Chapter 3
MAX
I tell myself to stop looking at her. I even manage it.
For about ten seconds.
My instincts keep telling me she doesn’t belong here. Not the way the rest of the girls do. There’s something about the way she moves through the room. She’s too aware of people watching her, just a little too careful. It’s as if she’s cataloging exits instead of faces.
I take inventory of her: pink hair, deep blue eyes, almost too big for her face, and a guarded posture.
Sure, she’s dressed to impress with a hot little body and a ponytail that reminds me of cotton candy.
Everything about her physical appearance screams, I’m a party.
But it’s the subtle cues that lie underneath.
What, am I a fucking profiler now?
Lifting my beer, I take a sip. I’m sitting in a club designed to sell fantasy, drawn to the one woman who looks like she’s actively trying to plan her escape.
Gianni appears at my side without warning. It’s as if he materializes out of thin air. You’d think I’d be used to his stealthy approach by now. “You’re staring,” he jibes, lifting a glass of scotch from a passing tray.
“Am I?” I don’t look at him.
He follows my gaze. “She’s new. Her name is Cassidy.”
My jaw tightens. I think I preferred it when she was anonymous. Almost a built-in reminder to keep it that way.
“Careful. She’s only part of the cocktail staff.” Off limits to any fun and games on the upper floors he means. As if I’d ever do that. He knows that’s not my scene.
I take another sip of my beer, attempting to appear unaffected. “I know.”
But do I?
Gianni founded the Devil’s Playground long before it became a legend.
Back when it was merely a private refuge for men with too much money and not enough anonymity.
He invited me into this world after my net worth hit ten figures, after the tabloids started sniffing around my dating life like bloodhounds.
Every woman I’d dated before this place wanted something from me.
Access to unimaginable wealth. The Paris Hilton lifestyle.
A ring.
I didn’t want any of it. So I came here instead. Not for decadence, but for control. There were nonnegotiable rules in place here. It was a space where expectations were negotiated upfront, and no one pretended it was anything else.
My hunger for sex has always been as hearty as the average guy’s.
That was never the issue. The problem was how my sexual appetite changed after everything else in my life went wrong side up.
It morphed from a hot night of fun to what is now purely a release.
A distraction. A place where I need complete control.
Not in a cruel or dominating way. Nothing like the men upstairs who thrive on power dynamics, ritual, and carefully structured submission. For me, it was simpler.
It quieted the noise.
When my thoughts get too loud, I find a professional. Someone who knows exactly where the boundaries are. A woman who isn’t interested in my name or net worth. One who leaves without asking questions.
The carefree days of tangled sheets and lazy laughter are long gone. These days, intimacy is transactional. Temporary. Nothing more, nothing less.
And yet—
I watch Cassidy carry a tray through the room, her shoulders rolled forward, her eyes scanning instinctively, and my chest aches in a way I don’t comprehend.
Gianni notices. That guy notices everything. “You didn’t come here looking for a relationship,” he says quietly.
“No,” I agree.
“You came here to avoid one.”
Why is he stating the obvious? I finally look at him. He’s studying me with that calm, infuriating insight that built this entire empire.
“Then you should probably stop looking at her.”
I nod.
But I don’t.
Cassidy glances up just then, and our eyes meet across the room. The burning tether her deep blue gaze ignites is doing something dangerous to my body. A heat traveling up my spine that’s difficult to ignore. Fuck. I need to get laid.
She looks away first. But not before I see it. That flicker of awareness. She feels me looking. Something about it makes my dick twitch. Hell, that’s new. For the first time in years, I want more than a distraction. And there’s no doubt this Cassidy is a complication with a capital C.
I force myself to focus on my beer, the glaring red neon exit sign, the design of the artwork hanging near the bar… anything but the pink-haired princess who has suddenly taken up residence in my head.
Thankfully, the boys return from the bar, several holding cigars and joking about who knows what. Probably how impressed the ladies were with the Patek Philipp watch Becket is wearing. That stupid thing is worth like 30 million dollars. I mean, who wears that much money on their wrist?
Sure, I’m loaded, but it’s all invested. Stocks, my home, my business. I’m grateful for the opportunities it affords me. But I never want to be that fixated on my portfolio. It’s only money. It can’t cure cancer.
