Chapter 3
KATIE
The ground vibrates under my feet the moment I stop in front of the round bungalow that’s been converted into a bar, the music pulsing from behind the closed door.
There are even guards stationed on either side of the entrance wearing sunglasses despite the late evening—just like real bouncers at an actual nightclub would.
“Built last year,” Esma, one of the other maids, bubbles beside me, her eyes practically sparkling as she stares at the door. “The bar and club. It was Mr. Roan’s idea. Before this, the men used to go out to the city for entertainment, but now—”
But now they stay here. Safe. Under Roan’s watchful eye, his control extending even into their free time.
Very smart of him, really. A perfect way to maintain loyalty and keep the estate buzzing with activity long after shift changes in the dead of night.
And more than that, it’s strategic. No one wanders off property, no one gets reckless outside where they could be picked up by cops or worse—by their enemies. Someone like me.
“Come on.” Esma starts up the short front steps, nodding familiarly at the guards.
I shake off my analytical thoughts and follow her inside, immediately stopping in my tracks as the interior unfolds before me. Stunning doesn’t cover it.
Tall, dark wood beams arch overhead, spanning a sprawling open area with low leather couches clustered beneath golden, chandelier-style lights. A wide, polished bar stretches along the far wall, bottles of different liquor lined up in neat rows on backlit shelves.
Several men are scattered throughout in relaxed groups—some leaning against the bar with drinks in hand, others laughing and playing cards in the corner.
A few women I recognize from the staff are also present.
Some perched on couch arms, touching the men casually, while others nurse their drinks and observe the card players.
The door shuts behind me, but I linger near the entrance, cataloging exits and sight lines out of habit. Two closed doors across the room—restrooms and back office, most likely. Maybe storage. Definitely worth investigating later.
If there is a later.
I’ve been dying to get inside this place since I discovered it existed during my first week on the estate, but I knew nobody would answer any of my questions then. Even now they still might not, but at least I’m no longer just a stranger. They know my face.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Esma beams as she heads towards an empty booth.
Following her, I can’t shake this feeling that I’m slipping into Roan’s world by coming in here.
Which doesn’t make sense—I’m already in his world.
Since he returned two days ago, he’s all the maids talk about.
And I let them. Because I need to know my enemy, not because I’m curious about the man himself.
The more I pick up, the clearer the picture becomes.
He’s not just the ruthless heir I read about in that dossier, or the suspicious man who sized me up that first afternoon.
He’s a strategist—the kind who builds clubs inside his estate and understands the value of loyalty bought with comfort and convenience.
Plus, he’s probably generating serious revenue from this place.
Perfect money laundering opportunity for his illegitimately obtained gains.
Very smart indeed, that Roan. Too smart for my peace of mind.
According to Esma’s enthusiastic chatter as we slide into the booth, he has several other projects in development across the sprawling estate. The property apparently has quite a bit of unused land.
Almost as soon as our butts touch the leather, a server is at our table asking for our orders. This already surpasses most Manhattan clubs where you’d need to physically approach the bar if you want service within an hour.
Esma orders a glass of red wine, and even though I’m not a fan, I order the same. I need to keep my mind sharp and my ears open, but walking into a bar after a shift and not drinking would look strange.
“They have the best red wines I’ve ever tasted,” Esma gushes as she tucks her dark hair behind her ears. “Not the cheap stuff they sell outside.”
I nod, though I don’t really believe her. I mean, how good can a fifteen-dollar glass of wine possibly be? “Tell me more about this restaurant and hotel project you mentioned,” I prompt instead, settling in for intelligence gathering.
She grins and rubs her palms together, leaning closer.
“I’m so excited about it. When this club opened six months ago, the hardest-working maids were given an opportunity to apply for positions here.
The ones chosen got a month's training, then were upgraded to club staff. That’s why we needed more maids after—and probably why you were hired.
” She waves a hand at me, then quickly glances away, her cheeks reddening.
“It’s okay.” I smile gently.
It’s no news that I’m one of the few non-Albanians working and living on the estate.
A subject of endless fascination for some of the others.
They aren’t hostile—not yet anyway—but I attract a lot of attention everywhere I go.
A painful reality because being the only blonde here means if I’m caught snooping, I’d be easily recognized, even from behind.
It’s why I’ve been so careful. If I’d known, I would’ve dyed my hair brown or invested in a fucking wig. Maybe I can still get a wig—slip it on whenever I want to dig around, have it throw the scent off me.
Huh, not a bad idea.
“You don’t need to feel self-conscious. You’re a good worker.” Esma pats my hand awkwardly, and I nearly exhale in relief when our server arrives with our drinks.
I pick up my wineglass and take a tentative sip. My eyes widen as the sweet taste bursts across my tongue—rich and smooth, with just enough dry finish to balance it out. Pleasantly surprised, I take another sip, slower this time, savoring it properly. "This is… really good."
Esma’s smile widens with unmistakable pride. "Of course it is. All the drinks here are imported directly from Albania. That’s why they’re superior to anything you’ll find outside."
“Really?” I examine my glass with fresh interest. I know Roan owns an import company that initially brought Albanian tea and coffee to the US market, then gradually expanded into liquor. Naturally he’d serve his own products here to maximize his profits.
The man doesn’t miss an angle.
"Why do you think the men are so devoted to this place?" Esma leans forward, her voice low but animated. "It’s not just about the convenient bar—it’s about the drinks that connect them to home, even for those who’ve never been to the motherland. Like me."
I twirl the glass stem slowly between my fingers, watching the dark red liquid swish and catch the warm, golden light overhead. Connection. A way for these men to bond. That makes so much more sense.
