2. Aaron
CHAPTER 2
AARON
" S o you're taking me to an unknown location outside the city, and I can't ask any questions?" Dom's sigh is deep, tinged with frustration at my refusal to share details. His hand rakes through his curly black hair, now grown longer since the last time we saw each other. The curls hang past his ears, giving him an edge that suits him more than it should.
Dom's always been able to pull off the disheveled look effortlessly. He thrives on spontaneity, rarely adhering to schedules or routine. Me? If I miss a barber appointment, my mood sours for days. Control is everything to me—every detail, every outcome. That’s why tonight is a gamble, a deliberate play with fire. I need to keep my life and business under my thumb, my hands on the levers of control. No surprises, only calculated moves.
Just the way I like it.
And that’s precisely why I can’t tell Dom the details of tonight’s meeting. The non-disclosure agreement I signed before the first conversation made sure of that. These people operate in shadows, where trust comes with sharp edges, and broken promises come with consequences that seep out slowly. Even if I walk out tonight without a deal, silence will be my only option. I’m convinced these men find pleasure in blood drawn slow.
Yet, here I am, pushing forward. It’ll likely end badly—parts of it, at least—but if I’m ready, I can stay ahead of their game. Control the fallout. Harden myself further. Hard times build stronger men.
Everyone knows that.
“That’s right. No questions. Just go with the flow tonight and let’s see if we can get into some trouble, like old times,” I say, my tone lighter than I feel.
Dom’s eyes narrow before his lips twitch, the familiar grin breaking through. His shoulders drop, tension easing. He glances out the limo window but soon turns back.
“I just like being in the know. Hate that you’re keeping secrets from me now,” he mutters.
“It isn’t personal,” I reply, and he rolls his eyes but lets it go.
I’m doing it to protect you.
But saying that would only spark more questions, and I don’t have the patience for answers tonight. I need to meet Tristan, check the paperwork, and maybe explore a room or two.
The New York City lights are behind us as we drive deeper into darkness. Soon the limo turns driving near the water’s edge when the abandoned hotel comes into view. Its weathered facade and boarded-up windows make it look like a relic from another era, a ghost of its former grandeur. The building is old and shrouded in an eerie silence, with vines creeping up the walls and cracks marring the brown stone exterior.
I steal a glance at Dom, who’s raising an eyebrow at the scene. Snow dusts the ground, remnants of yesterday’s fall, but tonight the sky is crisp and clear, windless—a deceptive calm. If I believed in omens, I’d take this as a sign to turn back. But I stopped pretending to be good a long time ago.
Good men don’t climb to the top. They don’t seize power overnight. The world belongs to the ruthless, to those who twist the game to their favor. I chose that path early on, vowing I’d never be their prey. I’d beat them, and I’d do it better.
Dom steps out the moment the limo stops, striding toward the back of the hotel while I linger, waiting for the driver to pull away. I know what’s back there—a sprawling, dead cornfield and beyond it, the skeletal remains of an amusement park, rusted rides and empty carts frozen in time. No one has reclaimed this space; it’s as if this part of the city has been marked, off-limits. Maybe it’s a sign of just how powerful these people are.
I push open the heavy wooden door after scanning my card on the reader. Dom’s footsteps crunch on the pebbles behind me, catching up.
The air inside is thick with dust, layered with mildew and something else—a hint of the life hidden behind these walls. The lobby is dim, a shell of grandeur dulled by neglect. Our steps echo against the worn red carpet as we approach the staircase. The stillness presses down on me, but I know we’re not alone.
If this guy thinks I enjoy mind games, he’s got another thing coming.
“Okay, what the fuck is this place, Aaron? I’m all for spooky shit, but I feel like we’re about to get jumped.” Dom’s eyes shift warily.
I smirk. “What’s the matter, big guy? Scared?”
“Get fucked,” he shoots back, but I catch the edge in his voice.
Dom’s not a small man—never has been. Six-five and carved from the kind of muscle that makes people step back. He’s not your average hockey player, that’s for sure. I see the way women gawk at him, even straight men wouldn’t kick him out of bed.
I remember the way my sister used to look at him. That memory makes me angry for some reason.
His dual-colored eyes—one a piercing blue and the other a light hazel brown—make him stand out in any room. The tattoos and dark wardrobe complete the image, but right now, I see it: the unease. I can't help but laugh as I realize he might actually be uncomfortable.
