CHAPTER 22
Xavier
If I had my way, I’d spend the next two months focused solely on Sloane.
We ended our movie date Saturday night with nothing more than a chaste kiss on the cheek, but it was the best damn date I’d ever had. She was warming up to me, and that was what mattered. I’ll be honest—I wasn’t used to chasing women. From the moment I hit puberty, I’d been inundated with female attention.
Dating was easy, and sex was even easier, so this whole trial thing with Sloane was uncharted territory.
Were it anyone else, I would simply let them go. But she wasn’t anyone else, and I was already making plans for our next date. We had two months, so I needed to make the most out of them.
Unfortunately, I had to deal with the pesky issue of my nightclub. Namely, securing the proper licenses, location, financing, and a million other things that came with starting a business.
That was how I found myself in Valhalla again the Wednesday after my date, face-to-face with the man who could make or break my plans before they even started.
Name number one on Kai’s list.
Vuk Markovic, also known as the Serb, sat across from me in his office, his eerie blue eyes devoid of emotion as I explained my idea. He’d eschewed the typical CEO uniform of a suit and tie in favor of a black sweater and pants. A brutal scar slashed his face into two halves, and a coil of burn scars wrapped around his neck.
I tried my hardest not to stare. Luckily, it got easier when I hit my flow. I hadn’t pitched a business plan since college, but I was a fast learner and a comfortable public speaker.
I needed a partner for legitimacy, and Vuk was perfect for the job. He was the current chairman of Valhalla’s management committee, which arguably made him the most powerful man in the city. He had over a decade of experience under his belt and a sterling reputation for being fair but ruthless when the occasion called for it.
Of course, he needed a compelling reason to go into business with me beyond a mutual acquaintance. Kai had gotten me in the door; it was up to me to close it.
“Markovic Holdings is launching its new nonalcoholic vodka next summer. The timing lines up perfectly with the Vault’s launch,” I said. I’d named the club the Vault after its (hopeful) location. “We can host an exclusive preview and have a bespoke bar highlighting the drink. Sloane Kensington is in charge of the opening; it’ll be the nightlife event of the season. Every tastemaker who matters will be there, and it’ll be the first of our Tastemaker Series.”
The idea was simple—a monthly event series where attendees would receive early and/or exclusive access to everything from food to performances to fashion previews, all while sipping Castillo beer and Markovic alcohol.
My family specialized in beer, but Vuk helmed a massive liquor empire that ranged from cheap wine any college student could buy to fine champagne so rare, only a handful of bottles were produced annually. Next year, they were diversifying into the rapidly growing zero-proof alcohol sector, and the company was putting big money into making it a success.
The signature Tastemaker Series would take place on a separate night from general nightclub revelry, but its purpose wasn’t to draw regular parties. It catered to the media and influencers, who always liked being the first to try anything new; their attendance, plus the ever-evolving nature of the events, would create fresh buzz every month and keep the club at the forefront of people’s minds.
At least, that was the plan.
Vuk waited until I finished my spiel before firing rounds of methodical questions at me.
Who are your competitors?
Do you have a location under contract?
Do you have any other brands or businesses lined up to participate in the Tastemaker Series?
How the hell will you pull all this off in less than six months?
He didn’t say the last part, but it was implied.
Technically, he didn’t say anything at all; the questions came in the form of written notes. No one knew much about him beyond his business dealings, but according to rumors, his non-verbalism wasn’t due to medical reasons (legend had it he’d once said “thank you” to a Valhalla attendant). He just really fucking hated talking.
I addressed Vuk’s concerns as best I could, but my confidence waned in the face of his unchanging stoicism.
“The Vault will be the biggest splash in New York nightlife since Legends,” I said. “I have the connections, the vision, and the drive, but at the end of the day, this business is about instinct. What works, what doesn’t, what’s the next big thing. You can’t buy it or learn it.” I leaned forward, keeping my eyes on his. “I have it, and if you sign on as my partner, I’ll make us into actual fucking legends.”
I’d devised the club as a way to fulfill my inheritance clause while sticking it to my father, but now that I had time to sit with it, I wanted to make it work. Not for money, family, or the world, but for myself. I wanted to prove I could do this.
Vuk stared at me, his expression remote.
I understood why most people crapped themselves when they were in the same room as him. There was something deeply unsettling about the Serb. Maybe it was a combination of his silence, his status, and his scars; maybe it was something else entirely.
Either way, nerves rattled in my veins when he started writing.
He slid the paper across his desk less than thirty seconds later.
Come back to me when you’ve secured a location.
Dammit. Securing the location I had in mind was near impossible without Vuk as a partner.
If that was a deal-breaker, why the hell hadn’t he said so before we scheduled this meeting?
I swallowed my disappointment, thanked him for his time, and exited his office. On my way out, I passed by a dark-haired man with—holy shit, was that Ayana?
“Hey, is Vuk busy?” the man asked. He must’ve seen me leaving the Serb’s office.
I masked my surprise. Very few people called Vuk by his first name out loud; he reportedly hated it.
“He wasn’t when I left.”
