Page 14 of A Prince of Smoke and Mirrors (Billionaire Sanctuary: The Heir #1)

Associate membership also meant that Michel could nominate new members.

Ryan could warn the membership committee about Michel’s less-than-savory connections.

Once that kind of person gained a foothold in a club, the usual clientele, meaning those with a moral code, tended to resign.

Without vigilance, any club could become an organized crime subsidiary.

The way Ryan’s jaw was bulging as he ground his teeth suggested that I wouldn’t even have to mention it.

“Yes, so they’ll be here in about half an hour. I’ll need both you and Konstantin at that table in the corner over there.” Michel pointed at the darkest table in the darkest corner of the room. “For negotiations.”

There would be no negotiations. Nothing needed to be goddamn negotiated.

I was the head of the house, and Michel was a nouveau riche relation whom I tolerated.

“I’m in town for an old friend’s bachelor party, not business.

It’s a meeting of the Old Rosean crowd. We rarely get to catch up, and we’ll want to see each other, not outsiders. ”

“How very exclusive of you,” Michel sneered and moved off into the crowd.

The bartender set my whiskey cocktail in front of me, and I sucked the whole thing into my mouth and let it burn like brimstone all the way down my throat.

Ryan skirted around the back of Magnus and settled himself on the now-empty bar stool between us. “There’s one in every family, isn’t there?”

“And we brought it upon ourselves.”

“Can’t you cut him out? Your mother isn’t with us anymore. You shouldn’t be punished for her indiscretion.”

My shrug yanked at snarls of resentment deep in my soul. “And yet here we are. Michel thinks he’s the tsar of the family, but the rest of us see him more like a Rasputin.”

“Do you really need to defer to him as much as you do? Your mother has been dead for twenty years, God rest her soul. Your father has been dead for fifteen.”

None of us bothered to add a prayer after mentioning my father.

“Purse strings. He’s the executor. I don’t get full control until I’m thirty-five.”

“Fucking hell, Nico. That’s abusive.”

“You’d think the family trust would’ve had generational rules, but no.” The bartender scooted another drink across the mirror-polished oak bar to me. “It’s only a few more years.”

“Your father always was controlling as all hell, even from the grave,” Ryan muttered.

Konstantin was holding his beer between his palms like he was scrying in its effervescent depths. “Was he?”

Talking about our parents around Konstantin was like mincing between bear traps. “Yes, he was.”

“I guess that’s why my inheritance is tied up until I graduate from college, and then obtain a graduate or professional degree, and then get married. I’ll never see a dime.”

His attempt at a joke let us pretend we hadn’t been talking about his dead parents he’d lost as a very young child.

I clapped him on the shoulder, not quite a hug because we were too Scandinavian for physical affection at our ages and in public. “How are your classes, Kostya?”

“Finance, you know. Monetary policy, capital markets, and valuation. Money moves, and people follow.”

I listened to him expound on what he was learning at Harvard, all things that I had studied, and my attention drifted back to the woman outside, her dark eyes staring straight at me, not fluttering demurely, not flicking to me just enough to encourage interest but then away to look over the crowd, lest she show too much interest in me.

Her unguarded emotion, whether anger or angst, fascinated me.

Why would a beautiful woman—for her slim face and large dark eyes were beautiful, obvious even through that ridiculous mime make-up that brought a chuckle to my throat—be dressed in a polyester-shiny wedding gown and standing above a crowd?

A magic connection like an invisible wave reverberating between us, bouncing in ripples as we spoke and returning to shake me off balance, was a ridiculous thought.

A fanciful belief in mysticism was heavily discouraged in my family. Children were shushed or punished for believing in magic or magicians. Rasputin had been only a few generations ago.

Visions of The Bride’s monochrome skin and gown and those scarlet lips flashed over the gold-sprinkled bar scene as Konstantin droned on about his college classes.

She was . . . interesting. That was probably it. The Bride was outside of my usual sophisticated experience, a woman street performer painted for dramatic effect and standing above the crowd in a halo of white light from a streetlamp.

She was a novelty.

And that was the only reason I was so starstruck.

Right?

I did so want to go look at her again, to ask her why she was out there, why she was painted, and why she was wearing a wedding gown, of all things.

And why fire flashed in her eyes.

The vision of her seemed like a harbinger of new beginnings, but again, I did not believe in signs from God or the universe. I am culturally, soberly religious, as a good example for others. Superstition was not tolerated in my life.

My elbow jostled, a shock that traveled to my spine and neck.

Michel grinned up at me, his closed lips turning his attempt at a smile into a reptilian grimace.

As I looked at my brother, he had Konstantin by the arm, too.

I hadn’t even noticed my uncle sidling up to us, an uncharacteristic lapse in situational awareness.

Inattentiveness like that could get me killed. That lapse should shake me more than an anonymous woman standing on the street wearing a wedding gown, in white theatrical make-up, who’d seen me back.

“Come on, boys. The meeting is starting, and my guests are waiting.”

Ryan’s quick glance was a message, asking if he should do something. I shook my head. There was no reason to make a scene.

Konstantin and I allowed ourselves to be steered toward Michel’s table, where three men waited, drinking clear liquid in small glasses, the bottle of Beluga vodka in the center of the table.

Russians.