Eight
Ciro
Victor drops me at The San Francisco Club. It’s in what looks like an old hotel in downtown San Francisco.
As I exit the car, I pull on the sleeves on my shirt beneath my suit jacket. Sophie is at the door and greets me.
“Good evening, Mr. Marino. Your brothers are already upstairs.”
“Thank you.”
The door seals behind me, muting the street and replacing it with something denser. The air inside The San Francisco Club always feels warmer than it should, thick with perfume, liquor, and anticipation. Nothing here is accidental. Even the lighting is designed to flatter skin and soften edges.
This place runs on consent and containment. Twenty-one and older.
A few people notice me. Subtle nods. Recognition without interruption. The San Francisco Club attracts men who like to be seen, but it respects the ones who don’t need to demand it.
I head for the bar.
“Michter’s ten bourbon. Neat.”
The bartender sets the glass down before I finish speaking. I’ve been coming here long enough that he doesn’t ask questions.
The first sip lands heavy with oak and char, the warmth spreading slowly across my tongue. Familiar. Controlled.
I rest my forearms on the bar and let my gaze move across the room without urgency.
I finish my drink more slowly than usual, watching the room function like a well-rehearsed machine. Power exchanged. Attention negotiated. It’s an all men’s club, but here women exist as company for the evening.
I set my empty glass down and walk toward the elevator, aware of eyes following me but not acknowledging them. The doors slide open with a quiet hum. I step inside and face the door as it rises.
This place has always been uncomplicated. You walk in knowing what you want. You leave when you’re finished. No one asks for more than you agreed to give.
The elevator continues upward. The music softens with distance. I tell myself I’m here for the same reason I always am. Routine. Familiar ground. A controlled environment where nothing unexpected happens.
The corridor on the fifth floor is quieter than the levels below. The music reaches up here as a softened pulse rather than a presence. The lighting is lower, warmer, designed for discretion rather than spectacle.
Our private room sits at the end of the hall.
I push the door open without knocking.
Dante is seated near the glass wall, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, a drink balanced loosely in his hand. He doesn’t turn immediately when I enter. His attention is directed downward.
I follow his line of sight.
He finally glances back at me. His hair is still slightly damp. Fresh shirt. No jacket.
“You’re late.”
“I stopped downstairs for a drink.”
He accepts that without further inquiry. Dante has never required explanations unless they directly affect him.
I take a seat opposite him and pour myself a measure from the decanter on the side table. The room smells faintly of cologne and clean linen. Someone has already been through here tonight.
“Did I miss anything interesting?” I ask.
His mouth curves slightly. “Not particularly.”
The door opens again before the conversation goes further.
Luca steps in with both hands occupied.
The women at his sides are dressed for attention. One in a short metallic dress that catches the light with every movement. The other in something softer, darker, fabric clinging rather than reflecting. They lean into him comfortably, as if they’ve rehearsed this dynamic before.
He greets us with a grin that suggests he’s already decided how his night will unfold.
“I reserved the party room,” he says, turning slightly toward the women. “Go get ready. I’ll join you.”
He kisses each of them slowly, deliberately, not for us but because he enjoys the ceremony of it. Their hands linger on his chest before they step away and disappear down the hall, glancing back once to make sure he’s watching.
He is.
When the door closes, Luca drops into a chair and reaches for a drink without asking permission. He never has.
“Two again?” I ask.
He smirks. “Efficiency.”
Dante exhales lightly, still half-turned toward the glass. “You’re going to burn out.”
“Not before they do.” Luca takes a sip and studies me over the rim of his glass. “You look like you’re auditing the place.”
“I am.”
That earns a brief laugh from Dante. “What’s your plan?”
I consider the question longer than necessary.
Normally, I’d have one. A direction for the evening that requires no thought beyond logistics. “Undecided.”
Luca raises a brow. “That’s not like you.”
No, it isn’t, but my mind is on the blonde in my guest room at home.
He catches me looking. “You zoning out?”
“Just observing.”
One of my regulars crosses the room toward me, her halter dress leaving her shoulders bare, her pace unhurried and deliberate in a way that reads as confidence rather than invitation.
Her dress is cut high at the sides, fabric barely containing what it’s meant to conceal. She leans in, her mouth brushing near my ear as she speaks.
