Tall and broad, a beast with glacier blue eyes, Ben Wylder is a feared mob boss and the owner of a very special club. One where the filthy rich come to find their next hookup. No drama. No publicity. Just consenting adults sharing a good time, then parting ways. All in total discretion. One night, a woman walks in that Ben’s not about to let any other man satisfy… He’s got to have her!
Assi Mbaye is a self-made woman. Billionaire at twenty-five, she’s a brilliant businesswoman with awful taste in men. Now thirty-five years old, Assi has two divorces under her belt and avoids men like the plague. After an entire year of celibacy, her friends decide what she needs is a good shagging and drag her to Ben’s club, with the promise of a wild night.
My eyes fall on the busted knuckles of my right hand, the torn flesh dripping with blood. I pull a handkerchief out of my pocket, securing it around my fist. A faint throbbing courses through my hand. From experience, I know the sharp pain will follow. My gaze lifts to the man tied to a chair in front of me. His face is bloody and swollen, beaten to a pulp. One eye closed shut under his puffed up lids, the other one bloodstained and gleaming with tears.
“Please, I’m begging you,” he gurgles in a barely audible voice, mouth pooling with bloodied saliva.
I spare him a disgusted glance before nodding to my right hand man, Conor. No words needed. Conor throws his own chin lift to the two men standing guard by the door, and they drag the piece of shit out of my sight.
“No, please! Don’t kill me! Please, Mister Wylder!” The scumbag manages to shriek out as my goons drag him away, chair and all.
“Wait,” I stop them, my voice coming out low and menacing. Dragging my handmade Italian leather loafers till the shiny points reach the front legs of the chair, I bend at the waist, push away the lapels of my Armani jacket to stuff my hands in my pockets and whisper in his face: “no one’s getting their hands dirty ending you, shitbag.” The tiniest twinkle of hope lights up his barely open eye. “You’re banned from my club and if I were you, I wouldn’t bother trying somewhere else. Word spreads fast in our world.” He nods frantically. “Do not run away. You stay in town, where I don’t need to twist my neck to keep an eye on you.”
“Yes, Mister Wylder,” he rushes to agree. Tears of relief falling down his bruised face.
“If I ever find out you’ve hurt another woman, I don’t care if she fucking cut your fucking dick off, you’re gone.”
Asshole bobs his head so fast, he’s giving me a headache. I shake my head in disgust and flick my wrist, signaling they can drag him out.
“Thank you, Mister Wylder! Thank you so much! It will never happen again…” his voice fades away as my men take him out of my private “office” in the basement.
I look around, fucking pissed off. I’m definitely in the wrong line of business: fucking forty years old and still doing thug work? Fuck this shit! I turn to Conor. “We’re fucking closing the club. I’m done dealing with this shit. Too much headache.”
“You sure, boss?”
“I’m bleeding money through the nose with this place, Con’. No one fucking follows protocol, and these rich motherfuckers think they can do whatever the fuck they want. I’m done, man.”
He rubs his chin, intelligent eyes observing me closely. “Maybe turn it into something else? Something more profitable and with less liability.”
“I don’t know, boss. Why do people come here? What are they looking for?”
I shrug. “A good time. A great fuck. Discretion.”
“Exactly. What if they could still get all that, but without anyone being in a position of power. No middle man needed, just consenting adults in a judgment free zone. They meet, come to an agreement, fuck each other’s brains off. Done. All we do is offer the venue and guarantee their safety and confidentiality.”
Asshole’s on to something… “I’ll think about it. Now go grab me the pharmacy box before my hand gets infected.”
Con’ chuckles on his way out, giving me a salute. “Yes, sir.”
I shake my head, grinning. Fucking wise-ass.