

“Takes one to know one. May I take your coat?” I ask.

I help her out of the coat—my favorite purchase to date—and hang it in the hall closet. I shrug out of my suit jacket, hanging it next to her coat. I like the way our outerwear looks, hanging in the same closet beside one another. Shaking the silly notion from my mind, I ask her, “Wine?”

“Yes, please.” She folds her hands in front of her, following me into the kitchen. The white marble countertops gleam. There’s a fire crackling in my kitchen’s fireplace. The gray stone floor shines thanks to the recent polishing.

Paige sits down at one of my white leather barstools. With her dark hair, olive skin, and high cheekbones, she’s a classic beauty. She fits right in, making my kitchen feel warm, cozy.