Or bring back someone you’ve lost.
Gianni slides into the seat beside me with cool confidence, as if he owns the place. Yeah, well… I guess he does. “You look like you’re debugging something,” he says, nodding at my empty bottle.
So much for focusing on random inanimate objects. “Always,” I reply.
Devon snorts. “You ever give that big brain of yours the night off?”
“That’s like asking you to take a night off from being rich.”
“Or from being a habitual flirt in a tailored suit,” Gianni adds.
Becket Ryan raises his glass. “To impossible goals.”
Gianni signals for another round. “So, Max, I’ve got a member here who swears someone’s been siphoning internal data through their HVAC system.”
I blink. “That’s not a sentence that should exist.”
“I told him the same thing.” Gianni laughs. “But he’s convinced.”
“Tell him to stop watching conspiracy documentaries on YouTube and hire a better IT team.”
“Already did. He asked for you by name.”
Of course he did.
Becket leans back in his chair. “Speaking of upgrades, there’s a new cardiology nurse practitioner working at St. Luke’s. Absolute knockout. Smart. Easy conversationalist. Makes you want to schedule a fake heart attack.”
I glance at Dr. Hart, head of cardiology at the aforementioned hospital, expecting him to either throw in his agreement or press Becket for more details. Instead, he’s staring at his phone like he lost a bet, and his bookie is now on the way to collect.
“What’s up with him lately?” I murmur.
Devon follows my gaze. “Third time tonight he’s zoned out on our conversation. And Becket was talking his language.” He chuckles at the reference to Derek’s job. “That’s practically a medical anomaly.”
Gianni arches a brow. “Maybe he finally found the one.” G puts air quotes around, the one, cigar perched effortlessly between two fingers.
Hart doesn’t look up.
Becket smirks. “I give it two weeks before we’re buying him an engagement watch.”
My attention drifts back to the floor. Cassidy moves through the crowd with a tray clutched awkwardly in her hands, as if she’s afraid gravity might suddenly stop working. Her shoulders are still tense, her head slightly bowed, eyes constantly tracking the room.
This girl is clearly not like the others. There’s no giggling. No flirting. No tossing her flawless hair over her shoulder in effortless confidence. She walks like someone who expects to be bumped into. Like she’s bracing for impact.
What the hell is it about her that has me so fixated?
I’ve seen far more polished and composed beauties here over the years.
Hell, I’ve slept with many. Mostly at The Rox, the private residence where some of the women Gianni employs reside.
Or, as I refer to it, the house of ill repute.
It’s basically a member’s only brothel. There is only one reason someone contacts Annalise to enjoy an evening at The Rox.
Entirely private decadent self-indulgence.
I shift in my seat. Does she work there too? I always assumed that servers were only servers until they were otherwise promoted. But had she not worked out, and they gave her a chance working here? I haven’t been to The Rox in a while, but there’s no way I’d forget a woman like her.
I can practically feel Gianni narrow his eyes at my concerned expression before he follows my line of sight again, this time saying nothing.
His silence feels louder than any warning.
I’m crafting something to interject into our conversation to distract him from whatever he’s thinking when I catch it again.
That flicker of pink at the edge of my vision.
She’s weaving through the crowd with a tray balanced on one hand, head down, shoulders tight. I tell myself not to look.
Then fail immediately.
That’s when I see him. A dark-haired man in a three-piece suit heading in her direction.
My gaze hardens. In a sea of high rollers, he’s somehow too polished for this place.
It’s as if he’s trying too hard. He steps into her path, leans toward her, and says something that appears to irritate her.
She freezes for half a second. Just enough for him to close the remaining distance and slide his hand low against her back.
Too low.
My jaw ticks. The rest of my body going rigid before my brain catches up.
I glance at Gianni. But he’s already headed in their direction.
Of course he is. It’s uncanny. That man has a sixth sense regarding anything that transpires in this club.
My eyes stay locked on them as Gianni crosses the room, the crowd parting around him.
Anthony appears at his side out of nowhere, all broad shoulders and silent intimidation.
The man in the suit laughs at something. Still touching her.
Bad move.
I have to physically force myself to remain seated. Because there are rules here. Clear ones. And if Gianni and Anthony don’t remind him of that…
I will.