Page 24 of Falling for the Mafia Dom
The return flight from Florence was delayed a few hours due to weather, and now I am quite certain that I am going to be late.Tristan’s new club will be opening in an hour, and as a silent investor, I had promised him that I would attend the opening night.
Freshly showered and dressed in a deep navy suit, I make my way downstairs as I text Angelo to say that I will be ready in a few minutes.
I am surprised when I run into Ellie waiting in the foyer.
She is fucking stunning!
She is in a short, yet tasteful, well-fitted, black dress. It accentuates every perfect curve of her hips, thighs, and pert breasts. The tall heels show off how perfectly toned her legs are. Her gorgeous blonde hair is well-curled and partially pulled back from her face. She’s wearing a minimal amount of make-up, but she would be absolutely just as beautiful without any.
“Who’s the lucky guy?” I mask my jealousy.
“No guy,” her eyes slowly look up at me, hesitating to make contact with my own.
I can’t take my eyes off her.
“I’m going out with Lyla,” she fidgets with a piece of hair in her face, and I desperately fight the urge to brush it from her face, “She has tickets to some thing tonight, and she has begged me to go with her.”
“Sir,” Angelo walks through the door and his eyes are immediately gazing over Ellie’s body and he takes a step toward her.
I don’t like the way he looks at her.
Stepping closer to the door and between the two of them, I scowl at Angelo, “You’re late.”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” he knows not to argue and promptly opens the door for us.
“Be safe,piccolo fiore,” I turn to Ellie before leaving and she shyly smiles at me.
Angelo’s body language is overtly rigid as we walk down the steps to the car. Not a word comes from him as he slides into the driver’s seat.
“Triskelion,” I instruct him.
“Yes, Sir,” he quickly replies as he pulls through the gates into the city.
When Angelo pulls up to the red carpet in front of the club, a man in a black costume ball mask approaches my door.
“We are offering complimentary masks,” he says, “to provide anonymity for opening night if you would like.”
“If I was embarrassed about who I was,” I step from the car, “Or what it is I like, I wouldn’t have come.”
“Understood, Sir,” he gestures me toward the man waiting at the entrance.
Club Triskelion is a bit different from the rest of the clubs in the city. It isn’t a nightclub or a gentleman’s club. Somehow, Tristan, who owns similar clubs in London and Berlin, managed to secure licensing for a fetish club in New York City.
Bribes.
It must have been lots and lots of bribes.
Opening night has been geared toward various demonstrations, in hopes of enticing more patrons. It has worked, because there is a line around the block of well-dressed people waiting to get inside.
“Your card, Sir,” the bouncer at the door holds out his hand.
Reaching into the breast pocket of my suit jacket, I pull out a black and gold card with the wordsClub Triskelion VIPwritten across the front. Flipping it over, the bouncer scans the back and reads the screen on his podium.
“You’re good, Mr. Botticelli” he opens the door to allow me access to the club.
In the weeks since I have been here for inspections, Tristan has managed one hell of a feat of getting this place ready. Everything looks impeccable.
Unlike what one might expect, there is nothing seedy or desperate about this place. With the mixture of dark woods, light marble, and leather under the dim lighting it looks elegant. Classy. The patrons only further that aesthetic. Everyone is dressed in designer suits and cocktail dresses.
