Paolo made his way into the darkened room, his footfalls muffled by the thick red carpet. He sat on the rich leather couch, noting with anticipation that his heart was beating rapidly in his chest and that part of him wanted to run out the door, even as a bigger part of him said: stay.
The room was cold; the air conditioner turned on high. Paolo smelled leather and roses. He sat in front of a glass wall, the surface so dark it seemed black. Beside him was a table with a carafe of the Club’s very special iced tea and a crystal cut glass, a small ornate penknife and the remote control to a DSLR camera that stood on a tripod nearby. In front of him was a wall of dark glass, its glossy surface blending in with everything else in the room, which was plush, but minimalist. Music played from uns
