Page 30 of The Masked King

She doesn’t have to elaborate. Gio invited Stella to the family home on the Mediterranean island to witness him delivering his ultimatum. She was his parting gift to our sister. Subsequently, Bianca chose the woman she loved over her own children, and Stella realized that she couldn’t be with someone with a lump of rock for a heart.

It doesn’t mean that my sister is unaware of her former lover’s itinerary though, and I don’t believe in coincidences.

“What’s going on, Enzo?” Stella keeps her voice low. “You didn’t come here to say hi. Is Bianca in some kind of trouble?”

I smile, playing along for the eagle eyes surrounding us. If I deny it, Stella won’t believe me, and if I tell her the truth, she might go back on her decision of twelve months ago and try to find my sister. Safer for her if she stays the fuck away from Bianca Sabatelli.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

I down my champagne and prepare to leave as a woman I vaguely recognize joins us. She’s older than Stella, mid-forties maybe, wearing a white pantsuit teamed with black accessories and black pearls around her neck.

“Sorry I’m late, sweetie.” She leans in and kisses Stella on the lips. “Got held up at the theater.” The late arrival faces me with a well-practiced smile. “Margo Sullivan. I don’t think we’ve met before.”

Margo Sullivan, singer and star of Broadway. She has a presence off-stage that emanates from her like an intoxicating perfume.

“Enzo Sabatelli.” We shake hands. “I was just leaving.”

“Sabatelli?” Her forehead creases as she turns back to Stella. “Everything alright?”

“Yes.” Stella’s smile shines even brighter, only now it isn’t quite so convincing. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Good to meet you both.” I place my champagne glass on a passing tray as I exit the ballroom, avoiding eye contact with the other guests.

Stella catches up with me in the foyer. Alone. Her eyes glitter when she touches my arm to get my attention. “Enzo, will Bianca be alright? I mean… is she safe?”

She still cares about my sister.

“She’s a Sabatelli.” I give her a small smile. “You should go back inside.”

I don’t glance back as I leave the glitz and glamor of the Plaza Hotel behind me and step outside.

I dismiss my driver and tell him to report back the instant my sister enters my apartment. Head down, I take a taxi directly to Tribeca. Without even realizing, my visits to JADED have become as much a part of my routine as showering when I get home and fixing a brandy on the rocks.

I don’t know what this says about my current state of mind, but ever since I was a kid, I always went where my instincts took me, and did what felt right for me at the time. No second-guessing, no regrets. The mindset has served me well enough in the past; I’m not about to start questioning it now.

The same woman is on the door as on the previous occasions. She recognizes me instantly but doesn’t acknowledge my return, and I have no doubts she wouldn’t hesitate to slap a few zeroes onto my entrance fee if I dared to question the process.

Personal belongings handed over, mask and bracelet on, I enter the corridor and head straight for Nyx’s room.

The light above the door is red.

It feels as if someone punched me in the gut. My breathing stutters, my heart beats out a strange tune, and my body starts to double up on itself.

Of all the scenarios I imagined for Brian and Nyx, this wasn’t one of them.

It never occurred to me that she would spend time with anyone else, other men hiding behind fake names, other clients with their own fantasies and their own reasons for visiting a club like JADED. I knew, of course I did. But bizarrely, I’d lied to myself that she was here solely for my benefit. That she might somehow have convinced the woman with the flashlight to ensure that Nyx was free when I arrived.

The red light glares at me like a massive middle finger.

Screw you, Brian. Nyx is behind that door, naked, making herself come for someone else, being the fantasy they want her to be, and probably loving every moment of it.

I glance left and right along the corridor. Several lights are still green, but I don’t check out the names on the doors. I haven’t crossed paths with another patron during my previous visits, which means they stagger the entry slots and ensure that everyone’s experience is isolated, tailored to them to make it unique.

Or perhaps they simply don’t want their guests to communicate with one another. My fee might not be the same as the next guy’s. One client might not get a mask. It would complicate matters if visitors started requesting anomalies to the process because they heard that someone else was given preferential treatment.

I wait outside Nyx’s door.

I’ve no idea how long this might take. Time blurs when you’re inside that darkened room with a faceless voice for company, and no two sessions are the same. But I’m not leaving until I’ve seen her.