My heartbeats gradually slowed as the trees cleared and the Valhalla Club itself came into view.
My breath whooshed out in one soft gasp.
Wow.
I shouldn’t have expected any less, but Valhalla was an absolute masterpiece of architecture. The elegant, neoclassical main building stretched over four stories and an entire city block. Soft floodlights illuminated its grand white exterior, and an opulent crimson carpet covered the stairs leading up to the double-height entrance.
A line of luxury cars snaked down the drive, the subject of eagle-eyed scrutiny from the expressionless guards on duty.
Ours stopped behind an armored Mercedes.
Dante and I exited the car and walked to the entrance, where a steady stream of guests in bespoke suits and exquisite dresses ascended the stairs.
Despite the literal red carpet and buzz of excitement in the air, there were no photographers present. People didn’t attend a Valhalla event to flaunt for the public; they were here to flaunt for each other.
Dante placed a hand on the small of my back and guided me into the entry hall, where I immediately spotted what Isabella was talking about—a magnificent goldVinlaid into the floor, its three points touching the surrounding circle and glowing bright against an expanse of gleaming black marble.
The gala took place in the club’s ballroom, but we couldn’t move two feet without someone stopping us to greet Dante.
“How long have you been a member?” I asked after we extricated ourselves from yet another conversation about the stock market. “You seem to know everyone. Or everyone seems to know you.”
“Since I was twenty-one. It’s the minimum age for members.” A wry smile flickered over Dante’s mouth. “Didn’t stop my grandfather from trying to backchannel his way into a membership for me when I was eighteen, but there are things even Enzo Russo couldn’t do.”
It was only the second time he’d mentioned his grandfather, the first being after our engagement shoot.
Enzo Russo, the legendary businessman and founder of the Russo Group, had died over the summer from a heart attack. His death had dominated headlines for well over a month.
Dante had taken over as CEO years before Enzo’s death, but his grandfather had stayed on as president and chairman of the board. Now, Dante held all three positions.
“Do you miss him?” I asked softly.
“Missisn’t the right word.” We passed through the foyer and down a long hallway toward what I assumed was the ballroom. Dante’s voice was devoid of emotion. “He raised me and taught me everything I know about business and the world. I respected him, but we’d never been close. Not the way grandfathers and grandsons are supposed to be close.”
“What about your parents?” I didn’t know much about Giovanni and Janis Russo other than Giovanni had passed on running the company.
“They’re doing what they always do,” Dante said cryptically. “You’ll see.”
Right.We were spending Thanksgiving with them in Bali.
We passed through another security check near the ballroom before the doors opened and instantly transported me into a world of glittering 1920s decadence.
An Art Deco bar spanned the full length of the eastern wall, its black lacquer and gold accents shining with as much luster as the bottles of top-shelf liquor behind it. For those who didn’t want to wait at the bar, impeccably dressed servers circulated with gin and tonics, martini carts, and champagne trolleys brimming with bubbly.
Lively music from the jazz band danced over the soft clink of glasses and elegant laughter, and intimate spaces scattered throughout the room like oases of rich velvets and plush seating. In one corner, dealers lorded over half a dozen poker tables; in another, a silent film played via an old-school projector reel.
The ballroom itself soared four stories toward a glass dome, where a breathtaking projection of the night sky painted it with constellations so vivid I almost believed I could see Orion and Cassiopeia from Manhattan.
“Live up to your expectations?” Dante’s hand lingered on my lower back.
I nodded, too distracted by the surrounding opulence and hint of possessiveness in his touch to come up with a witty answer.
Dante and I spent the first hour mingling with other club members. Unlike at our engagement party, we were perfectly in sync, stepping in when the other didn’t answer and excusing ourselves when the conversation had run its course.
Toward the end of the hour, Dominic Davenport, whom I remembered from our party, pulled him away to discuss business. I took the opportunity for a quick bathroom break with Dominic’s wife Alessandra.
“I love your dress,” she said as we retouched our makeup. “Is it Lilah Amiri?”
“Yes,” I said, impressed. Lilah was a talented but an up-and-coming designer; not many people recognized her work on sight. “I saw it at New York Fashion Week and thought it would be perfect for tonight.”