Page 13 of A Prince of Smoke and Mirrors (Billionaire Sanctuary: The Heir #1)
billionaire sanctuary iii
NICOLAI ROMANOV
Inside Billionaire Sanctuary, a members-only club with an extortionate initiation fee and an NDA bordering on omertà, a concierge greeted us. A valet offered to hang our suit jackets or any other outerwear we had brought with us through the blistering desert summer weather.
Magnus and Ryan had beaten us to the club by ten minutes, and they pushed through the crowd at the bar to meet us.
“Nico! Finally!” Magnus called.
His odd southwestern American accent had returned, no doubt summoned by Nevadan bartenders and waitstaff. “Konstantin rolled in about half an hour ago, from what he told us.”
With that, my whole body straightened, even rocking forward onto the balls of my toes, center-forward mass. I hadn’t seen my brother for months, though we texted and video-called often. “He’s here already?”
“He’s over by the bar. He’s actually legal to drink in the States now, so he didn’t have to dig out his fake ID and skulk around like a guilty puppy anymore.”
Konstantin had always been too much of a rule follower for his own good, or at least his own fun. “Tell me he’s not hammered. I’d like to actually talk to him for a few moments.”
“Not yet.” Ryan laughed. “The night is young.”
Even though the concierge at the door had recognized me and opened the entrance wide, I still dug my club membership card out of my wallet and presented it to the sturdy brunette behind the desk before I could turn to enter the bar area.
Some members grumbled that the club’s ID card should have the ability to be added to a mobile phone’s wallet app or the RFID chip should automatically trigger an approval in the computer, but belonging to a private club like Billionaire Sanctuary wasn’t about convenience.
The exclusivity and privacy were the point, as was a human being recognizing you and welcoming you in.
The ma?tre d’ examined the black card with a cursory glance. Acting as if I weren’t the sort to belong would have been rude.
Once inside the building, Billionaire Sanctuary patrons were no longer concerned with their own privacy.
Anyone accused of leaking photos should be prepared to defend their honor or face expulsion and lifetime banishment, and that was just the written rules. The tacit reciprocal agreement with every other private club worth membership was the real threat. No other club would touch them, either.
For most celebrities and billionaires, a lack of access to a private club like Billionaire Sanctuary meant the end of any attempt at a discreet social life, so everyone toed the line, no matter how arrogant they were in the rest of their lives.
Social media influencers’ applications were never accepted. People who made their money selling secret moments were not tolerated.
The main bar area occupied most of the Billionaire Sanctuary’s ground floor. High-top tables surrounded the central bartenders’ station. The glowy golden lights were subtle, but the other patrons were easily visible.
Because John’s bachelor party was in town for the week, half the people in the bar were relations of mine within a generation or three.
Yes, my family tree was convoluted, even twisted back on itself in places, but everyone knew exactly where they stood.
In our world, proximity was power.
I looked over the crowd, searching first for my brother and then, without realizing it, for the woman outside dressed as a bride.
Which was ridiculous. She obviously wasn’t a member. She wouldn’t be inside the Sanctuary’s bar, her dark eyes smoldering as her gaze met mine in the crowd.
However, my brother, Konstantin, who was one of the few people in the world to whom I gave any degree of trust, was sipping a lager from a tall glass at the far end of the undulating bar.
With a brisk slap on the back of Harry’s shoulder to signal farewell, I swam through the crowd toward Konstantin.
As I approached, Konstantin saw me coming and leaned forward, his deliberate move revealing our uncle Michel bellied up to the bar behind him.
Damn.
Michel’s gaze honed in on me through the crowd, his pale eyes narrowing as one side of his mouth drew up.
This was my fault. I should’ve texted Konstantin to meet me at the concierge’s desk and removed ourselves to a private room.
Instead, I nudged my way between the two of them, standing between the barstools and leaning an elbow on the bar.
“Michel, you’re here already. How lovely.” I turned my back on him and faced Konstantin. “I’m glad you could get away from classes. How are you doing?”
Konstantin glanced over at me, his teal blue eyes nearly glowing neon in the golden incandescent light around us.
People said we looked as alike as twins, but other than the general familial resemblance of black hair and blue eyes, I didn’t see it.
His bone structure was finer than mine and he smiled more, or so I’d been told.
My face was a slightly busted version of his, or maybe Konstantin was what I could have looked like if a spectacularly talented plastic surgeon had fine-tuned my features.
