Devious Vow: Chapter 8

The eighth-century general and strategist Sun Tzu once famously wrote in his book The Art of War, “keep your friends close and your enemies closer”.

I’ve read it…twice…which isn’t really that big a brag because every high-level lawyer, Wall Street trader, CEO, and Silicon Valley entrepreneur has, too. But while Sun Tzu was a genius when it comes to knowing the opposition, I’m willing to bet serious money that he did not have Eloise fucking LeBlanc suddenly working under him.

With him.

Around him. All. The. Fucking. Time.

In my head, I keep it as “Eloise fucking LeBlanc”, because I have no idea what else to call her. She’s not an “old friend”, nor an “old flame”. She’s not my ex anything. If anything, she’s my enemy. What else do you call someone you went to war against? Someone who spread lies about you that almost ended everything you’d worked for?

Someone who pried her way inside you, only to fuck you over and pour gasoline on the fire she lit inside your chest?

I’m loath to say I hate her, because it feels like giving her a win to use words that strong with her. No, what I really hate is that ten years later, she’s still able to get under my skin and piss me the fuck off like this.

Ten years ago, I was weak. I was open to manipulation, especially the sort that came from pretty girls with big blue eyes and sharp, sassy tongues.

I’ve spent a decade changing all that. Burning out the weakness. Shoring up my defenses with iron and sheer will, almost as if some part of me was waiting for the day she’d try to storm her way back into my life and fuck my shit up all over again.

Good thing I did, too, because…well, here we are.

I stand staring through the glass of my corner office—not the window looking down on midtown Manhattan, with the sort of view my father only dreamed of in his career as an in-the-trenches lawyer.

No, I’m standing at the interior glass wall that looks down onto “the pit” below—the maze of cubicles on the first floor teeming with junior associates and legal aides.

Specifically, I’m looking at our newest hire, who’s currently sitting sulking in her—admittedly shitty—new cubicle.

I may have had a hand in picking that particular cubicle for her. Closest to the distractions of the bathrooms and the break room, sitting directly under one of the air vents—the one that persists in rattling every single time the air blasts out of it, no matter how often we get it fixed.

Oh, and it’s also situated so that the afternoon sun is goddamn blinding unless you’ve come to work with a welder’s mask.

Is this a childish, petty move on my part? Hell yes. Do I give a shit?

Hell no.

I’m fully aware that it’s not Eloise personally who bullied her way into working at Crown and Black with the promise of fifty million a year in billable hours. But as big a piece of shit as I think Massimo Carveli is, he and I don’t have a history that merits petty vengeance.

Eloise and I, however, do.

Currently, as promised, she’s buried under the mountain—more like mountains, plural—of case files I’ve had my underlings bring her. They’re not important cases, or even ones I have really anything to do with. And that’s not just because of my history with Eloise.

Well, okay, it’s maybe half because of my history with her.

It’s also because she’s wormed her way into a position normally reserved for someone who’s put literally thousands of hours of their life into this firm. Someone who’s given everything to get that coveted associate’s position.

Not a goddamn mafia princess who simply switched from one team to the other.

When I first heard that Eloise had married Massimo a little over a year ago, I was angry. But I was also confused. Eloise’s father, Andre LeBlanc, is the head of one of the biggest old-school mafia families in Paris. Or he was, before his illness—his number two, Luc, is apparently running things now. But the LeBlanc family is a French Mafia institution who, historically, gets along with the Italians about as well as Tom gets along with Jerry. As the Road Runner gets along with the Coyote, or Bugs Bunny with Elmer Fudd⁠—

You get the picture.

So, yes, color me twelve shades of surprised when Andre gets sick and it turns out his living will stipulates an arranged marriage between his youngest daughter and Massimo.

Almost as surprised as I was to discover that Eloise actually is a lawyer. Not one with any real experience, but at least, on paper, a good one.

I’ve checked.