“I’ve been a little reckless tonight,” she says, her mouth curving as she leans in just enough to be heard. “I was hoping someone might step in before it gets worse.”
My body does not respond.
I place a hand lightly at her waist and lean close enough to keep the refusal private.
“Not tonight.”
She pulls back slightly, surprise flickering before she smooths it into a smile. “Next time.”
“Maybe,” I say, and that’s enough for her. She rises and moves on, already scanning the room for someone whose attention isn’t divided.
Dante watches her go before shifting his focus back to me. “That’s new.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“For what?” Luca asks.
“For any of it.”
No one pushes. Dante studies me a moment longer, and then nods toward the hallway. “Office?”
“Not tonight.”
A server appears at the door, discreet and efficient, offering another round. I decline with a shake of my head as I stand. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Dinner at Aunt Rebecca’s.”
Luca groans. “Don’t remind me.”
Dante lifts his glass in acknowledgment.
I leave them there, the door closing softly behind me. The music swells as I move back toward the elevator, but it doesn’t hold my attention.
Victor is waiting at the curb when I step outside, the Escalade idling, headlights cutting a clean line across the pavement. He’s out of the vehicle before I reach it, opening the rear door without comment. I slide inside and loosen my cufflinks as the door closes.
“Home?” he says.
“Yes.”
He pulls into traffic without another question.
The city moves past the window in blurred reflections. Neon from storefronts. Headlights gliding in the opposite direction. The faint echo of music still clings to my clothes, though it fades the farther we get from the club.
I rest my head back against the seat and close my eyes for a moment, not to sleep but to reset.
Her brother’s interest in taking her home registers as a complication.
She offered enough information to justify leaving, not enough to explain it, and I haven’t pressed.
Instead, I extended her stay without a clear reason, aware that she’s holding something back and that I intend to find out what it is.
We turn onto my street, the houses widening as the traffic thins, until the gates open and the city falls away behind us, distant enough to belong to someone else’s life. Victor pulls into the garage and steps out to open my door.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says.
“See you at eight.”
He nods, and I step inside. She’s here. Her citrus smell is subtle.
The lights are dim, the stairway set low, her door halfway down the hall and closed.
I slow as I approach, listening out of habit more than intention.
There’s no sound from inside, no light beneath the frame, and I assume she’s asleep, but I stop anyway, my hand lifting before I decide whether I mean to knock.
It would be easy to justify—a brief check, something practical—but she’s had enough disruption for one night. A new house, a new situation, a man she doesn’t know offering her space without explanation. She doesn’t need me at her door after midnight.
I let my hand fall and stand there a moment longer, confirming the decision before moving past her room, and I go to my bedroom.
I close the door behind me and switch on the lamp beside the bed.
The room looks as it always does, precise and orderly, nothing out of place, and yet the air carries something that wasn’t here before.
Her perfume lingers faintly, not strong enough to announce itself but present, threading through the cool neutrality of the space in a way that feels personal rather than deliberate.
She’s been in here.
I search the room. I open the wall safe, the mechanism releases smoothly. Cash remains stacked as it was. Documents are aligned. The smaller lockbox is untouched, and there’s no sign that anything has been disturbed.
My attention shifts to the dresser, to the arrangement of objects that rarely changes, and then to the bedside table where The Story of O sits just slightly out of line, moved enough that I know it wasn’t me.
I step closer and adjust it back into place, but the shift lingers.
She was curious. She didn’t hide it. That holds more interest than the women at the club.
I turn to the desk.
The file is where I left it, thicker than it should be for something that should have been resolved years ago.
I shouldn’t have left it out. I don’t make that kind of mistake.
I open it briefly, scanning the first page without absorbing it—dates, names, the kind of official language that tries to reduce loss to sequence and conclusion and never quite manages it.
It should have been finished.
I close it again and return it to the safe.
I secure it and then remove my watch and set it on the dresser before stripping down and getting into bed. The sheets are cool against my skin as I switch off the lamp, leaving the room in darkness broken only by the faint glow of the city through the curtains.
I settle back, breathing steady as the house quiets around me.
I don’t think about the club.
My attention returns to Chiara as a presence in my space, and I close my eyes.