Not that it was a competition. I was pragmatic and realistic. My life was not a wishing well. I didn’t engage in fantasies and saw no reason to pretend Kostya wasn’t just slightly prettier than I was.
Just like I found no reason to lament that I was not the tsar of Russia, sitting on a golden throne and wearing a crown, surrounded by obscene wealth while my countrymen toiled and starved as I stole the output of their labor to buy reprehensibly useless baubles, and auditioning German and Prussian princesses to be my Empress.
Those days were gone, and good riddance. I liked my life private and unbothered.
Just as Konstantin was drawing in a breath to reply, Michel butted in from behind me. “You’re both here, the Heir and the Spare!”
Konstantin didn’t even flinch, which was sadder than if he had.
I half-turned just my head so our uncle could hear me over the bar chatter. “Knock it off. Nobody thinks that shit is amusing.”
“Oh, come on now. It’s all in good fun.”
“It’s cruel. I don’t care who the fuck you think you are.”
“But that’s not what I meant. We all know that’s not what I meant, right?” he asked, turning to Magnus and Ryan, who’d taken barstools on the other side of him.
Magnus accepted his usual scotch and water from the bartender, but he didn’t look Michel in the eye.
“I know I hate it. Olav nearly beat the shit out of some guy who said that to me last year. He says it’s wishing death on him, and in the old days, he would’ve executed that asshole for treason.
But surely that’s not what you were doing, was it, Michel? ”
Michel glared at Magnus, and I readied myself to intervene again.
The aged rasps in his voice became petulant. “That’s because Olav will actually inherit a kingdom, unlike Nicolai and Konstantin, here, who have been thoroughly deposed.”
Oh, we were not getting into this in front of other people. It was too dangerous for everyone involved. “I said, knock it off, Michel.”
“At least there are accepted colloquialisms for the Heir and the Spare.” He reached around Magnus and shoved Ryan on his shoulder, jostling Ryan’s beer, which lapped over the rim of his glass onto the bar.
“What do you call the third person in line for a throne, the spare to the Spare? The Spare-er? The Spare-est? You know, the third kid, the baby of the family, the oops-baby who will never inherit?”
“So close. You almost got it,” Ryan said, shaking beer off his hand and accepting a napkin from the bartender, who was watching the exchange with a sympathetic grimace on her face. “My aunt calls me the Ne’er, the contraction for never, because I will ne’er, e’er inherit the throne.”
Michel’s laugh sounded like a hearty guffaw, but his tone was mean. “The Ne’er! See, Nico, that’s clever! No one is being demeaning.”
I didn’t even look at him. “Except that he’s talking about his great-aunt Cecilie, who is as snide as she is racist.”
Ryan snorted. “And that’s on a good day.”
Michel signaled the bartender for another drink. “Look, I’ve met Cecilie Zoller. Cecilie Zoller is a dear friend of mine, and she certainly isn’t as bad as all that.”
Yes, trust Michel to make sure that we all knew his acquaintances, even though he was not actually related to them. Connections were everything.
Blood ties were the strongest ties to thrones, but schoolhood chums were second best. “If there’s nothing else you need of us, Michel, I think we have some Le Rosey gossip to catch up on.”
Michel’s smile faltered because I’d absolutely meant the exclusionary dig at him.
His wealthy family had not been connected enough for him to attend the exclusive Le Rosey boarding school before his sister had married my father.
“Yes, well, I’ll talk to you later, then.
We have some important family business to discuss. I’ve invited guests here at eleven.”
I kept my gaze steady and straight ahead, glaring at the rows upon rows of backlit liquor bottles that formed a wall built of vertical amber and crystal bricks. “Guests can’t invite further guests into Billionaire Sanctuary.”
With my peripheral vision, I saw Michel’s head turn toward me. “I’m an associate member now.”
Ryan’s head popped up like someone had screamed his name in his ear, and his eyebrows lowered in a scowl.
“Who sponsored you for membership? I didn’t,” I said, watching Ryan get more and more pissed off.
On my left, Konstantin cleared his throat. “Michel had me sponsor him last year.”
Last year, when Konstantin had been only twenty and not even the first tranche of his inheritance had vested, yes, Michel would have been able to pressure him to do it.
Without our connections, Michel wouldn’t have had the stature for any membership. “Then I suppose you can invite a limited number of guests after all.”
Ryan rolled his eyes and went back to his drink, still frowning, though.