Page 7 of Explosive Prejudice

He huffed and shook his head. “Je me demande si tu seras aussi fougueux quand je te baiserai.”

“Sorry, what was that?” I didn’t even try to pretend I cared that he mumbled something in French while checking my nails. I really needed to schedule a manicure. I hated having extra skin around the cuticles.

“Nothing. I just wondered if you’re this feisty when you get fucked.”

“Since you’re never going to know the pleasure, I’ll leave it to your imagination.”

Amused by my answer, he stood. “Come, I’ll give you a tour.”

Pleased I was finally getting what I came for, I got up and was about to walk toward the door when he stopped me with his hand on my chest. “Hold on, mon péché, not so fast.”

Mon péché? So I had a pet name now?

“Come here.”

“I hope you’re not taking me to your bedroom because I meant it when I said you have no chance.” I followed him to a different section of the room that was separated by open French doors. He stopped in front of a glass cabinet and waited until I saw what was inside. Venetian masks were carefully placed along the surface of the silk interior. Studded with diamonds, gold, and handmade ornaments, each mask was more impressive than the last.

“This place is called the Venetian for a reason,” he explained while opening the glass. “We use masks to give our customers their much-needed discretion in order to fulfill their deepest desires.” His finger traveled over them, stopping above a red-and-gold full-face mask studded with rubies. He paused to look at me, his eyes checking me out slowly and intensely, before returning his hand to a white half-face mask embellished with a golden crown studded with diamonds and delicate lace adorning the hem. The pearl-polished paint was covered in thin fragments that reminded me of an old oil painting.

“You are too beautiful to cover all of that,” he said as he placed it on my face and circled me to tie the band around my head. “That’s why the Columbina is perfect for you.” His fingers tangled with the velvet ribbon until the mask was secured, and he gave me a hand mirror.

The half mask adorned my face, covering my eyes, nose, and upper cheeks. It was impossible to tell who I was, which I guessed was a good thing.

“It’s from my own private collection. I don’t just let anyone borrow them, but you’re so beautiful that I couldn’t resist seeing you with it,” he said, and it was the first time I noticed the hint of French accent he had on certain words.

“You’ve got a thing for masks?” I teased, looking at him through the mirror.

“I love authenticity,” he explained, hardening his stare. “And people are never more true than when their identity is safely hidden behind a mask.”

“So, where’s yours?”

He laughed, grabbed the mirror from my hand, and left it on a small table. “How do you know I’m not wearing one right now?” He looked at me over his shoulder with his lips stretched into a smile full of secrets. “Now, let’s go meet my Gatti.”

The inside of the club looked nothing like the parts I’d been in so far. While the front lobby and Dion’s office reminded me of a modern palace, with a gentle aesthetic that made me think of watercolors, the inside had a whole different vibe. Everything was bold and edgy, like a baroque masterpiece—the dramatic lighting on the black walls, the thick red curtains decorating the dens around the foyer, and the stage in the middle of the lavish space.

After watching the mostly naked dancer performing onstage, dancing around a golden pole, I moved my eyes to check out the people around us. Detecting the customers was easy enough, not because of their appearance but because all the professionals wore the same cat-shaped mask that covered half of their faces.

“I assume you’ve already realized it,” Dion whispered in my ear as we passed a female patron and a male employee on her lap. “They’re called Gatti because of their Gatto masks.”

“If they’re all Gatti, how do you tell them apart?”

Half turning toward me, he tapped on the side of his face. “By the color of their mask. Each has their own unique color that suits them perfectly.”

Passing the couple, he led me farther into the lounge until we reached a new corridor. “My club has four floors, a rooftop, and a basement.” The word basement came with a devilish smirk. “There are thirty-three rooms, each different from the others and tailored to fulfill a certain… taste.”

“Taste?”

“Yes, as you know, art comes in many shapes and forms.”

“And you think sex is art?”

“Don’t you?” He turned the handle on the door and pushed it open, waiting for me to go in first.

I was about to tell him I didn’t think sex was art but a primitive act to get lost in, yet as soon as I stepped in, what I witnessed left me without words.

In each corner of the dim space, people were having sex. They were doing it from behind, from the side, a blow job, a hand job. All getting off. And while it appeared to be one big orgy, it wasn’t. Each patron was busy with their own Gatto, not minding the company as much as enjoying their own experience.

“Ever fucked around others?”

---