Take Me Under (Trustfall #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Anton

B ass vibrated through the underground club, the lighting pulsing in time with the music. Flashes of purple, green, and red sliced through the crowd, transforming the dance floor into something electric. Club members moved with a grace that bespoke privilege, and the air was thick with a heady mix of expensive cologne, sex, and secrets. Inside the building, it was impossible to tell day from night, but the rising and setting of the sun didn’t matter when desires were at play. Club O was always open for business.

I stood just inside the entrance to the main gathering area, a silent spectator to the clandestine world before me. I watched a leggy blonde emerge from a set of steps leading up from The Dungeon, a space reserved for those exploring less than traditional sexual fantasies. She sauntered next to an attractive dark-haired woman I recognized immediately. Having no interest in the blonde, I settled my attention on the brunette. I had a thing for them. Always have and always will.

This one was clad in a short, barely there, black leather skirt. It gripped her hips, emphasizing the curves that would make the throat of any man turn dry. Her emerald silk tank left little to the imagination, the flowy fabric brushing against taut nipples. She met my gaze and winked.

The woman’s name was Amber Hawthorne, heiress to a popular fashion clothing line and a regular at Club O. She’d been trying to get me into bed for the better part of a year. But play with her was never going to happen. Not that Amber wasn’t tempting. On the contrary, her hourglass figure would look perfect sliding up and down the length of my cock.

But I had boundaries, and my number one rule was to never do anything that could jeopardize the club. Having sexual relations with a club member was a risk. Should any of them want more than one night from me, they’d find themselves disappointed. That disappointment could lead to scorn and vengeance. And what did they say about a woman scorned? It just wasn’t a chance I was willing to take. Not when I’d worked so hard to get where I was. She, along with every other member of Club O, would have to look elsewhere to satisfy their desires.

Amber sashayed past me and headed toward the main vestibule near the exit. She paused at the statue of Venus, the goddess of sexuality, and glanced in my direction once more. I took note of the green silicone band around her wrist. It signaled that she was open to anyone interested, and a coveted unicorn to members of the club, there to make someone’s dreams come true.

I looked away, not wanting to encourage her, and entered the posh main area on the ground floor.

Several silhouettes moved on the dance floor to the DJ’s bewitching mix of The Elephant by Lxandra. The lighting in the club was deliberate, casting everything in seductive shadows. Business was slow this early in the day, but I was pleased to see members lingering about. If they were still here at nine in the morning, it meant their night had gone exactly as planned. And as long as the members stayed happy, the referrals would follow.

Membership to Club O was granted solely through exclusive referrals. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Word of mouth was how I maintained anonymity. To the outside world, the historic building that housed Club O was nothing but gated private property. It was just steps away from the chaos of the city that never sleeps, but New Yorkers barely gave it a second glance.

It took me years to reinvent the abandoned 150-year-old French Evangelical Church, which was only the last of many transformations it had undergone in its lifetime. The irony of what this building had become wasn’t lost on me. Once occupied by the Catholic Church, French Evangelical immigrant settlers took it over in the late 1800s. Their pastors emphasized personal salvation and virtue more than ritual and tradition, believing in sexual abstinence and promoting a virginity pledge. Masturbation was forbidden, as it was thought to bring on impure sexual thoughts. It bemused me to think about what these holier-than-thou church folk would say about what had become of their place of worship.

The building had changed hands many times over the century, going from one religious organization to another. After a fire in 1962, the church was abandoned and sold for auction to a man named Jerry Arnold, one of the vilest humans to ever walk the earth. He had turned the marble basilica into what could only be described as a brothel. It was home to prostitutes and their pimps, the walls seeing more abuse than pleasure.

My fists clenched as memories tried to resurface. It was as if a branding iron had seared the images of what once was into my soul. I pushed them back, refusing to give my nightmares any room in my consciousness. Jerry was dead, and the seedy whore house laden with the stench of despair had ceased to exist over a decade ago—thanks to me.

