Chapter 3

Shay-Lee

Stepping out of my Bugatti, I handed the keys to the valet while checking out the entrance to the four-story building. Compared to many other private clubs I'd been to, this was no different, at least not from the outside. My dad was a member of a few clubs, and sometimes I joined him. Even though he had no plans for me to ever take over his dynasty, he still loved bringing me along, claiming it was a nice way of introducing me into the business world. But the Venetian wasn't a place for business. No, this was a place to get lost.

Yet, there were a few noticeable differences from the other places I'd been to, like the number of armed guards that stood outside the front doors, and that they all wore black masquerade masks with matching all-black suits.

One of them stopped me at the entrance, and while annoying, he was only doing his job. Without wasting time, I pulled out the metal card and handed it to the man. I'd thought he'd clear the way for me to enter, but he was examining me as much as the card.

"If you'll follow me, sir," he said, opening the door.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I followed him while looking around. The place screamed of money, and that was saying something coming from a rich bastard like me. Everything was tasteful, from the murals painted on the high ceilings to the handcrafted wooden furniture to the art pieces hanging on the walls next to the dazzling chandeliers. Interesting since I'd half expected the place to be tacky.

"Wait, where are we going?" I asked the guard as he passed what seemed to be the concierge and led me through a long hall until we reached an elevator.

Rather than answering me, he waited until I got inside. As the doors closed and we started to go up, I thought that perhaps coming here wasn't such a brilliant idea, especially seeing the man's gun tucked underneath his suit jacket. Once we reached our floor, the guard waited for me to step out before doing the same. We were in another hall, which appeared as lavish as the one downstairs, while classical music played in the background.

"Why are we here?" I asked as we stopped in front of big wooden doors with two men standing sentry, dressed in the same black masks and suits. Again, not answering me, we stood silently for a moment until one of the masked guards opened the door.

"Well, I knew it was just a matter of time before I'd see you again," said the handsome, tall man who came to greet me with his arms wide open. "Missed me?" His full lips curved into a crooked smile as he grabbed my arms and gave me a little squeeze. "Or maybe you came to close another debt?"

Nearly two months ago, I came here to pay Jordan's father's debt. For months, Jordan was terrorized by this joker's thugs to pay back the loan his dad had taken from him. When I asked to meet their boss, I was first introduced to some clown named Mike. After having none of it, I demanded to see the man in charge, and that was how I met this maniac, who was currently smiling at me like he just won the lottery.

"How did you know I was here?" I asked, and he pulled out a card identical to the one I showed his guard.

Waving it in the air, he smiled. "I didn't. But my men know what to do when someone comes here with my VIP card." He tilted his head in the direction of a leather couch. "Come, let's sit down."

He made sure to ask his men to leave us alone before grabbing a crystal bottle from the metal bar cart near the window. "Scotch?" He offered me a glass as he sat on the couch directly opposite me.

"Sure."

I watched him fill my glass with the amber liquor. He appeared to be in his early thirties, with tousled brown hair cut short on the sides and deep blue eyes framed by dark lashes that were even more unique because of his thick, expressive brows that were the stars on his angular face. Despite his fair tone, the skin around his eyes was darker, almost like he used eyeliner, and combined with their hooded look, he pulled off those bedroom eyes well. He was one of those people who looked like they either didn't sleep for a week or were simply bored with what you had to say.

Moving my gaze down his body, he definitely knew what to wear—a black knit polo shirt that clung to his juicy biceps and thick pecs, a pair of tailored gray trousers, and a gold necklace that slipped into the deep cut of his shirt, brushing against his light chest hair. The guy was sexy. I'd give him that.

"So, as you were saying, you came here to pay off another debt?" He smiled, exposing his sharp canines, making me think of a vampire. "What are you, some fairy godmother?"

"I never said what I'm here for." I brought the glass to my lips and took a sip. "But no, I'm not here for that."

"Oh, so you came here to see me." He seemed rather pleased.

"Don't flatter yourself. I don't even remember your name."

"Dion. Named after the Greek god of pleasure."

"Oh, right." I grinned, took another sip, and gave him a fake smile. "I remembered it being something stupid."

