Chapter 209: "Castellano Club The First"

Jordan stepped out of the car and looked up at the lavishly decorated building before him.

CASTELLANO CLUB THE FIRST,

proclaimed the gilded lettering mounted high above the entrance.

For one fleeting moment, the sight carried him backward in time — to when he had been only nineteen.

He’d been old enough to enter places like this by then, but not yet old enough to understand that escaping, even temporarily, from his perpetually dutiful life as a Marchetti didn’t mean wandering into casinos.

The memory lasted only a moment.

Jordan pushed it aside and turned back toward the car, extending his free hand to help Aren out.

Aren emerged looking calmer than she had any right to, considering what awaited her that Saturday night. Her attention seemed far more occupied by Biscuit, who jumped out of the car on his own and immediately began wagging his tail at her with great enthusiasm.

When her fingers slipped naturally between Jordan’s, the casual intimacy of the gesture sent warmth straight through him, bringing the faintest flush to his face.

Unable — and frankly unwilling — to suppress the feeling, Jordan leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.

Tonight wasn’t officially a date.

He’d simply told her that he wanted to come and cheer her on for her debut fight. Yet somehow, whenever she was beside him, Jordan was beginning to discover that almost anything could feel like a date.

Surprised by the sudden kiss, Aren stared at him for a moment before her face brightened into a happy smile.

"Was that a good-luck kiss?" she asked, rising onto her toes to return it.

"No," Jordan murmured as her lips warmed his cheek. "That was an arrival kiss. You’ll get your good-luck kiss later, right before your fight."

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

The interior looked nothing like Jordan remembered.

When he’d last visited less than two years ago, the club had resembled some extravagant vision of a futuristic paradise. Now, apparently, it had transformed into a Baroque palace.

Elaborate decorative flourishes covered nearly every surface, and the entire place carried the unmistakable excess of someone who considered subtlety a personal insult.

Then again, considering the club was under Jeremiah Castellano’s management, perhaps Jordan shouldn’t have been surprised at all.

What did surprise him was the behavior of everyone in the lobby.

Heads turned the instant Jordan and Aren entered with Biscuit. Many belonged to reporters scattered among the casino’s wealthy clientele, and their interest should’ve been predictable given the recent scandal surrounding Aren.

Jordan quietly braced himself for the usual swarm.

He expected cameras.

He expected stupid questions shouted over one another in increasingly desperate attempts to provoke a reaction.

Instead, the reporters looked at them...

...and immediately looked away.

Some suddenly found the ceiling fascinating. Others seemed to discover something compelling about a nearby decorative pillar. It was almost as if every one of them believed that stealing a single glance at Ariana Lombardi might cost them their lives.

Jordan raised an eyebrow at the phenomenon.

’What the hell happened to them?’

He turned toward Aren with an amused smile.

"The reporters are actually behaving like civilized beings for once."

He’d intended the comment as nothing more than a joke — something light to keep Aren relaxed before her fight. Somehow, however, Aren immediately turned her face away.

"I... might have paid a few visits to several news outlets during the week."

Jordan stopped walking.

"...You did what?"

Aren turned back to him at once.

"I only went with a very small team of Lombardi men, I promise! The negotiations were rather smooth, and there was very little struggle involved."

Jordan stared at her.

’Very little?’

The specific choice of words was becoming increasingly concerning.

"We also compensated them afterward," Aren quickly added, as though sensing that he required further reassurance. "For the emotional damage."

Jordan’s expression went blank.

"...You compensated the reporters for emotional damage?"

"Yes."

"With what?"

"Ice cream."

Jordan continued staring at her.

Before he could decide which part of the conversation needed to be addressed first, Aren abruptly turned toward one corner of the lobby.

"Ah!"

Recognition lit her face.

"Those are the men I went with."

Jordan followed her gaze.

Several men wearing dark suits and black sunglasses stood near one of the entrances. Until that exact moment, they’d been discreetly watching the pair from strategic positions around the lobby.

The instant Aren looked directly at them, every single man jerked his head away.

"I think my father sent some of them here today to intervene," Aren explained helpfully. "In case the reporters try asking us rude questions."

Then she waved at them.

Cheerfully.

Biscuit, currently nestled in her arms, seemed to interpret the movement as a social occasion and enthusiastically lifted one paw as well.

The Lombardi men looked as though they collectively wanted the marble floor to split open and swallow them whole.

One subtly turned farther toward a column.

Another lowered his head.

A third seemed to be reconsidering every decision that had led him to this assignment.

If their thoughts had been audible, Jordan suspected the entire lobby would have heard them screaming.

’My lady, we’re supposed to be undercover!’

’You’re not supposed to acknowledge us!’

’Why is the dog waving too?!’

Jordan looked at them with genuine sympathy. No wonder he’d barely seen anything about Aren’s leaked video in the news for the past several days.

Jeremiah Castellano’s alleged skincare preferences, on the other hand, were still everywhere — circulating through Borgata like fresh fish at a morning market. Apparently, Aren’s negotiations had been extremely specific.

Jordan finally laughed under his breath and slipped his good arm around her, drawing her closer against his side.

"That was a pretty neat solution," he said teasingly. "Though I’d appreciate being included next time. Give me a call, and I’ll come along."

Aren immediately frowned.

Her gaze dropped pointedly toward the sling still securing his injured arm.

"While you’re wrapped up like this?"

"Especially when I’m wrapped up like this."

Jordan laughed and guided her farther inside, toward the private elevator that would take them down to the fight club.

’Might make sure nobody ends up in the hospital afterward.’