I’d given the old building new life. It was now Club O, the name inspired by Story of O , an erotic novel written by French author Anne Desclos. Like the book, one might consider it a secret society. A person needed a referral to be considered, and only the wealthy elite were permitted access for a hefty fee. The sex was consensual—never bought and sold—and the scents of wealth and power were everywhere, intoxicating and dangerous. Discretion was everything. And always lingering in the charged atmosphere was a silent understanding that this was a space where secrets were traded as freely as the expensive champagne that flowed like liquid gold.

As I made my way to a seating section in the corner of the room, I glanced over at the bouncer standing near the bar. His eyes swept the room for any would-be concerns before settling on me. Rowan, the military veteran who was added to the payroll six months ago, gave me a silent nod before resuming his surveillance.

I sat down at a plush corner booth with my laptop. The stock market would open in a matter of minutes, its bell signaling the official start of my workday. Being the owner of a sex club kept things interesting, but that was only a fraction of my identity. Smart maneuvers in the crypto market was how I’d amassed the majority of my wealth. The digital currency had pulled me out of the gutter, allowing me to invest in more traditional stocks, and making me one of the wealthiest people in the country practically overnight.

“There you are,” said a man whose voice I’d recognize anywhere.

I glanced up at Zeke Kristof, a friend and confidant I’d hired as my personal bodyguard. Our relationship dated back to some of my earliest memories, and he knew every secret there was to know about me. Hiring someone with his background and training wasn’t cheap, but he was the only person I trusted with my life.

“Morning, Zeke.” I nodded a thanks as he set a freshly brewed mug of black coffee in front of me.

“It’s Monday. I went to your office in Cornerstone Tower first. I expected you to be there.”

“I didn’t feel like working there today.”

“I don’t suppose that has anything to do with a certain empty glass case in your office at Cornerstone,” Zeke said with a knowing look.

I pressed my lips together, frowning from irritation. The case Zeke referred to should have had a Brutus Denarius secured within the glass walls. It was a rare ancient coin that had become my obsession for the better part of a year, but my recent attempt to obtain it had been a bust. I may have made my fortune on the currency of the future, but my passion was for the ancient. I was fascinated by it.

“Don’t get me started,” I snarled, turning to look at the stock tickers on my computer screen. I shifted my attention from traditional Wall Street and tabbed over to view today’s cryptocurrency prices by market cap. Only a little after nine, and my eyes were already beginning to burn with fatigue. It was my own fault. I’d stayed up too late, restless and bored with everything around me.

I frowned again, reminded of the prior evening, and how that boredom had resulted in a night with Lisa Wells, a high-ranking staff member to the Governor. I’d gone to dinner at Krystina’s Place, a local Italian restaurant renowned for catering to the rich and famous. I could eat there in peace, knowing that any meddling member of the press would be stopped at the door. Lisa and I had struck up a conversation at the bar after having both ordered a boulevardier as our pre-dinner drink. That one bourbon mixer quickly turned into two, then to dinner and wine, before we ended up at a nearby hotel .

The conversation had been easy, and the sex was great. Finding both was a rarity in my world. Lisa was one of the better lays I’d had in a while—perky, tight breasts and content to let me dominate her in bed. I considered myself an attentive lover, acutely aware of a woman’s physical needs as well as my own. But it ended there. I wasn’t the type to engage in flirtatious phone calls, and I’d never once sent a woman flowers. Bringing a date back to my penthouse was out of the question, and sexual encounters were limited to a single evening for my own protection. I trusted nobody—especially women who only had my wallet in mind.

This was why last night shouldn’t have happened. Lisa was young—too young to understand that I had no desire to be tied down. I kept a tight lid on my past and personal interests, and only a select few knew who I really was or where I’d come from. I was an enigma among the elite social circles. All anyone knew was that I was a wealthy bachelor whose status had rapidly advanced with the rise of crypto. I liked being single and had no intention of committing to anyone, let alone a mid-twenty-something with dollar signs in her eyes. As easy as things had been between us, she’d inevitably wanted more beyond last night. They always wanted more.

