Then she smiles and turns her focus back to me.
“It’s been a while.”
Trina’s eyes look around for someone who is not here.
“He is not here,” I say.
The poor woman would sell me her soul for a chance at my son. She is stunning and would treat him well, but it’s not where his heart lies.
“Banagher.”
I do not need to say anything other than his name for Trina to understand what I mean. She has been here long enough to know not to ask questions, and less is always more.
She nods.
“Champagne room with Giselle. Been in there a while.”
I offer her an appreciative smile, taking her palm and pressing a kiss to the back of her hand.
“You should come back more often—the girls have missed having you around.”
“Oh?” I smirk, glancing over at Chantelle before returning my gaze to Trina. “I still do not sleep with my employees, Trina. It is bad for business and too messy to deal with.”
Trina scoffs, waving her hand dismissively.
“Yeah, yeah.”
She offers me a mocking pout before strolling back to the dressing room. I turn to Chantelle and raise an eyebrow as she blinks at me.
“Have the server bring a bottle of whiskey and ice to the champagne room.” I step into her, relishing how her body stiffens as I close the distance. Leaning in, I whisper, “As much as I admire your display of courage by addressing a strange man entering your space, a little advice.”
Pulling back, I meet her gaze. I had not noticed the green before because of the poor lighting. Her plump lips part, and I track the motion with my eyes before continuing.
“Any man who walks in that back door freely should not be met with insolence. If you are going to survive around here, it will do you well to know who you can mouth off to and who will slit your throat for the slightest eyeroll. Have a good night, little bird, and do not forget the drinks.”
Chantelle stares at me, mouth agape. Donovan should do better hiring these girls, making sure they know their surroundings and pick their battles wisely. Every person I employ in one of my front businesses is under my protection.
Satisfied that I made my point, I push past Chantelle toward the private room where Banagher is undoubtedly banging one of my dancers.
Prostitution and dancing go hand in hand a lot of the times. What these girls decide to do to earn extra cash, even if it is turning a trick under my roof, is no skin off my back. As long as they keep it clean and do not bring anyone in to snoop around, I will not punish them for side hustling the horny fucks that fill this place.
After several stops and a few conversations I was reluctantly pulled into due to my long absence, I finally reach the champagne room. Pulling my skeleton key from my pocket, I unlock the door and barge in.
Giselle screams at my intrusion, hunkering in next to Banagher to shield herself before recognizing who I am. They are lying on the couch—post-coital. Banagher’s flaccid cock hangs freely below his paunch. His pants are on the chair next to me, so I pick them up and throw them at him.
“Cover up your burly ginger bush, old man.” He catches his pants and huffs out an unamused laugh. Giselle worries at her bottom lip, trying to make herself look invisible. “Out,” I say with a flick of my chin.
She gathers her clothes and sneaks out through a door that leads to the employee’s hallway. Banagher curses under his breath while he struggles to clothe himself again. I lean against the wall and cross my arms, not willing to sit on any surface in this room.
“You’re early,” Banagher mumbles.
I snort. “I was overcome with too much excitement. I could not contain it.”
“Always the smartass,” he huffs.
I hum, and Banagher settles in his seat, finally fully clothed. Assessing his body language, I note he remains calm while lighting a cigar. There is no tension in his body, so either he has fucked it out or is not about to ask me something that will ruin both our days.
Since the last time I saw him, he has gained weight, his clothes a little too tight in most places. Gray and silver highlights replace most of the once-bright ginger hairs. His face droops with age and wrinkles, and he looks much older than fifty-eight.
“Why are we meeting here?” I ask him.
Banagher worked with my father before he died, and they always conducted business at the mansion. It has been the same since I took over. We are neutral families, always united even through the Malia and Caine disaster. I still do my business through Banagher, despite Caine stepping into leadership. They do not trust Malia or me to not rip out the fucker’s throat.
He chews on his cigar, thinking about how he wants to approach our meeting. Banagher has never been a subtle man, and I would not respect him if he were.
“Found out some interesting things about your precious wife. Does the surname Martinez ring any bells?’
My entire body goes rigid, and a vicious smirk cracks his face at my reaction.
“Thought it might,” he says dismissively.