Page 36 of Asher Black (The Five Syndicates)
That’s worse!
“Does your family know this is fake?” I gesture back and forth between us.
He nods. “They know everything.”
Everything?!
Memories of Asher’s fingers in me, his lips sucking on my clit, flood through me. I wince, hoping they don’t know about what happened in the alley that night.
Chapter Eleven
Being deeply loved
by someone gives you
strength, while loving
someone deeply gives
you courage.
Lao Zi
The drive to the restaurant is a short one. We go straight from the underground private garage of the penthouse building to the underground garage of the restaurant’s building. I never even breathe in the New York air.
Asher opens the door for me, offering me a hand that I proudly refuse. I’m a 21st century woman, damn it. I can get myself out of a damn car. Instead of his hand, I use the door to help me up and accidentally press one of the buttons near the door handle. As soon as it happens, wheels pop out of the bottom of the door.
My eyes widen at the bizarre sight. “Did your car just grow wheels?!”
“They’re there in case the car is halted during a shootout.” He ignores my sharp intake of breath. In my defense, the idea of needing protection from a shootout is so foreign that it’s outlandish. “The door can be removed from its hinges, and we can hide behind the bulletproof door while we move somewhere safer. The wheels are there so we don’t have to carry the door.”
That’s… genius.
But also ridiculous.
A shootout?!
Asher presses the button again, and the wheels slide slowly back into the car door. He offers his arm to me, and I place my hand on the crook of his elbow, worried that if I don’t accept his help again, something might grow out of him, too. Like maybe horns from his temples or a devil’s tail.
We’re led into the restaurant by the maître d, who calls Asher “Mr. Black” and me “Ms. Ives” without any introductions needed. How he knows my name, I have no clue. He takes us from the private underground garage into a private room. Asher’s guards, who accompanied us in the front seat of the town car, station themselves at the door—one outside and one inside.
I take in the room. It’s a large room, but there’s only one table in it, a fancy ovular table with four place settings made up. On one wall is glass, stretching across the expanse of the entire wall. On the other side of it is the kitchen, though I assume the glass is one way, because the kitchen staff don’t seem to realize that we’re on the other side.
I’m shocked to see the guy from my first night at Rogue—Bastian, I think—there, talking to what looks like the head chef.
Asher’s eyes follow my line of sight. “He’s my manager.”
My manager.
Boss.
My mind quickly pieces everything together.
Asher owns L’oscurità. Bastian is the manager. That’s how Bastian works for him.
When we’re seated beside one another, waiters arrive and pour us wine without taking our orders. Once they leave, Bastian enters the room with an older man, probably in his late forties. They’re both dressed in suits, walking into the area with confident body language. Asher said we’re meeting up with his family, but I notice that neither Bastian nor the man look anything like Asher does.
Asher stands up and hugs the man tightly. Seriously.