She worked for one firm in Chicago—and one I can’t even shit on: they’ll be our biggest competitor if we do open a branch there—after graduating top of her class in law school, and did well there. But that all ended when she married Captain Fuckstick. Then they moved to California, and then here, and she actually passed the New York bar, which is impressive, much as I hate to admit it.

And now here she is. Right. Under. My. Nose. In my crosshairs.

Under my control.

Instantly, I regret thinking of it that way as my dick stirs and throbs in my slacks. My eyes narrow onto the pit, staring right at her.

Imagining vengeance.

Imagining stripping her.

Remembering the night when I had all of her.

Until it shattered.

And again, as I stare at her like I did in the conference room the other day, I’m overcome by the sheer unfairness of what time has done to this woman. If whatever divine power you choose to believe in was fair in any capacity, Eloise would have walked in here post-stroke, with half her face numb and slack.

Instead, she strolled in looking ten times as gorgeous as she did the last time we crossed paths.

Parts of her haven’t aged a bit. Her skin is still glowing and flawless. Her heart-shaped mouth still plump and way, way too enticing. Her long blonde hair still shimmering and youthful. But at the same time, it’s like somehow her goddamn legs got longer. Her ass got rounder and lusher in ways it has no business doing. And the years have only somehow made that sharp look in her big blue eyes even fiercer and wilder. There’s even a tinge of violet in them now that gives her a witchy vibe, like she’s staring into your soul.

Nineteen looked good on Eloise LeBlanc.

Twenty-nine looks downright lethal. And it infuriates me to think who gets to see all that fierce, stunning lethality up close and personal, every day of his life.

Every night.

“Everything okay?”

I blink. Slowly, scowling, I pull my gaze away from Eloise and to Gabriel, who’s just walked into my office. He nods at my right hand, which I realize now is gripping a contract I was reading over in a tight fist.

“Fine,” I grunt.

“And before you throw a hissy fit, I did knock. But you were in dreamland and didn’t answer.”

I shoot my brother a look before I let the contract drop to a nearby side table and turn to walk back to my desk.

“What’s up?”

“She settling in okay?”

“Who?”

Gabriel gives me a bored look. “Fuck, are we really going to do that?”

“Do what, Gabriel.”

He sighs. “Are we going to talk about it? And before you ask again, I specifically mean Eloise—aka the girl who fucked you up in college⁠—”

“She didn’t fuck me up,” I growl. “I fucked her, once, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

Okay, it was more like four times, in the span of one “encounter”. A mere technicality. Sue me.

“Alistair—”

“Would you like me to declare prior carnal knowledge with HR? If so, just let me know which form I’m supposed to use to disclose that my newest associate once swallowed my cum before getting down on her hands and knees and asking me—quite vigorously, I should add—to⁠—”

“Are you done? I don’t need to hear this.”

“Christ, when did you go get squeamish?”

“It’s more like self-preservation.” He cocks a meaningful brow at me. “Given that the woman you’re so casually recalling fellatio with happens to be married to our biggest client, Massimo Carveli.”

Yes, because I need another reminder of that.

“In that case, don’t you think filing an HR report might do more harm than⁠—”

“Alistair, stop.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, you can stick with the version where you don’t give a shit about her, in which case we should all stop talking about whatever vigorous way she asked you to do I-don’t-want-to-know⁠—”

“Anal, while pulling her hair and choking her,” I grin.

“I said I didn’t want to know,” Gabriel snaps, glaring at me. “As I was saying, you can play that card, where whatever it is that happened between you stays in the past, and we can all move on like adults. Or, you can hate her, and be super vocal about it, and whine and carry on like a three-year-old, and Taylor and I can try and figure out how to juggle your tantrums on top of the ten million other things we’ve got going on. But you don’t get to have it both ways. Either you give a shit, or you don’t. Pick a side.”

I grunt, shrugging. “Easy decision. I don’t give a shit, Gabriel.”

“That’s your story?”

“That’s the truth.”

“Well, good. Stick with that, because if you flip-flop, I don’t exactly see Massimo as having much of a sense of humor about you defiling his wife in college.”

