Chapter 2
BECKETT
I enter the Waldorf Astoria dreading every step. I hate the masked ball held annually by CSS, but being a member of an exclusive and private society of the world’s elite makes my attendance mandatory.
I brought my own mask—a golden rooster. My friends like to refer to it as my "golden cock," which I don’t argue with. It’s just another thing I despise about the party.
I am not one for small talk or spending time around people who, at any given moment, could become an enemy hiding behind the mask of a friend.
I don't like being in such treacherous company.
I was born into the Chester Street Society by way of my father.
He was one of the founding members who actually lived on Chester Street in Brooklyn.
The secret society they built boosted their businesses and aligned key players with one another in private.
Since then, CSS has grown far beyond its small Brooklyn street beginnings to encompass the world.
Now, the secret dealings behind closed doors and masked parties include all of the world's most successful entrepreneurs, covering up international scandals and illegal enterprises.
The CSS is both good and evil in equal measure.
My game plan for the evening is to speak to the key players and make sure my presence is known.
I’ll stay for an hour or two, then find my best friends and sequester ourselves somewhere out of earshot so we can have a legitimate conversation.
I look around the room, trying to find them.
They also grew up in the society. We are the sons and grandsons of the founding members.
Our membership is obligatory, though I am the only one in the group who doesn't actually enjoy being a part of the CSS.
It isn't that I dislike expensive and exclusive things, nor that I don't appreciate the unspoken alliances, but I am conflicted.
My job is to save lives, to innovate medical science, and to extend inclusive and supportive treatment to people with acute and fatal diseases.
It is a challenge—like a game or a puzzle—for me to figure out how to cure incurable conditions.
I am not altruistic enough to want to save the world; however, being competitive, I expect to heal as many as possible.
Some call it a God complex, but for me, it’s just good business.
The society’s agenda is more self-serving.
The Quatro, as my friends and I call ourselves, consists of Griffin, a lawyer; Cade, a hockey player who plays for the Canadian national team but lives in New York; and Marcel, an investment banker with his hand in every real estate pot worth anything—anywhere.
Technically, we are not supposed to be friends with one another.
The society isn’t for friendship. Its purpose is to align influential people into contractual obligations, forging partnerships that benefit the society and increase our power.
The Quatro is about good whiskey, pretty pussy, and gut-splitting laughter when we can find it.
“Vegan foie gras with umami lentils, truffle aioli, dandelion flax rounds, and lavender almond-crème fraise?” a soft feminine voice asks.
“What the fuck is it?” I whip around to face her.
My brain quickly computes: red mask, red lips, fucking legs for days and days, thigh gap, toned calves. She works out. A lot. She takes an exasperated breath and fills her lungs to rattle off the bullshit little piece of vegan insanity she is offering.
“Vegan foie gras…”
“Just tell me in English,” I interrupt, irritated. But more than that, I am having fun intimidating her.
I may want to create life-saving drugs to end the world's greatest threats—cancer, autoimmune disease—but I am still a complete and total dick. If I can make someone squirm, I do. I don't like people, and the more I am able to push them away, the safer, happier, and more accomplished I feel.
“Vegan paté with flowers, I think. It’s like fancy mushrooms squished up with almond cream and lavender. Do you want one?” She seems to hate it here as much as I do.
“No,” I say abruptly.
“I can get you something with meat in it,” she throws at me like a wad of paper.
“No.” I offer her nothing.
She shrugs her shoulders and is about to walk away. “Okay.”
“This is an elite party. You’re supposed to ask me what I do want.” Admittedly, I’m fucking with her, but there is a list. We call it the smash sheet.
For fun, I want to see if she is on it. We aren’t allowed to ask the servers outright—that would be considered solicitation for sex—however, if she is on the list, that is consent, much like being on a dating app.
Having her name on the list with a red heart beside it is her consent to be approached.
So, I just have to occupy her while I do a little digging into her availability for the night.
