Chapter 1: The Anniversary Toast
The bass thrummed through the soles of Tony's shoes before they even reached the velvet rope, a heartbeat that seemed to sync with his own as the bouncer—a mountain of a man with a shaved head and a bored expression—scanned the list and nodded them through.
Jeannie's hand found his, warm and familiar, and she squeezed as they descended the short staircase into the sunken VIP booth. The amber lighting caught the champagne flutes first, turning the bubbles into tiny golden lanterns rising through pale liquid. A frosted bucket sat sweating on the polished mahogany table, surrounded by half-empty glasses that suggested the celebration had started well before they arrived.
"There they are!" Dee's voice cut through the din of the club like a blade through silk, sharp and delighted. She was already on her feet, red hair catching the light like a signal fire, her piercing gaze fixed on them with an intensity that Tony had learned to read as affection rather than calculation. Though with Dee, the two were often indistinguishable.
The booth erupted in voices—overlapping greetings, the scrape of chairs being pulled back, the sudden expansion of bodies making room. Sofia leaned across Larry to wave, her dark curls spilling over her shoulders as she smiled with genuine warmth. Dale raised his glass in salute, his burly frame somehow taking up more space than physics should allow. David had his arm around Lauren's shoulders, his face split in easy grin, while Jimmy was already reaching across to clap Tony on the shoulder with practiced brotherly force.
"About damn time," Jimmy said, his voice carrying that familiar mix of amusement and affection. "I was starting to think you two got lost on the way here."
"Traffic," Jeannie said smoothly, sliding into the booth with practiced grace. "And Tony refuses to let me drive when I'm wearing these heels."
"Those heels are a hazard to society," Tony said, settling beside her and letting his arm rest along the back of the booth behind her. The velvet was soft beneath his fingers, worn smooth by years of celebrations and commiserations that had happened in this exact spot. "Beautiful, but dangerous."
Dee was already pouring champagne, the bottle moving with the confidence of someone who had done this many times before. She filled two fresh flutes and pushed them across the table toward the new arrivals, her nails catching the light—a deep burgundy that matched the lipstick she wore like armor.
"Now that everyone's here," she announced, rising to her feet with her glass held high, "I'd like to propose a toast."
Larry let out a theatrical groan. "Dee, we've already done three toasts. The champagne's getting warm."
"This one's important." Dee's eyes locked onto Jeannie and Tony, and something in her expression softened—genuine affection breaking through the sharp edges she usually presented to the world. "To five years of a marriage that makes the rest of us sick with envy."
"Hear, hear!" Dale bellowed, and the table echoed with laughter and the clink of glasses.
Tony felt Jeannie shift beside him, and when he glanced down, she was raising her glass with a smile that reached her eyes. Over the rim of the flute, she caught his gaze and mouthed three words that still made his chest tight after all this time.
I love you.
He nodded, barely, a private acknowledgment in a room full of people who thought they knew everything about them. The champagne was crisp and cold, and when he set the glass down, his hand found hers beneath the table—a silent anchor in a sea of noise and celebration.
"So," Sofia said, leaning forward with the particular intensity of someone about to ask a question they already knew the answer to, "five years. How does it feel? Be honest. Do you still want to kill each other?"
"Every day," Tony said, deadpan. "But I have very good insurance."
Jeannie laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "He's lying. He still opens doors for me and leaves love notes in my lunch bag like we're in high school."
"That's adorable," Lauren said, her voice warm as she tucked a strand of brunette hair behind her ear. "David won't even remember our anniversary without three reminders on his phone."
"Because your anniversary falls during construction season," David protested, but he was grinning as he said it. "You scheduled it during my busiest month."
"You scheduled it," Lauren shot back playfully. "I just agreed to the date."
The banter flowed around the table like the champagne—easy and familiar, the kind of shorthand that only came from years of shared history. Tony let himself sink into it, feeling the tension of the week dissolve under the warmth of friendship and the comfortable press of Jeannie against his side.