“When on Earth would I ever even talk to that muppet?”

Gabriel, Taylor, and I sat down this morning and discussed the obvious, i.e., that I will not be interacting with Massimo as a client.

Gabriel smiles wryly and glances at his Rolex. “In six hours.”

What.

“Excuse me?”

“Your presence has cordially been requested at Club Venom tonight, in Massimo’s private lounge.”

Goddammit.

“Lucky me,” I groan, sinking into my chair before I glance up at my brother. “What the hell does Captain Fuckstick want to see me for?”

“Let’s hope just business. And if he wants to bring up college glory days and sexual shenanigans, you’d better superglue your fucking trap shut.”

“Heard loud and clear.”

He sighs, nodding. “I’d go with you, but he specifically requested you and you alone.”

“Sounds romantic.”

Gabriel frowns. “Sounds dangerous. I’m going to call Dante and make sure his people are aware of the…possible friction.”

“This is hardly my first after-hours sit down with a mafioso client at a place like Venom, Gabriel.”

“Yeah? And have you fucked the wives of any of those other mafioso clients before having after hours sit-downs with them—goddammit, you know what, do not answer that,” he grumbles, glancing at his watch. “Shit, I’ve got a deposition.”

“Have fun.”

He frowns as he raises his eyes to mine. “Look, if you want to talk about this…I mean, with Eloise working here now, and with what happened at Knightsblood…”

“Feel like talking about your political aspirations yet?”

His lips purse. I grin.

“Yeah, thought not. I’ll be fine, Gabriel. I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

But first, I’m going to have Katerina deliver another metric fuckton of busy-work to Eloise’s cubicle.

To describe Club Venom as a sex club isn’t really doing it justice, or even painting an accurate picture. It’d be like characterizing Wrigley Field and Fenway Park as simply “baseball fields”, or the Highland Green 1968 Mustang GT that McQueen drives in Bullitt as “a nice car”.

It’s a place of deviance and depravity. A palace of sin. Hidden away on a dull, unassuming side street, in a dull, unassuming building, Club Venom is a private kink club that caters to the wealthiest, most connected, elite, and dangerous of New York City. Mafia dons, Bratva kingpins, underbosses…Venom is where they all come to play, tasting whatever flavor they choose.

Well, not vanilla.

There are no names. Everyone wears a mask, and bracelets of various colors signify different kinks and roles. In addition to the main space there are bars, cocktail lounges, cigar rooms and private suites, and the “adult activities” can happen either in private, or, frequently, out in the open.

In short, it’s not exactly a place for prudes.

Gabriel, Taylor, and I have been members for years, though Taylor and my brother go exclusively for business reasons: either to schmooze prospective clients, or to meet with existing ones—A, to show them a good time, and to prove that their choice of legal counsel can “hang” with the dark underworld cool kids of New York. And B, because the anonymous nature of Venom gives an assurance of privacy when discussing sensitive legal issues to clients who may or may not be under the scrutiny of law enforcement.

I go to Venom for all of that, too, of course. But I also come here for fun. I even have two masks kept behind the concierge desk: one for business-Alistair, and one for playtime-Alistair. Wouldn’t want those two worlds colliding.

Lately, coming here has become slightly more complicated, now that Gabriel’s and my little sister, Tempest, has married Dante Sartorre, who owns and runs Venom. It’s not that Dante and Gabriel and I don’t get along or anything. I mean, yes, at one time, we were enemies. But a guy has a way of growing on you when he saves your sister’s life.

No, it’s become complicated because, as much as he assures me it’s never going to happen, the last thing on the fucking planet I need to see when I walk into an underground sex club is my goddamn sister.

Tonight, though, when I thank Michelle at the concierge desk and slip on my business-mode Alistair gold and matte black mask, I can rest assured that I won’t be having any unfortunate family encounters. I talked to Dante an hour ago, and apparently Tempest is out to dinner with his sister, Bianca and one of our best equity partners at Crown and Black, Fumi.