For a moment, I find myself wondering about Esma’s story. What brought her here? Was it choice or circumstance that made her take this path? How many others are like her—tied to a homeland they’ve never been to, loyal to a world they were simply born into? Are they here because it’s all they know?
Roan Permeti, that sly dog. Capitalizing on their sense of belonging. Very Smart.
Damn it, I hate that I can’t stop admiring his intellect.
As if my thoughts summon him, the door opens… and there he is.
Electric awareness shoots down my spine while my heart lurches violently before breaking into a gallop. The wine glass nearly slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers as our gazes lock across the crowded room.
His eyes narrow slightly, but he gives me a slow nod anyway. Why? What does that mean? I quickly look away when the man next to him demands his attention.
“Did—did the heir just nod at you?” Esma asks breathlessly.
“Everyone knows he’s the one really in charge,” I answer without thinking, still a little flustered by his unexpected presence. I hate it. Hate the way my heart is acting so out of control. “Shefi has been taking it easy since his health scare.”
“Shh!” Esma’s eyes go comically wide, and she glances around frantically, looking scandalized. “Everyone knows, but it’s better left unspoken.”
I frown, not understanding that convoluted logic. If everyone knows, that means someone spoke about it, and that someone told someone else, and so on. Isn’t that how rumors usually spread?
Before I can point out this obvious flaw, an uninvited guest slides into our booth next to Esma, shoving her deeper into the seat with the force of his entry. My irritation flares instantly. Messy brown hair, dark eyes, slimy smirk.
Great. Just what this evening needed.
“Hi, beautiful.” He winks at me like he’s God’s gift to womankind.
Disgust curls my lip as I turn to Esma. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Yes–yes, I’m fine.” She pushes herself back into a proper sitting position from where she’d sprawled onto her elbow.
“Oh, sorry about that. Didn’t mean to push you quite so hard,” the unwelcome intruder says, though there’s zero apology in his tone.
Asshole.
“It’s fine,” Esma insists, waving it off.
“Perfect.” He redirects his full attention to me, sliding a glass of something amber across the table towards me. “Want to come back to my room with me?”
I push it back towards him, some of the liquid sloshing over the rim. “No, thank you.” There’s no universe where I’m accepting an open drink from a creep—who knows what he could have slipped into it?
His easy demeanor fades, replaced by an ugly scowl. “No?”
My brows pull together as I fight to swallow the sarcastic definition of ‘no’ building in my throat. “Yeah, sorry. I’m not into—”
He scoffs. “Not into one-night stands? What, you want a relationship or something?”
Is this guy obtuse? “I don’t even know you, so no, I definitely don’t want a relationship. Can you just leave? You’re interrupting our conversation.”
He spares a glance at Esma, who’s trying to discreetly shake her head at me, then looks back. “You’re telling me to leave? Do you know who I am?”
My eyes roll towards the ceiling in pure exasperation. “I don’t give a shit who you are. I just want to drink my wine in peace.”
A flash of movement catches my peripheral vision, and before I can think better of it, I turn towards it. Roan.
He’s pulled off the tie holding his hair up and is shaking his head in what looks like relief, sending glinting red curls bouncing down his neck in mesmerizing waves.
Oh God.
My lips part as I watch him absently run his fingers through those curls while continuing his conversation with the man across from him. His eyes find mine mid-sentence, but he keeps talking without missing a beat.
Fuck, why is that so hot? Why is he so fucking hot?
A derisive snort drags my attention back to my booth. “You have your sights set on Roan, is that it? Lofty ambitions for a bitch like you, but everyone knows he doesn’t fuck the help—which is what you are.”
This asshole’s still here?
My jaw clenches, patience officially depleted.
“I’d rather be the help than a limp-dicked asshole who apparently can’t comprehend the meaning of no.
” I toss the rest of my wine back like a shot, done with this bar for tonight.
I won’t be able to gather any useful information with Roan present anyway.
“You fucking—”
I raise a hand to cut him off. “Yeah, yeah, I get it.” I turn to Esma. “I’m leaving.”
She waves me off. “I’m good here. I’ll be alright.”
I hesitate, but ultimately shrug. Not my business if she decides to linger with trash like this guy. I should’ve just slipped out of the estate tonight to chase leads on my sister instead of wasting my time here.
Maybe I still can.
I get to my feet, and without meaning to, my gaze snaps to Roan again. Several women have infiltrated his booth now, leaning close, touching his arm. Yet he’s watching me.
Always watching.
The sudden hiccup in my chest has me scowling, my eyes darting away as I make a beeline for the exit.
The cool night air hits like a balm and I inhale greedily, the sharp contrast to the bar’s warmth exactly what I need. I nod at the bouncers as their dark eyes sweep over me with casual disinterest.
Finally. Peace.
Beyond the club, the estate is quiet. Night has claimed the grounds, broken only by soft golden pools of light from decorative lamps scattered along the pathways.
I glance around, my gaze tracing the neatly trimmed hedges, the shadowed archway leading to the garden—a garden Esma mentioned is a direct replica of the one Hana Permeti used to keep when she was alive.
I turn onto the narrow path towards the maids' quarters, a shortcut Esma showed me, the pebbled walkway crunching softly beneath my sneakers. Just a few minutes and I’ll be back in my room where I can change and—
Pain detonates across my spine, a brutal, blinding force that rips every bit of air from my lungs and sends me lurching forward. Gravel bites into my knees as I crash to the ground, agony radiating through my back in waves.
What the—
My mind struggles to catch up, shock temporarily locking my muscles, suffocating my chest. Gasping, I twist to look behind me, every movement sending fresh lightning bolts down my spine.
A shadow looms over me—tall, broad, familiar in the worst possible way.
It’s the creep from the bar who can’t take no for an answer.
Shit.