─ •✧• ─ ✿ ─ •✧• ─

Although news of the fight had spread throughout Borgata, drawing reporters to the casino lobby in impressive numbers, access to the Pit wasn’t granted to just anyone.

The underground arena wasn’t open to ordinary spectators, much less the press. Jordan and Aren hadn’t even reached the private elevator before security stopped them for a thorough inspection.

Every guest was required to present a special admission token issued exclusively to the Pit’s approved clientele. Only after the token was verified were they searched and instructed to surrender their phones, cameras, and any other recording devices.

Castellano Club might advertise its fights openly enough to generate excitement, but what happened beneath the casino existed under an entirely different set of rules.

Aren, as one of tonight’s fighters, naturally had full clearance.

Jordan had purchased a seat in one of the private VIP booths overlooking the arena.

Biscuit, however, presented a somewhat unusual administrative problem. When it was Biscuit’s turn, the security personnel stared at the dog in complete silence.

Aren stared solemnly back at them.

"Biscuit is my emotional support. Mister Castellano already allowed him into the Pit once, so please don’t worry about being reprimanded afterward."

For reasons Jordan couldn’t begin to understand, this explanation worked.

The security staff accepted Biscuit as an exception without so much as an argument, and a few minutes later, all three of them stepped into the elevator.

The doors slid shut, and their descent began.

The elevator moved so smoothly that Jordan barely felt any motion at all.

Only the illuminated numbers above the doors betrayed how rapidly they were sinking beneath the casino, floor after floor carrying them farther from the public spaces above — and deeper into the levels where House Castellano’s real business began.

When the elevator doors finally opened, Jordan almost laughed.

Apparently, the casino upstairs was what Jeremiah Castellano considered "restrained." Here, luxury unfolded before them on an entirely different scale.

A vast corridor stretched from the elevator into another reception lounge dedicated entirely to the fight club.

Plush carpeting swallowed the sound of every footstep beneath soaring ceilings, while extravagant decorations occupied nearly every available surface.

Most striking of all, however, were the paintings.

They were everywhere.

Landscapes. Portraits. Enormous canvases enclosed in ornate gilded frames.

Several looked as though they belonged behind security glass in one of Borgata’s most prestigious galleries — not hanging beneath a casino above an underground blood-sport arena.

Standing directly in front of one of those paintings was Jeremiah Castellano himself.

He was surrounded by a cluster of women in exquisite evening gowns, all dressed more appropriately for a royal ball than an underground fight — and all noticeably older than him.

Jeremiah himself looked equally polished. In fact, judging by his appearance, one might have assumed he’d dressed under the impression that he, rather than the fighters, was tonight’s primary attraction.

His hand rested casually inside his trouser pocket, while the other gestured toward the enormous painting behind him.

"You’ll notice," Jeremiah was saying, "that the artist’s use of shadow creates a profound tension between desire and restraint."

A woman in a silver gown tilted her head thoughtfully toward the canvas.

"Mm. Yes. The desire and restraint."

She wasn’t looking at the painting.

Her gaze remained fixed squarely on Jeremiah’s face while her imagination wandered somewhere considerably less artistic — specifically, toward what the younger man’s elegant hands might feel like around her throat, if he ever decided to demonstrate that restraint with significantly less restraint.

Another woman rotated her champagne glass delicately, subtly maneuvering herself into a better position within Jeremiah’s field of vision.

"What a sensitive, elegant interpretation of such a magnificent work," she praised. "I was thinking exactly the same thing."

Jeremiah smiled radiantly.

He was perfectly aware that several of the women surrounding him looked moments away from pinning him against the nearest wall — and stripping him themselves.

"Oh, were you?"

"Absolutely." She took a slow sip of champagne. "Although... I think the composition would become considerably more interesting if someone handsome stood beside it."

Jeremiah placed one graceful hand over his chest, his expression solemn.

"Madam, please. We were discussing fine art. There’s no need to embarrass the painting by comparing it to me."

The women laughed.

The woman in silver finally gathered enough courage to trail her fingertips lightly over his sleeve.

"I’ve always loved men who understand art."

Rather than retreating from her touch, Jeremiah leaned subtly into it.

"How fortunate for me. I’ve always loved women who say they love men who understand art."

Another ripple of delighted laughter passed through the group.

Jeremiah laughed with them, knowing perfectly well that half these women couldn’t distinguish an Old Master from an expensive hotel print. He also knew that none of them had given a damn about the painting from the moment the conversation began.

Meanwhile, still standing near the elevators, Jordan felt a vein twitch at his temple.

The press conference remained painfully fresh in his memory. So did several unresolved matters concerning Jeremiah’s repeated claims about Jordan accidentally touching his cock during some imaginary threesome which — as far as Jordan could determine — existed exclusively inside Jeremiah’s deranged imagination.

For one tempting moment, Jordan considered crossing the lounge and demanding an explanation.

Unfortunately, the place was crowded.

Wealthy guests mingled everywhere, and although personal recording devices were strictly prohibited, starting a public confrontation immediately before Aren’s debut felt spectacularly stupid.

He could wait.

Or so he thought.

He had barely reached that decision when Aren’s hand suddenly closed around his good arm — and began pulling him forward.

Straight toward Jeremiah.

Jordan followed automatically for several steps before his brain caught up.

"Hey! Ariana, wait."

He looked at her determined profile, then at Jeremiah, then back at her.

"You actually want to go talk to Jeremiah Castellano now?"

Aren didn’t slow down, serious determination settling across her face.

"I very much want to have a proper conversation with Mister Castellano. I need him to clarify why he lied about dating me."

At her other side, Biscuit trotted along with equal purpose, little paws moving briskly across the plush carpet. His face somehow carried the same solemn determination as hers.