“Yes, Sir.” She is suddenly so polite, holding her contempt behind perfectly straight white teeth. “What can I get for you?”
“I’ll have the best scotch they have and two glasses, neat.” I dismiss her and nod to Carl Rueben, a total prick who was a close friend of my father’s. “Find me.” I dismiss the girl without looking back.
I speak with Carl for a minute, catching up on his wife and family, but nothing of true interest. We do, however, have a meeting on the books next week regarding the drug I’ve been working on.
He was my father's best friend before my dear old dad died of a brain tumor last year. Carl is entrenched in CSS and cannot be trusted. He even tried to weasel some of my father’s estate, citing some joint venture that they’d liquified.
It turned out my dad had invested and lost his shirt.
Carl backed off when the paperwork proved we didn’t owe him a dime.
He is shady and does a lot of the unreputable deals for CSS—definitely one to keep my eye on.
My father left me the entirety of his seven-billion-dollar estate and offered nothing to my little sister Maria, his illegitimate daughter.
Her mother was one of the many women my father was unfaithful to my mother with, but she was the only one who had a baby come back and bite him in the ass.
My parents stayed together for twenty-three years, then my mother died of cancer six months before Maria was dumped on our doorstep.
Maria was twelve years old and I was twenty-seven, already living on my own.
I helped my dad with her because she was a pretty moody teen with a lot of trauma to process.
My father never totally accepted Maria, whom we call Mia at her insistence.
She’s done pretty well on her own. She's scrappy and determined and has more of our genetics than my father would have wanted to admit.
I like her but keep her at arm's distance. She enjoys blaming our family and our wealth for all the horrible things in the world. Self-righteous little shithead. She is scrappy, though. I make sure her rent is paid, as it is ridiculously low. It is all she lets me do for her. She is a pretty amazing little performer and has Broadway in her sights. It isn’t a stretch for her.
She balked at the money I tried to give her, so I created a separate bank account that holds the funds for a day when she needs them.
I visited her crappy little apartment once, where she lives with her roommate.
I never met the roommate, but I did see a picture on the fridge of the two of them together.
I still remember the way her roommate looked, wearing a pair of distressed denim jeans and a crop top with a glittery butterfly over which she had painted a red circle with a slash.
Irreverent, just like my little sister. The two of them are good for each other.
Essentially babies—Mia just turned twenty-three and I don't think her roommate is much older; they are still in college.
I stayed for the obligatory cup of coffee and an overhyped Dubai donut, put my stamp of approval on their shitty little place, and left.
It took me four years to finally visit; I am a crap brother.
Red Mask, with the fucking sexiest legs I've ever seen, comes sauntering back carrying a tray with two glasses of scotch, neat.
The woman is wearing a red mask and a black skirt so short all I would have to do is tip it with a crook of my finger to expose her.
I imagine Red Mask wearing a cute thong bikini that shows off her perfect bubble ass underneath.
I have never in all my life seen legs as stunning as the two standing before me.
I take one of the glasses and nod to a sitting area in the corner.
“Follow me,” I order. Since she is serving in the Diamond Room, per the list of available ‘opportunities’ for the evening, I know she isn’t allowed to leave.
The list is provided by the catering company we use specifically because they provide this service.
In addition to having the most beautiful staff in New York, they offer ‘companion opportunities,’ as Satin Catering calls them.
The actual opportunity provided is limited to conversation only.
If the conversationalist wants to explore something a little more X-rated, they can choose to switch to another contract under the same catering umbrella—one that provides escort services.
On the list are the names of the waiters and waitresses, the rooms they are assigned to, and the masks they are wearing. Next to their name is a mark with a red heart or an X. A red heart means the waiter or waitress is open to escort services, and an X means they are not.
When I looked at the list just before meeting with my father's lawyer, I noticed: Red Mask, Diamond Room, X.
I plan to change that.
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