Leaning back, he rested one arm along the top of the couch and spread his legs, the smile never leaving his lips. "And I remember liking you."

I huffed, mimicking his pose. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Flirt with me. You don't stand a chance."

"Is that so?"

Tilting my head, I locked eyes with him. He licked his lips, obviously intrigued by me. I knew I was fucking gorgeous, and I knew how to use my looks. How to tease men like him into giving me what I wanted.

"Yeah. As I said, I'm not here for you."

"And yet, here you are, in my office."

"Only because you brought me here. I came to sign up for that little club of yours," I said, crossing my legs.

Something sparkled behind his vicious eyes, and he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "Now you're talking."

"Good. So stop wasting my time flirting, and tell me more."

He huffed and shook his head. "Je me demande si tu seras aussi fougueux quand je te baiserai."

"Sorry, what was that?" I didn't even try to pretend I cared that he mumbled something in French while checking my nails. I really needed to schedule a manicure. I hated having extra skin around the cuticles.

"Nothing. I just wondered if you're this feisty when you get fucked."

"Since you're never going to know the pleasure, I'll leave it to your imagination."

Amused by my answer, he stood. "Come, I'll give you a tour."

Pleased I was finally getting what I came for, I got up and was about to walk toward the door when he stopped me with his hand on my chest. "Hold on, mon péché, not so fast."

Mon péché? So I had a pet name now?

"Come here."

"I hope you're not taking me to your bedroom because I meant it when I said you have no chance." I followed him to a different section of the room that was separated by open French doors. He stopped in front of a glass cabinet and waited until I saw what was inside. Venetian masks were carefully placed along the surface of the silk interior. Studded with diamonds, gold, and handmade ornaments, each mask was more impressive than the last.

"This place is called the Venetianfor a reason," he explained while opening the glass. "We use masks to give our customers their much-needed discretion in order to fulfill their deepest desires." His finger traveled over them, stopping above a red-and-gold full-face mask studded with rubies. He paused to look at me, his eyes checking me out slowly and intensely, before returning his hand to a white half-face mask embellished with a golden crown studded with diamonds and delicate lace adorning the hem. The pearl-polished paint was covered in thin fragments that reminded me of an old oil painting.

"You are too beautiful to cover all of that," he said as he placed it on my face and circled me to tie the band around my head. "That's why the Columbina is perfect for you." His fingers tangled with the velvet ribbon until the mask was secured, and he gave me a hand mirror.

The half mask adorned my face, covering my eyes, nose, and upper cheeks. It was impossible to tell who I was, which I guessed was a good thing.

"It's from my own private collection. I don't just let anyone borrow them, but you're so beautiful that I couldn't resist seeing you with it," he said, and it was the first time I noticed the hint of French accent he had on certain words.

"You've got a thing for masks?" I teased, looking at him through the mirror.

"I love authenticity," he explained, hardening his stare. "And people are never more true than when their identity is safely hidden behind a mask."

"So, where's yours?"

He laughed, grabbed the mirror from my hand, and left it on a small table. "How do you know I'm not wearing one right now?" He looked at me over his shoulder with his lips stretched into a smile full of secrets. "Now, let's go meet my Gatti."

The inside of the club looked nothing like the parts I'd been in so far. While the front lobby and Dion's office reminded me of a modern palace, with a gentle aesthetic that made me think of watercolors, the inside had a whole different vibe. Everything was bold and edgy, like a baroque masterpiece—the dramatic lighting on the black walls, the thick red curtains decorating the dens around the foyer, and the stage in the middle of the lavish space.

After watching the mostly naked dancer performing onstage, dancing around a golden pole, I moved my eyes to check out the people around us. Detecting the customers was easy enough, not because of their appearance but because all the professionals wore the same cat-shaped mask that covered half of their faces.

"I assume you've already realized it," Dion whispered in my ear as we passed a female patron and a male employee on her lap. "They're called Gatti because of their Gatto masks."

"If they're all Gatti, how do you tell them apart?"

Half turning toward me, he tapped on the side of his face. "By the color of their mask. Each has their own unique color that suits them perfectly."

