“God, thanks for coming.” Payton leapt to her feet, and in four quick strides, reached me. She th
rew her arms around my shoulders and squeezed.
“Are you all right?” When she nodded, I added, “Are they holding you? Have you been charged with anything?”
“No, not me. Just questions.” She straightened. “I’m glad you’re here.”
We hadn’t been close growing up. I’d had pressure coming at me from all sides, and if I was honest, it pissed me off how differently our parents treated us. I’d resented Payton for how she did whatever she wanted. Mom and Dad acted like I was the better child. The smarter one, but the reality was Payton was more intelligent. She’d figured out how to brush off our parents’ disapproval nearly a decade before I did.
Things shifted between us last year when I moved back to Chicago. We’d forged slowly into new territory, getting to actually know each other. She’d let me siphon friends from her, too. The move home from New York had been difficult. Why was it so hard to meet people as a single guy at thirty?
Payton dropped into the chair and gestured to the one opposite her. “You’re going to want to sit for this.”
I lowered into a seat. “What’s going on?”
“Can we talk freely in here?”
“They can’t record your conversation with counsel.” What the hell had she gotten into?
She pressed her lips together, but then gave a slight shake of her head, surrendering. “The wine club I sometimes work at . . . it’s a front. The place is actually a high-class brothel.”
What?
I couldn’t . . .
My mind was pure confusion. “This isn’t Nevada, it’s Cook County. Prostitution is illegal.”
“Yup.” It seemed like she was watching my reaction intently, and her expression was guarded. “My job is to negotiate the purchase price between the clients and the girls.”
Emotions clashed inside me. Horror Payton worked at an illegal whorehouse. Relief she wasn’t one of the girls. “So,” I tried to assemble the words and floundered. “You aren’t the one sleeping with clients for money?”
“No, no. Not anymore.”
The room went still.
What the fuck did she mean?
Payton combed a hand through her hair, pushing it back off her face, and leaned forward on the tabletop. Her expression hardened. “I like money, and I like sex, and I’m really fucking good at it. So, yeah, I was an escort for a while, and I don’t regret it.” She straightened, and defensiveness flashed in her eyes. “It’s how I really met Dominic.”
She was right, it was a damn good thing I was sitting down, because her words left me reeling. “Dominic paid to be with you?”
“Yeah.” She scowled, like she abruptly thought better of her answer. “No, he didn’t, actually. It doesn’t matter. That was years ago. After Dominic, I only worked at the club when Joseph needed help managing or if a sales assistant called in sick.”
“Wait a minute.” I pulled my shoulders back. “Joseph Monsato?”
Again, she nodded. “It was his club up until last year.”
Thoughts swam in my brain. I’d been the fifth wheel to Payton and Dominic’s dinners with Joseph and Noemi a half-dozen times. Payton had been a prostitute and Dominic was her john, so that made Joseph . . . her pimp? Good God, what was she going to tell me next? “Jesus. And Noemi? Is that how he met her?”
“Fuck, no. She’s the reason he gave up the club.”
In the onslaught of all the shocking information, my brain focused on the dumb stuff. I liked hanging out with Joseph. His dominating personality was one I admired, and there was something . . . intriguing about the way he was around his fiancée.
Not just intriguing, but fascinating. He seemed to have command over Noemi, but the smallest word or gesture from her could draw a huge reaction from him. As if he was always dialed in to what she was thinking and feeling. Being around them made me envious.
I wanted what they had.
But now? I felt like I had nothing in common with him. Joseph had sold sex. Fuck, he’d sold sex with my little sister, and yeah, even though she’d been willing, the idea made my fist tighten.