“So that’s it then? You’re just going to let it go?” Zeke asked, bringing my attention back to the Brutus Denarius.

I blinked, pushing Lisa from my mind and refocusing on the conversation.

“Of course not. I’m just going to give the coin chasing a break for a bit.”

“What if I told you there was another opportunity to get it?” he pushed.

“I’m not going halfway around the world again, Zeke. Unless you have a local connection?—”

“I do. ”

My curiosity piqued, I closed the laptop and leveled my eyes with his.

“You have my attention. Go on.”

Rather than answering, he slid a piece of paper across the table to me. It was a computer printout of a news article. It was dated five years ago, but the top was cut off and I couldn’t tell the name of the publication. Picking it up, I began to read.

“Excavations are always ongoing around the Forum. However, for Dr. Martinelli, this particular dig is personal. The Oxford grad was candid when we visited the site, reminding us how heated the debate is about the burial place for Cleopatra and Mark Antony. Martinelli believes their ashes were buried in the Forum, a point of great contention amongst historians, and he was no stranger to receiving ridicule and harsh judgments from his peers. In 1988, the distinguished archeologist was rumored to have found a collection of Roman coins inside an ancient jug in Greece. The Brutus Denarius is said to have been among them. Experts would normally study such findings before sending the rare coins to a museum for historical preservation, but those familiar with the situation say they were never turned over.”

“Other than the mention of the Brutus Denarius, I’m not sure why this is relevant. The article is over five years old.”

“The article also mentions a person of interest, Dr. Martinelli, an Italian archeologist. If the rumors are true, and he actually has a collection of rare coins, it might be easy to find out. He’s supposed to attend this year’s Met Gala.”

“And when is that?”

“Today. ”

“Fuck, Zeke. Today? I might be on the Forbes Top 100, but even I’m not that good. It’ll be hard to gain entrance at this late hour.”

“As it so happens, I already made a few calls to do exactly that. Alexander Stone had the connection I needed. Consider yourself on the guest list.”

I raised an eyebrow. Alexander was a high-profile club member. He and his wife were darlings of social media, influencers, and tabloids. He was one of the richest men in the country and was heavily involved in real-estate investments. He had offered me advice on ways to diversify my money and, over time, I’d begun to consider him a friend.

“You’ve been a busy guy this morning, haven’t you?”

“It was nothing,” Zeke said mildly.

“Are you going to put on a tux and come with me?”

“No can do, boss. I was only able to secure a single reservation. Besides, I have background checks to run if we hope to increase the security staff as planned.”

I shook my head, annoyed that more hiring was necessary. Rumors about the club’s existence had begun traveling within circles I didn’t like. That was all thanks to a nosy reporter, Mac Owens, who was obsessed with finding every bit of dirt he could on Alexander Stone. So far, the rumors were only whispers. Thankfully, we’d managed to feed Owens false information that led him away from the trail. But the damage had been done. It didn’t matter that Owens had no proof of the club’s existence. He’d insinuated enough in his reporting to perk the ears of anyone familiar with the lifestyle. Increased attempts at falsifying membership credentials had forced us to beef up security for the safety of our existing members.

“I wouldn’t be caught dead at the Met Gala if it weren’t for this coin. You know that, right? Too many fucking cameras.” I paused and shook my head. “God, I hate paparazzi.”

“Don’t I know it,” he said with a hint of arrogance that had me raising a brow. “That’s why I also arranged it so you can skip the red carpet. A service door will be left open for you. You can slip in and avoid the worst of the pomp and circumstance.”

With a sardonic smile, I leaned back in the booth and crossed my arms.

“I suppose you’ll be asking for a raise soon.”

Zeke tossed me a lopsided grin. “Only if you’re offering.”