Chapter Fifteen

On Saturday night, Jesse waits for me outside the bar where we agreed to meet. It was smart of me to suggest meeting him, as the last thing I needed was for Nick to see me disappear into Jesse's car and misconstrue this for a date.

Not that I've seen or heard from Nick in two days.

Someone bumps into me as I approach Jesse. The intruder carries on without apology, appearing to be talking to themselves before I spot the pods in their ears. Jesse turns to confront the stranger, but I wave my hand in dismissal. This is New York City. The amount of fucks given by its inhabitants is zero. No one spares you a thought.

It's why I love it so much .

The city itself buzzes with its own frenetic energy, the streets bustling with people even at nine in the evening. The night is warm enough that women leave their shoulders and legs bare in short skirts or dresses. Though a soft breeze sifts through the tall skyscraper buildings, it's not yet cool enough to promise the arrival of fall in a few weeks.

Jesse's eyes turn molten as he drinks me in. A simple black mini dress hugs my curves. Though the hem falls to just above my knees, a long slit on the right side of my thigh reveals a generous amount of bare skin. I kept my hair long and loose while painting my lips a scarlet shade my friend with the same name once told me brightens the green of my eyes.

"Damn." His eyes rove over every inch of my body, stopping only once they reach my lips.

I playfully push him on the shoulder, attempting to cool down his heated gaze. "You don't look so bad yourself." Jesse cuts a fine silhouette in his own navy suit, the first few buttons of his white shirt unbuttoned. His hair is styled to perfection, and the scintillating city lights dance off the sharp lines of his jaw. Jesse's eyes, so reminiscent of melted chocolate, have hardened these last few months. At only nineteen years old, he looks every bit the heir and current Chief Executive Officer of TriTech Corp .

The smile he gifts me is warm and inviting. Ever the gentlemen, Jesse holds open the door and gestures for me to pass through first. Confusion addles my brain as I take in our surroundings. Various paraphernalia decorate the walls, everything from authentic sports jerseys to black and white photos to clocks. Three glass cases surround us: two on either side of Jesse and I, and one directly in front of us. The contents within the glass are as random as the trinkets on the walls. It's mostly jewelry, but I also spot a few coins.

"This is a pawn shop," I say with obvious mystification.

"Well spotted." Jesse's mouth lifts at one corner, and he places his hand on the small of my back to guide me forward. Something stirs in the pit of my stomach at that hand placement, but I ignore it and instead focus on the woman behind the counter who stares at us as though we are bothersome pebbles in her shoe.

"Can I help you?" she asks in a floundering tone.

I take a moment to study her. The woman's outfit, a silk black dress with a plunging neckline and a hem that barely covers her ass, is completely at odds with her work environment. Her straight dark hair falls just past her shoulders, and her equally dark eyes are rimmed in kohl liner .

"Sub rosa," Jesse says. In that moment, his features shift, and a dark aura radiates off of him that almost prompts me to take a step back.

The woman's eyes grow as wide as saucers. "Oh, of course. Right this way."

Jesse smiles mischievously and holds out his hand for me to take. I interlace my fingers with his, searching his face for that subtle change I witnessed. Or did I? Perhaps this is what it means to hold such power as commanding one of the world's largest bio-engineering companies. I suppose one needs to exude a certain type of darkness to keep unruly subordinates and cut-throat competitors in line.

We join our hostess behind the jewelry case and follow her to the right wall decorated with oil paintings. She pauses by one, a colorful image of a boy in blue overalls painting a small toy house with a white dog perched by his side.

"How much did you pay for that?" Jesse asks.

"Twenty dollars," she replies.

"Ah. Your seller obviously didn't know its worth."

She tips the corner of the painting, and the wall sinks into itself, revealing a long, dark corridor ahead.

"We aren't in the business of disclosing that information," she says with an air of snobbery. She walks before pausing and again addresses Jesse. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't," he bites back, his tone just as arrogant. He takes a step toward the corridor, but the woman blocks his path.

"Your name, sir."

The hard muscles of his jaw clench. "I provided the password. My name is unnecessary."

I watch this cold exchange in disbelief. It's rare I find any sort of ire behind Jesse's eyes. After years of friendship, the only occasion I'd witnessed his cold fury was when he thought Nick hurt me.

And now, this moment.

"And yet, I insist," she challenges.

Just when I think Jesse might throttle her for being a nuisance, his face relaxes and breaks into a mocking grin. "Jesse Arnoult." The woman's already pale skin leeches of color. "CEO of TriTech Corp., and this is my club."

It's my turn to look stupefied. Jesse doesn't take his eyes from our hostess, who gulps and nods. "O-of course, sir," she stammers. "Right this way."

I squeeze Jesse's hand to snag his attention. " Your club?"

"I'll explain in a minute." His tone leaves no room for protest .

We follow the hostess, who now walks with an obvious sashay in her hips, down the dark hallway until we are met by two stone doors set back in an arch. She grips the curved handles of both doors and pushes them open.