He also mentioned that he’d have some of his own security people close to Massimo’s private room and was tactful enough not ask why I might need extra muscle when meeting with my own client.

I make my way through the interior of the club, letting the low lights and sultry techno music piped through hidden speakers envelop me. I pass through one smaller lounge, glancing briefly toward the blood-red couch against the far wall. On it, a gorgeous dark-skinned girl is kissing a blonde on the mouth as they both moan, both getting fucked silly from behind by two men with Russian Bratva tattoos.

As I step into another smaller room, I’m greeted by the sight of a very petite brunette wailing in ecstasy as three Italian-looking guys take all three of her holes at the same time.

Welcome to Club Venom. And it’s only Wednesday.

It’s not late yet, though, so the “show” in the main room when I arrive is still minimal. Only a few of the array of couches and large beds in the middle of the floor are occupied, mostly by couples keeping to themselves, though, obviously, fucking in front of a crowd of onlookers.

I’m not here for anything but business tonight. So I bypass the show and make my way to the bar to grab a whiskey. I’m only one sip in when a masked beefy guy approaches and coughs discreetly.

“Mr. Black? Mr. Carveli is this way.”

I mean, the whole point here is anonymity, what with the masks and all. But I know from the jagged scar running down the man’s neck that this is Rocco, Massimo’s close confidant and fellow douchebag.

Wordlessly, I follow Rocco down a black hallway with brass sconces until we get to a dark, blood-red door with the club’s emblem of a viper on it, in black. Rocco nods at the two guys standing guard before we step inside.

“Ahh, Alistair.” Massimo, in a gold and matte-black mask with devil-horns, grins over the rim of his drink in greeting. He stands as I approach and shakes my hand firmly. “Please, have a seat.” He nods at my whiskey. “Need a top-up?”

“I’m good.”

Massimo smiles curiously at me, almost studying me. Here’s the thing about Massimo Carveli: as much as I’d love to write him off as a trust fund mafia ass-wipe who spends all day getting off on his own hubris via the silver spoon shoved firmly up his ass, I know there’s more to him than that.

I read people for a living: judges, prospective jury candidates, the legal counsel across the aisle from me, even my own clients. Everyone—and I do mean everyone—has a version of I that they want the world to see. Often, the truth is very different, hidden far away.

And that’s my superpower: the ability to pull aside the veils of bullshit to see the real person underneath. But with Massimo it’s nearly impossible for me to see what’s underneath, which means he either really is a machismo-huffing douche canoe, or else he’s very good at hiding the other part of him.

And much as I hate to admit it, I have a feeling it’s the latter.

There are too many random “strokes of luck” that have put Massimo where he is at the head of the Carveli family. His father’s untimely, oddly quiet death. The last-minute will that clearly stipulated Massimo as the heir to the Carveli throne and fortune, even though they’d been famously at-odds with each other for years.

And marrying Eloise, of all fucking people.

So when Massimo studies me with those piercing dark eyes, I’m sure to keep my walls up.

“Please, have a seat.” He turns and snaps his fingers at Rocco, who nods. Immediately, he and the handful of guards turn and file out. Massimo shrugs, smiling ghoulishly at me. “This conversation necessitates privacy.”

“Of course, Mr. Carveli,” I say. “But honestly, if you’d like to discuss business, I think my brother and Ms. Crown should be here, too. Perhaps even in place of me. As much as I enjoy Venom, Gabriel and Taylor are your legal liaisons at⁠—”

“How do you know my wife, Alistair?”

I’ve spent a career molding my entire body into an impenetrable fortress when it comes to showing my emotions. That said, it takes a lot to keep myself from flinching when I hear that.

“College,” I say easily, shrugging. “Though I’m not sure I’d really say we know each other. I was a few years ahead of her, and we didn’t run in the same circles.”

“Ahh, I see,” he nods slowly, sipping his drink. “But you obviously know her sister.” His lips curl into a devilish grin.