“Listen, you might have a death wish, but I just got signed to play for my top team. I’d like to wake up tomorrow. Let’s go,” Dom says, turning to leave. I reach out to grab his arm, feeling the tension coiled beneath his jacket. “Trust me, Dom. One night. Then we’re out.”
Dominik Lewis, who usually faces everything with unflinching confidence, is out of his element for once. The thought of him, with his imposing build and tough-guy image, being scared is entertaining.
He looks at me for a beat, eyes searching mine, before exhaling sharply. “Fine. But if I get stabbed or some shit, I’m haunting you.”
I grin, my own nerves coiling tighter as we ascend the grand staircase. The groan of old wood under our weight is a harsh reminder of how fragile this facade really is. The air shifts, carrying faint whispers and the thrum of bass so low it’s almost imperceptible. The hotel’s secrets hum around us, waiting.
“It’s meant to look abandoned so if anyone breaks in, they’ll turn around. Unless they’re here for a reason,” I wink at him.
Dom pauses, crossing his arms when I don’t continue. “What reason?”
I straighten my already smooth jacket. “The same reason you collect and play with masks.”
“Oh fuck,” he mutters.
At the top of the stairs, two doors stand sentinel, imposing in their faded elegance. One swings open before we reach it, revealing a man in a tailored suit, sharp lines matching his expression.
Tristan.
His dark eyes settle on me, then flick to Dom with a momentary smirk.
“You brought company. And you’re late,” Tristan says, voice smooth but laced with an unspoken warning.
Glancing down at my watch, I take note of the time. I’m actually early.
Don’t defend. Ignore and offer silence. Always remain in power.
I wait for Tristan to meet us at the bottom of the stairs.
He called this meeting. He can come to me.
“This is Thomas. He’s with me. I brought him for some potential after-business fun, depending on how our meeting goes.”
Tristan’s lips form into a ghost of a smile as his eyes narrow, calculating. “Interesting choice.”
Whatever the fuck that means.
Dom bristles but stays silent, his gaze fixed and unreadable. He’s good at that, at hiding behind a wall of bravado when he feels cornered. But I know better. I can sense the way his muscles are bunched, ready for a fight.
“This way,” Tristan gestures, leading us down a corridor that pulses with an undercurrent of energy. The walls are lined with mirrors, each reflecting fractured images of ourselves, distorted and ghostly. It’s disorienting, like walking through a kaleidoscope that shifts and bends reality.
Tristan stands roughly my height, around six-foot-two, his broad frame clad in a tailored suit that fits him like a second skin. The expensive fabric highlights his muscular build, each movement deliberate and smooth. Coppery-brown hair, perfectly styled and trimmed, frames his sharp features. Pale green eyes lock onto ours, unflinching and calculating. He’s symmetrical and undeniably handsome.
He reminds me of myself.
We ascend the stairs and continue down a narrow hallway where faded, peeling wallpaper exposes patches of bare plaster beneath. The dim lighting casts long, wavering shadows, making the place feel like a haunted house in December.
At the end of the corridor, Tristan stops before a nearly invisible black door and pushes it open, motioning for us to enter. Stepping inside feels like walking into a different world. The room is a stark contrast to the dilapidated hotel exterior—a modern, opulent space illuminated by a grand chandelier casting a warm, golden glow. A long table dominates the room, its surface embedded with sleek screens.
“Mr. Lewis, please, take your time exploring what’s on the table while Mr. Jackson and I have a brief discussion in the next room,” Tristan says smoothly, watching for our reaction.
I had given Dom a fake name, but Tristan knows exactly who he is. Seems like he’d been watching long before he greeted us.
Fuck.
Dom’s eyes meet mine, full of silent warnings. He doesn’t trust Tristan. Neither do I.
Tristan’s lips curl into a knowing smile as if he’s read every unspoken thought between us. He’s good.
Too good.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, nodding to Dom in what I hope is a reassuring manner.
Dom remains rooted, eyes scanning the room and the screens on the table, refusing to move until I disappear through the hidden door with Tristan.
The moment the door clicks shut, a cold realization grips my stomach. This could be a trap. I’ve underestimated Tristan, and worse, I’ve brought my best friend into this tangled mess. What the hell was I thinking?
It’s too late to turn back.
But it’s never too late to strategize.
Stay sharp. You’re still in control.