Page 5 of The Beast Who Bought Me
If you have toaskto get in, you’ve already lost.
“Hey,” he says.
That’s my in. “Hey. Looks like a long wait.”
“Sure is.” He studies me for another beat, then taps something on his tablet. “Going to be a packed night.”
It’s not a rejection. I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t take up much space.”
“You with…friends?”
The way he says that word—friends—that tells me he’s clocked who I am. Reminds me what a terrible idea this is. “It’s just me,” I assure him.
He touches his earpiece, listens for a beat, and then nods to security. The gold velvet rope is unclipped and a chorus of groans starts up from the line behind me.
“Coat check’s mandatory,” he says as I step through.
“Sure thing,” I lie. There is no way in hell I’m surrendering this coat. Not after I went through all that effort to get it. Besides, it’s now the only heavy coat I own, and things have taken a turn for the wintry in New York—not just metaphorically. I can’t chance losing it.
And whoever was talking into the ear of that door guy, they recognized me.
So I slip past the coat check while they’re busy and head straight for the metal detectors that stand at the inner doors. I’m actually relieved to see the security measures, because it means most of the people in Kismet won’t be armed.
Except the Morellis, of course. And they’re my top suspect for who’s picking off my flesh and blood. Kismet is owned and run by Finch D’Amato, husband of Luca D’Amato: the Morelli Family Boss,Capo dei Capi, and the man who murdered my grandfather. I’m in enemy territory, the last place I should be showing my face.
But I have no other options. Tonight is a Hail Mary pass.
I head deeper in and inhale the stifling air heavy with lust, sweat, and expensive alcohol. The sunken dance floor is moving to a slinky, seductive beat that feels hypnotic. The bars on both sides are three-deep with beautiful people, and above us all looms a mezzanine balcony where I assume Finch D’Amato holds court.
I glance up. Is that his silhouette up there near the railings? Is he looking down at me?
Doesn’t matter. The man I need won’t be up there.
I keep my head down and make my way over to the select seating area. And there he is, just as I knew he’d be: Jesse Foster, gossiping and crowd-watching with a group of gorgeous friends, though he, of course, is fairest of them all.
Jesse has dark hair, sun-kissed skin, and big blue eyes the color of the Mediterranean. He’s the kind of guy who spends a lot of time saying “I didn’t mean itthatway” when he absolutely did.I met him a few years ago when I was dipping my toes into the gay scene, terrified but exhilarated. Jesse, already an old hand at nineteen, took me under his wing. I watched him transform from bitchy, scrawny hustler to bitchy, beautiful lapdog over the course of six months. He’s still living the high life from what I can see—bottle service in this section starts at a thousand dollars.
Now I need to pray he remembers me before some Morelli-wannabe catches sight of me and tries to make their bones tonight. I make my way closer and closer until he notices me. His eyes go wide, his cheeks cave in as he sucks hard on his straw, and then he slams the cocktail down right at the edge of the table, making one of his minions grab onto it before it spills into their lap.
He leaps up from his seat, waving his arms in the air, and screams my goddamn name for the whole club to hear. “Caligula fucking Clemenza!Omigod, I haven’t seen you for so fucking long, you little bitch, get over here!”
I started clubbing right after my father died, galvanized by a spirit of seizing the day and all that shit. I quit a few months later when Luca D’Amato took over the Morellis. Partly it was because I could see my grandfather was determined to have it out with the guy, and I didn’t want to end up as collateral damage in a mob war. And partly it was because I lost my nerve.
I knew what would happen to me if anyone in my Family found out I was queer.
So I haven’t been to Kismet before, but I knew it was where Jesse would be. He loves to beseen, and Kismet is where you go to be seen.
I hurry over to him so he’ll stop shouting, and suffer his jumping-up-and-down hug before he shoves one of his friends off the sofa and pulls me down to sit next to him. “Where the hell have youbeen?” he shrieks. “I thought you weredead. I saw the news about your cousin. It’s all over the socials!”
I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out, because all I can see is Louie. Blood and brains and those amber eyes, same as mine, staring and blank.
Jesse takes a closer look at me, then turns to the rest of the group and says, “You all need to fuck off.” A chorus of complaints goes up. “Jesus Christ,” Jesse breaks in. “I can’t believe I even hang out with you fucking losers, you’re so embarrassing, get the hell away from me?—”
The guys leave, more than one with a flip of the middle finger, and Jesse laughs. “These Kismet queers are fucking awful,” he says fondly, and then takes my hand. “I’ve missed you bad, honey. Here, give me your phone so I can take your new number. Last time I tried to text you it wasn’t connected.”
Trying to play along, I fumble out my burner phone and let him use it to text himself. “Now,” he says, pouring out a glass of champagne from the bottle on ice in the middle of the table, “how are you doing?” Those big blue eyes fix on mine. “Really?”
I pick up the glass and drain it. I don’t know Jesse Foster all that well, except to know that on top of being bitchy, he’s generous. He used to pick up the tab all the time, and he always had the best coke—or so everyone said. I never partook. And since Jesse is the first person in a long time to show a genuine interest in how I’m doing, and since I’m not used to drinking and the champagne is already going to my head, I find myself doing something stupid.