“I don’t.”

Massimo chuckles. “That’s not the way I hear it.”

“I can assure you, I’m not acquainted with your sister-in-law.”

I am, of course, in a way that infuriates me. But that’s nothing I need to discuss with this asshole.

“Interesting. The way I hear it, you’re intimately acquainted with Camille.”

“I believe that’s what they call hearsay, Mr. Carveli.”

“We’re not in court, counselor,” he chuckles, reaching over to slap my knee. “Come on! We’re both men of the world! Cut from the same cloth!”

Like fuck we are.

He snorts a laugh. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve never wondered how tight that little French cunt is myself, eh?” He chuckles, leaning back on his couch. “So, please, put me out of my misery. Tell me how she was.”

A blackness creeps over me as that particular night comes crawling out of the dark hole I shoved it into.

I never slept with Camille LeBlanc. But not for lack of effort on her part.

“Like I said, Alistair, we’re the same. You don’t have to play coy with me,” he grins. “I’m not the me-too movement or the politically correct police. You’re like me. You saw something you wanted, and you took it.”

Bullshit. That’s not what happened. It’s more like she saw something she wanted, and tried to “take it”. My memory of that night might be a mess, but I know damn well I never touched Eloise’s psycho sister.

“I’m afraid you’ve been misled, Mr. Carveli,” I growl. “Nothing ever happened between me and Camille.”

He’s quiet a moment, a shadow crossing his face like he’s disappointed in me.

“Ahh, well…” He finally shrugs. “My mistake.”

Just then, the door to the private lounge opens and a stunning masked blonde woman wearing a sheer, almost see-through gold dress steps sensually into the room. I frown as she walks over to Massimo wordlessly, and my brow furrows even deeper when she curls her legs underneath her and sits at his feet.

What the fuck?

“Alistair, meet Gemma.”

I nod briefly as she smiles at me, and then twists to face Massimo.

…who suddenly undoes his belt, tugs his zipper down, and pulls out his fucking dick.

“Christ,” I grunt, looking away.

Massimo chuckles. “What’s wrong?” He grins, his eyes dropping to his erect, definitely below-average dick. “It’s not for you, counselor,” he snorts with a wide grin. “If that helps.”

“It doesn’t. What the fuck are you doing?”

“What people come to Club Venom to do.” He smirks. “If another man’s nakedness makes you that uncomfortable, maybe you need to ask yourself why, counselor.”

I roll my eyes. “My disinterest in seeing my clients with their dicks hanging out has nothing to do with my sexuality, Mr. Carveli.”

“Mr. Carveli seems a bit formal, given the present circumstances.” He grins. “How about we stick with Massimo, yes?” He points a finger at himself. “Massimo.” He turns the finger toward me. “Alistair. Like friends.”

“I’m your legal counsel, and you’re my client,” I grunt.

“Does that mean we can’t be friends?” Massimo reaches out and grabs a handful of Gemma’s hair. “Pull up your dress.”

Gemma, her ass to me, reaches back and tugs at her shimmery gold dress, confirming that she is not, indeed, wearing anything underneath it. Massimo grins.

“Feel free to join in⁠—”

“I’d prefer to keep our relationship professional, Mr. Carveli,” I say frostily.

“I see.”

He pulls Gemma toward his cock. I frown and look away when she opens her lips to take him into her mouth. I’m hardly a prude. I mean, look where I am. But I do not need to see this fuckstick get head four feet away from me. And there is a snowball’s chance in hell of me engaging in a fucking three-way with him.

Massimo groans loudly as Gemma’s blonde head bobs in his lap.

“You’re a betting man, aren’t you, Mr. Black?”

I don’t answer.

“Not an accusation. Merely an observation.” He winks. “We have mutual friends and interests, it would seem.” He shrugs, groaning again as he fists the girl’s hair tighter. “I know for a fact that you like to gamble. Just like I know that you’re good at it. Or maybe just lucky.”

“I think that you have to make your own luck.”

