I look around at each man, finding

I look around at each man, finding not even a trace of a smile at my joke. It’s apparent that they’re all taking this venture incredibly seriously.
I roll my eyes within the confines of my mind and heave a great sigh. I may have owed Penn a favor, but that doesn’t mean that I’m pleased to have been trapped.
“Through my rather rusty mafia lens, I would say that the only way you gentleman are likely to be screwed is by heading down to the second floor. Or if the family decides that they want all Tampa drug territory badly enough to take over by force.” I don’t think that’s likely—the Greek families try to keep a somewhat low profile in America. The forcible sale of a massive club like this from five famous billionaires to a Greek mafia organization isn’t exactly a slow news day. But I’m not about to say any more than I had to.
I bought my way out of the family, yes. But that doesn’t mean that they won’t spill my blood to tie up loose ends if I betray too many of their secrets. Not that I have any interest in doing so—I want nothing to do with my roots.
“Very well.” Reign stands, indicating that the meeting is over. He’s dressed, in my opinion, like a pompous ass—well-cut slacks and a button-down shirt, even now, at almost midnight. But he’s part of some European monarchy or other, so I suppose it’s expected. Still, I much prefer my faded jeans and polo shirt. For paying clients, I wear tailored Armani suits, but for a favor called in at a midnight meeting in steamy weather? I’ll forgo the fancy.
“I’ll escort you down.” Reign’s tone matches his conceited style, in my opinion, as though he thinks I can’t be trusted to leave the club on my own. This time I don’t bother hiding the roll of my eyes as I hold up a hand to stop him.
“Your valuables are safe from me, I assure you.” My voice is dry, but come on. I earned my first million while these guys were still in high school—not that I’m all that much older than them at thirty-one. But still. “My man is outside. I’ll escort myself out.”
“Thanks, Alexi.” Penn rounds the table to shake my hand before I leave, and I see the same sense of finality in his eyes that I feel in my soul. We’ve each helped the other once now, bringing our dealings to a close. I doubt that I will ever see him again.
I don’t have many friends and find it hard to maintain relationships. I still see Matteo, a friend from college, on occasion, and before coming to Florida, spent time helping to restructure his family business after his father’s death. The reason I find him tolerable, however, is because Matteo understands familial obligation, that sense of entrapment brought about by ties of blood.
He wasn’t born into mafia as I was, but his late father had been a dictator nonetheless.
Because of my past, I keep to myself much of the time—I have girlfriends, though never serious. Matteo was a friend, yes, and I trust John, the American standing just outside the door to the conference room, with my life.
“That good?” He reads the look on my face and nods once, the corners of his lips twitching—the closest he ever comes to a smile.
I don’t answer, just shake my head and push past him, knowing that he’ll follow me. In my head, I refer to the other man as Captain America because he resembles nothing so much as the fictional superhero. Not just in looks, though there is a resemblance, but in the rigid military bearing, the sense of right and wrong, the impeccable manners. An army veteran, I gravitated to him when I’d met him on a tour of the States six years earlier, his no-nonsense morals a welcome guideline after the life I’d narrowly escaped.
Opting to take the open staircase rather than the elevator, I pause as we reach the second floor of Restraint, looking around.
No matter how irritated I am with them, the five men upstairs had done a stellar job with this place.
The third and uppermost floor of the converted warehouse is where the men’s offices are housed. This middle floor? It’s where the scandalous activities that create an aura of mystery occur.
And by scandalous, I mean kinky.
Only members of Restraint, who have been thoroughly vetted by the owners’ security team, are allowed on the second floor. And to bother going through that process, these people have, shall we say, certain inclinations.
To illustrate? When the stairs bring me to the second level, I can see the cavernous room stretching out in front of me. It’s painted crimson and is lined with sleek red leather couches and various... well, let’s call them devices. Yes, devices, things that, if unoccupied, I can only guess at the purpose of.
But there are plenty that are occupied. Around me, skin that’s all shades of porcelain, tequila gold, shimmering amber and deep charcoal is displayed in vivid contrast to the deep black and screaming red. Then there are the sounds—gasping breaths, shuddering moans and thick screams of pleasure.
The second floor of Restraint is a BDSM club.