Passing the couple, he led me farther into the lounge until we reached a new corridor. "My club has four floors, a rooftop, and a basement." The word basement came with a devilish smirk. "There are thirty-three rooms, each different from the others and tailored to fulfill a certain… taste."

"Taste?"

"Yes, as you know, art comes in many shapes and forms."

"And you think sex is art?"

"Don't you?" He turned the handle on the door and pushed it open, waiting for me to go in first.

I was about to tell him I didn't think sex was art but a primitive act to get lost in, yet as soon as I stepped in, what I witnessed left me without words.

In each corner of the dim space, people were having sex. They were doing it from behind, from the side, a blow job, a hand job. All getting off. And while it appeared to be one big orgy, it wasn't. Each patron was busy with their own Gatto, not minding the company as much as enjoying their own experience.

"Ever fucked around others?"

Feeling Dion's proximity, I turned my face to find him a breath away. Biting my lip, I shook my head. I'd had sex at parties before, like with my ex-girlfriend, but it wasn't the same. Chloe, one of the girls I dated to hide that I was a slut for cock, liked it when people knew we were a couple and therefore was fond of public displays of affection. I only did it for the sake of my reputation, so no one would question my sexuality. The truth was, every time I had to stick my dick in her, it became torture, and it often made me sick. Even though Chloe was a fucking bitch, my inability to fuck had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me loathing having to penetrate others. After we broke up, she spread rumors around school that I couldn't get it up. While it was the truth, I made sure people believed she was nothing but a vengeful, lying cunt, which she was most of the time. Why I had to hide my sexuality was a whole other matter that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with my father's sick personality.

"Want to give it a try?" Dion asked, snapping me back to the present.

I was ready to tell him no, because I had no intention of sleeping with him, when someone caught my eye. To say I was drawn to the black-masked Gatto, who leaned his broad back into the leather chair while getting his cock sucked by a woman, would be an understatement.

My eyes traveled up his strong, long legs wrapped in tight black slacks until they reached the root of his thick, veiny dick that disappeared into his client's mouth with each swallow. Licking my lips with the hunger to taste him, I continued to observe the show, imagining my own mouth being filled with his massive cock. Moving my eyes up his shirtless body, I was mesmerized by his tanned skin, covered with patches of ink that stretched along his sculpted muscles. His head was thrown back, leaving his thick neck exposed, making my heart thrum in my ears.

What attracted me the most to this Gatto wasn't just his appearance but his attitude. He didn't seem to be enjoying the moment. He looked bored and unbothered. With a cigarette tucked between his sinful lips, he inhaled deeply, his chest rising, before blowing out the dense smoke and running his fingers through his short, dark hair. And then, the most fantastic thing happened. He caught me looking, and the force of his dark eyes staring back at me from under his mask made my body throb. When I thought it couldn't get any better, the son of a bitch rolled his eyes. Fuck me if that didn't almost force me to my knees.

A shudder went through my spine as my cock grew rock hard, which never happened when I was this sober. I'd taken a sip of scotch back in Dion's office, but it was nothing. For years, I couldn't get a proper erection without having drugs involved, and suddenly, I was throbbing because of one man's look.

"Who's that?" I asked while nudging my head toward the Gatto, who now had his fingers tangled in his client's hair, forcing her to suck harder.

"The latest acquisition to my collection," Dion said, leaning closer. "The hardest I've ever worked to get a Gatto, but he was worth it." He moved a lock of stray hair from my mask and tucked it behind my ear. "He made more money in his first month here than some of my Gatti make in a year." Dion's lips were now brushing against my skin, nipping on the shell of my ear. "He's my Gatto Nero. My black cat." The title couldn't have suited him more.

With my cock rubbing against my fly and aching for relief, I didn't have to think twice before speaking. "I changed my mind." I kept my voice low yet loud enough for Dion to hear me over the music. "You're going to fuck me after all."

Not wasting time, he slid his hand underneath my shirt and stroked my skin, pinching my nipple while biting my neck.

"Lucky me," he rumbled, sliding his hand down my body until he reached my dick and cupped my hard-on over my pants.

"But not here." I stopped him before he could go any further. "Take me to a private room."

"You're the boss."