He smiles widely. “I agree.” He grunts deeply, his mouth opening as he pumps Gemma’s head up and down. “Which is why I want to make a wager with you.”

I frown. “I don’t think that’s⁠—”

“If you can tell me”…he smiles a dark, shark-like smile…“how exactly you know my wife before I come down this whore’s throat—oh fuck yeah,” he groans. “Then I’ll commit another two million a year in billable hours to your firm.”

I stare at him. “Excuse me?”

“You can have that in writing, Mr. Black.”

I stand. “I think it’s time for me to go, Mr. Carveli.”

“Sit. Down,” he growls menacingly. Then the anger melts and his lips curl into a grin. “Go ahead,” he smiles widely. “Ask.”

I need to get the fuck out of here, and away from this lunatic’s psycho head games.

“Ask what,” I hiss.

“Ask what happens if you don’t make the cutoff. If you don’t tell me before I⁠—”

“Mr. Carveli, all due respect, I have zero interest in playing this game.”

“Who says it’s a game.”

In one motion, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a Beretta. I freeze when he points the barrel of the gun at Gemma’s bobbing head.

“How do you know my wife, Mr. Black.” His jaw clenches. “You don’t have long, FYI.”

What the actual fuck.

“Mr. Carveli,” I hiss, glancing at the door and trying to gauge if I have time to get the fuck out of here, past whatever guards Massimo has outside, and find Dante’s men before this psychopath shoots this poor girl. “I don’t know your wife.”

“Tick…unngh,” he groans deeply, his mouth opening. “Tock, Mr. Black.”

“Put down the goddamn gun⁠—”

Every muscle in my body tenses, every nerve jangling like a livewire as Massimo grunts loudly and explodes down Gemma’s throat. His hips pump a few times before he slumps back on the couch. Slowly, his eyes drag to mine.

He presses the gun to Gemma’s forehead.

“Maybe you’re not so lucky after all. At least, she isn’t.”

“No—!”

He squeezes the trigger.

My heart lurches as a loud “click” snaps through the room as the empty gun dry fires.

Blinking, my pulse racing, I stare at Massimo.

He’s insane. He’s fucking INSANE.

Massimo tosses the gun aside and then pats Gemma’s cheek. He grunts as she pulls away, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then straightens her dress as she stands. She glances at me briefly before she smiles at Massimo and casually walks out.

When we’re alone, he raises the gun and dry-fires it at me with another click.

“Bang,” he snickers.

I just glare at him, my face stoic and cold, and he starts to laugh as he tucks his cock away.

“Jesus Christ, your face!” he chuckles, standing and tossing the empty gun onto the couch. “Lighten up, counselor! I’m just fucking with you!”

“Mr. Carveli,” I growl quietly, my pulse still thudding. “Don’t ever point a gun at me again.”

“It wasn’t even loaded!” he laughs, shaking his head and smiling to himself as he strolls over to the bar at the side of the room and pours himself another drink. He turns to eye me. “What the fuck did you think I was going to do? Shoot her?”

“It’s time for me to go.”

He sighs, shaking his head again. “C’mon, Alistair. I’m just messing around with you!” He grins. “This is who I am! We’re going to be working together…” He lifts a shoulder. “I want Crown and Black to know who they’re dealing with. I’m a wild card!” he crows. “A maverick!”

Fucking psychopath, more like.

“Well,” I growl, buttoning my jacket. “I’ll be sure to tell my partners what a humorous guy you are.”

He chuckles. “I’ve offended you. I apologize for that.”

“I’ll see you next time you’re at the office, Mr. Carveli.”

I turn to leave.

“Wait.”

I stop and slowly turn back to him.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

I meet his eyes without flinching.

“Mr. Carveli, your wife and I attended the same college at roughly the same time. That is how I know her.”

He says nothing, neither of us blinking. Finally, his mouth curls into a grin.

“I know,” he shrugs. “Thanks for coming tonight, Mr. Black. I’m glad we could get to know each other better.”