1. Enzo
Two years Ago
Competition. Recruitment. Escape.
These are the reasons I find myself stepping into a Detroit club on a Friday night, far from the familiar streets of Chicago.
Tonight isn’t about pleasure. It's about perspective. I need to see how other gentlemen’s clubs pull in their clientele, scout dancers who could shake up my rotation back home, and, more than anything, I need to breathe.
Leaving my city, even for a day or two, lifts the weight that comes with my name.
Here in Detroit, the air feels different.
Somehow it’s cleaner, untouched by the expectations and shadows of my world.
Away from the all-seeing eyes of my city, I can exhale, clear my head, and, for a little while, be more human than machine.
Here, I’m not the Don of the Marchetti Syndicate, the man who commands empires and stirs fear. In this city, I’m just Enzo. Nothing more, nothing less. And for now, that’s exactly what I need to be.
My second in command and cousin by blood, Lars, steps out of the car first, circling around to open my door.
The sleek black Mercedes idles at the entrance of Sparks, the club we chose to scope out tonight.
Word of it has made its way to our circles in Chicago, and we’re here to see what sets it apart.
I adjust my black jacket, smoothing the cuffs of my crisp button-down as they peek from beneath my sleeves.
The Rolex on my wrist catches the dim light as I glance at the doorman, who gives a sharp nod before holding the door open.
Music hits us at once, a steady pulse vibrating through the dim entryway.
We stride toward the front desk, settle the cover charge, and request a direct route to the VIP section. The hostess barely glances up from her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen, but moments later, a server appears, seemingly conjured from the shadows.
She’s stunning, long legs balanced on stilettos that must make an eight-hour shift a nightmare. A black corset hugs her figure, her makeup is flawless, and waves of dark hair cascade over her shoulders. But it’s her smile that stands out. Effortlessly sweet, professional yet inviting.
“I’m Lauren, and I’ll be your guide to your experience here at Sparks,” she says warmly. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your table.”
Lars flashes one of his signature smiles. “Thank you, Lauren. Lead the way.”
She guides us down a subtle ramp that skirts the main floor, the layout catching my interest. The VIP section is tucked away in a private space where it’s accessible yet distinct, offering a perfect balance of exclusivity and connection to the main floor.
From here, patrons have a clear view of the central stage, yet their tables sit in deep shadows, offering just enough privacy.
At the heart of the room, a dancer moves languidly around a pole on a smaller side stage. Every motion commands attention without disrupting the intimacy of the space. Clever design.
We settle into our seats and quickly order drinks. Bottle service isn’t on the agenda tonight; that’s for tomorrow. Tonight is about recon—get in, observe, and get out.
For the past two years, Lars and I have taken trips like this every other month, a ritual to keep us sharp.
The Monarch, our club back in Chicago, has solidified itself as the city’s most exclusive gentlemen’s club, but this industry is ruthless.
Dancers chase whispers of better clubs, wealthier clientele, management that promises the world.
To stay ahead, you have to step outside your bubble, learn what others are doing right, and adapt.
Lauren returns with our drinks, her timing impeccable. I pull my card from my wallet to open a tab as she sets a vodka soda in front of me and a scotch with a single ice cube in front of Lars. He thanks her, then leans back in his chair, surveying the room.
“This place lives up to the hype,” he muses, his gaze tracing the interplay of shadows and light.
I squeeze a lime wedge into my glass, the tart scent mingling with the faint trace of smoke in the air. “It’s solid. The layout is genius.”
Lars smirks, nodding toward the floor. “We should get a few dances. Let them know we’ll be back tomorrow. After that, I’m ready to call it a night.” His eyes sweep the room again, the ambient lighting catching the deep burgundy of his suit and the polished sheen of his leather loafers.
“You’re getting boring in your old age.” I scoff.
He snaps his attention to me. “I’m 34, only two years older than you, asshole.”
“Exactly. Old,” I say, lifting my drink with a smirk. But my words fade as I spot a tall blonde in red lingerie, stepping onto the side stage.
“She looks like your type.” I nod toward the center of the room.
His gaze follows mine, locking onto her as she moves confidently onto the podium. “Yeah, she’ll do just fine.” He straightens, pulling out his wallet and sliding a neat stack of twenties onto the table. Fishing out three, he grins. “I’ll be back.”
I watch him stride toward her as a new song kicks in. Lars has always had a thing for blondes. Me? I prefer the rare combination of dark hair and light eyes.
I shift my focus back to the room, scanning the glow and shadows of the main floor.
The lights pulse gently over the tables, and then one woman catches my attention.
She moves through the crowd with quiet confidence, owning the space without needing to announce it.
Petite, brunette, with a killer figure and just the right touch of maturity. Absolute perfection.
She weaves effortlessly through the maze of chairs, stopping now and then to chat with different men, her smile warm and practiced.
“Is there anything I can bring you?”
Lauren’s voice breaks through my thoughts, drawing my attention back to the table.
I glance up, then gesture subtly toward the brunette in pink, still moving through the room. “Her. Can you ask her to come see me, please? The brunette in pink.” I slip a twenty into Lauren’s hand.
Her professional smile never falters as she tucks the bill into her pocket. “Certainly.” With a pivot on her stilettos, she vanishes into the crowd.