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“What kind of farm?”
“A small place. We had sheep, some cattle, and fields that always needed work. Mam ran the house, and Da could fix damn near anything.”
“And Lucian?”
“Spent most of our childhood convincing me to do stupid things so he could see what happened. He once told me an old bedsheet would work as a parachute if I jumped from the hayloft.”
I leaned slightly to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. “You did not.”
“I was seven.”
“That is not a defense.”
“No, but it explains the broken arm.”
I laughed into his shoulder. “Did Lucian feel guilty?”
“Not remotely. He spent the next month insisting the problem was my technique.”
For the first time, I could picture him as a blond little boy on an Irish farm with his brother, long before either of them knew where their family had come from.
It made me want to know how that reckless little boy had become the man carrying me now—the one Ciro couldn’t break, Marcela couldn’t own, and I couldn’t seem to stop wanting.
Every answer seemed to leave me with another question.
“When did you leave Ireland?”
“Ten years ago. Lucian was twenty, and I was eighteen.”
“That young?”
“Aye. Mam begged us not to go. Da didn’t say much, but looking back, I think he understood better than any of us where two stubborn young men might end up once they left that farm.”
“So you came to New York together.”
“Aye. Just the two of us.”
“And what did you do when you got here?”
“We worked wherever anyone would pay us. Construction during the day, clubs and security at night. We saved everything we could until Lucian found an old building in the Meatpacking District, not far from the Hudson, and decided we could turn it into something of our own.”
“Xyst?”
“Aye.”
“You actually built part of it yourself?”
“A fair amount.” I could hear the pride in his voice. “Lucian walked through that old place and saw velvet ropes, private rooms, expensive liquor, and people willing to pay ridiculous amounts of money for privacy. I saw bad wiring, rotten drywall, and half the walls needing to come down.”
The difference between them made me smile. “So Lucian saw what the place could become, and you saw what it would take to get it there.”
“Aye. There was one thing we both saw the same way from the start, though—the basement.”
“Why the basement?”
“We knew we wanted a private casino down there. High stakes, invitation only. Wealthy men, politicians, businessmen—people who wanted somewhere to gamble without their names ending up in the Times or on social media.”
That explained considerably more about Xyst than the words nightclub in Manhattan ever had.