My mouth parts in awe.

The room is without a doubt, a bar, but unlike one I've ever seen. Glistening, mismatched chandeliers drip from a high vaulted ceiling. Yet, that does nothing but give the space character, along with the leather chairs and couches that range from bright red to dark chestnut. A velvet forest green chair stands out against the circular marble coffee table it's perched next to. The right wall boasts more chairs and couches in various textures and colors, with mirrored windows draped by sage velvet curtains. Rich, dark wooden flooring runs throughout, except for the bar on the left side, where green and white tile replaces the wood.

The bar itself is something to behold, a smooth, polished cherry wood with black leather-backed barstools. The arched case behind the counter houses top shelf liquor, proudly displayed on glass shelves that sparkle beneath the bar lights.

The hostess stares at Jesse and I expectantly, but I don't move. Especially not when Jesse's hand leaves mine and finds the small of my back, and his lips graze the shell of my ear.

"Welcome to Kruptos."

His warm breath on my skin heats my blood, and that forbidden sensation arises, starting low in my core.

"What is this place?" I face him, hoping to quell the growing hunger.

"A speakeasy," he says. "The pawnshop is a front." Jesse's hand finds my back again, and he ushers me forward. We pass several patrons, the men dressed similarly to Jesse in pristine suits, while the women are dressed in chic pants suits and mostly black dresses. They exude a certain elegance I'd never be able to pull off. This place reeks of prestige and old money.

While I've always known his family was wealthy, it never occurred to me that he was rich.

After discreetly handing our hostess several rolled up bills, Jesse leads me through the bar to the back right corner.

"I thought speakeasies were a thing of the twenties, during Prohibition." I say, to ease the bit of tension as I sit on a dark cherry leather couch. The moment Jesse sits next to me, a server appears from seemingly out of nowhere .

"A Negroni, please." Jesse defers to me, and I shift uncomfortably. Aside from Dionysian Frenzy, my experience with alcohol is almost non-existent. I don't have the first idea of what to order, or, for that matter, what I even like.

"Champagne, for the lady," he answers for me. I shoot him a grateful smile as the server nods and answers she'll be right back with our drinks.

"What's a Negroni?" I ask.

Smoothing the lapels of his suit jacket, he says, "it's a cocktail made up of gin, vermouth, and Campari. You can try some of mine."

Jesse shifts so that he's facing me. "And to answer your first question, yes, speakeasies were a thing of the twenties, but they are increasing in popularity again. They are all over New York and a lot of other cities."

"What for? Alcohol is legal. You don't have to hide it."

Jesse leans in then, his fresh scent of citrus and a hint of spice such contrast to Nick's dangerous, musky -

Nope. Not thinking about him tonight.

"It's the exclusivity of it. The secrecy. You can't get in unless you know the password, and that information is not freely given without a price."

Sub rosa. That's what he'd told our hostess .

I shoot him a playful smile. "Ah. You made a mistake, though."

He raises a brow, inviting me to continue.

I lean into him conspiratorially. "I know the password now, too."

"As I said, that information is not given without a price." A seductive smile curls his lips. "That means you owe me."

I swallow nervously. "Owe you what, exactly?"

Jesse's eyes ignite.

"Your Negroni, sir, and champagne for your friend." I jerk away from Jesse at the arrival of the waitress, whose emphasizes the word friend while she eye-fucks him with her own stunning blues.

There's no irrational claiming that consumes me at her sultry expression, unlike the explosive obsession that came when I saw Safira running her finger over Nick's arm.

Jesse, however, hands me the champagne and throws a possessive arm around me, ignoring the waitress completely. She sulks off, and I bring the champagne flute to my lips, taking a sip.

Bubbly sweetness rockets across my tongue.

Jesse watches me intently, even more so as I swipe my tongue across my mouth to catch remnants of the champagne .

"So," I begin, disrupting his reverence of my lips, "what was that painting in the pawn shop?"

"That," he takes a sip of his own drink, "is a Norman Rockwell painting."

The artist is unfamiliar, so I prod. "And his paintings are valuable?"

Jesse shrugs. "They can be. To give you a frame of reference, his last painting sold at auction for forty-six million dollars."

I choke on my next sip.

"The one that decorates the pawn shop's wall is definitely valuable, and either the seller didn't know it's worth or thought it was a fake."

"And you can tell it's real just by looking at it?"

He nods.

It occurs to me then that I have no idea who this man is beside me. He's not the little boy who shared his Oreos with me when he realized I didn't want my own snack. He's not the boy, who, years later, would shakily remove my clothes and touch me like he was waiting for me to shatter beneath his fingers.

Then again, I am hardly the same girl I was even a year ago. Everything that has happened between then and now has transformed me into a woman I barely recognize. I never imagined I'd love anyone as much as I love Nick, and I never fathomed the lengths I would go to protect someone I love. The Moirai warned there would never be anyone else for me, that Nick was mine in this life and the next. But loving him means destroying him, and I will die myself before I let that happen.