Jimmy caught his eye from across the table and raised an eyebrow—a silent question that only a brother would recognize. You good?
Tony nodded. Better than good.
The waitress appeared with another bottle, and Jeannie leaned into him as she accepted a fresh glass. Her perfume was subtle tonight—something floral and light that he'd bought her for their anniversary—and it mixed with the scent of champagne and the faint musk of the club.
"Five years," Dee repeated, settling back into her seat with the satisfied air of someone who had orchestrated this entire evening with military precision. "And you two still look at each other like you're the only people in the room. It's disgusting, really."
"Jealous?" Tony asked.
"Terrified," Dee corrected, but her smile softened the word. "If you two ever figure out how to make it last forever, you might put me out of business."
"Divorce lawyer jokes," Dale said, shaking his head. "Always a crowd-pleaser."
"A crowd-pleaser," Sofia echoed, tilting her glass toward Dee in a mock toast. "Though I prefer the term 'cautionary tale in high heels.'"
"You're both terrifying," Larry said, shaking his head. "And I married one of you."
"Your mistake," Sofia said sweetly, patting his hand. "But you're stuck with me now."
"Stuck is such an aggressive word." Larry's golf-tanned face split into an easy grin. "I prefer 'strategically committed.'"
"Strategically committed." Tony repeated the phrase, letting it roll around in his mouth like one of the expensive whiskeys Dale had ordered earlier. "That's one way to describe it."
"Husband material, this one," Dale said, jerking a thumb at Larry. "He uses words like 'strategically' in casual conversation. I told Sofia she married an HR presentation."
"I married a man who thinks 'Netflix and chill' means actually watching a documentary about the history of Netflix," Sofia shot back. "But he has good dental insurance, so I keep him."
Lauren laughed, the sound carrying over the din of the club like a bell. "David doesn't even know what dental insurance is. He thinks preventative care is a pre-workout supplement."
"That's not true," David protested, but he was grinning. "I know what dental insurance is. I just choose to ignore it. Like my mother's advice about wearing sunscreen."
"Don't be too hard on him," Tony said. "I know a guy who can fix you up with a good dental plan. Friend of mine from college. Runs a practice in Scottsdale now."
"See?" David spread his hands. "This is why I keep Tony around. Connections. He's the most connected guy I know who isn't a criminal."
"Give him time," Jimmy said, leaning back in his seat. "He's got the face for it. Trustworthy. Open. The kind of face that makes strangers tell him their life stories in airport lines."
"It's true," Jeannie said, pressing her palm against Tony's chest. "He came home from a flight to Chicago last month and told me about a woman's entire divorce proceedings. What her husband did, how she found out, what the kids thought. Thirty minutes of drama, and he didn't even know her name."
"I tried to read my book," Tony said with a shrug. "She just kept talking. What was I supposed to do?"
"Politely tell her you were busy?" Lauren suggested.
"That's not how it works," Jimmy said. "Once a stranger decides you're their emotional support animal, there's no escape. It's a life sentence."
"Should we be concerned that your brother memorized an entire episode of a documentary about the history of Netflix?" David said.
"Oh, he definitely watched it," Sofia said. "On purpose."
"He was very passionate about the Reed Hastings segment," Larry added.
The table dissolved into laughter. The kind of laughter that came from years of shared inside jokes and the comfortable rhythm of people who had seen each other at their best and worst and chosen to stick around anyway.
Tony felt Jeannie shift beside him, her fingers interlacing with his beneath the table. Her thumb traced slow circles on his palm—a private gesture, invisible to everyone else. It was the kind of touch he'd never get tired of. The kind that said I'm here. I'm still choosing you. Five years in, and she still made his chest tight with the simple weight of her hand in his.
"You two are disgustingly cute," Dee observed, her eyes tracking the subtle movement between them. "Do you even realize you're doing it? The little touches. The secret glances. The way you finish each other's sentences?"
"We've been together for six years," Jeannie said. "Five married. If we didn't have some kind of rhythm by now, I'd be worried."
"Rhythm," Sofia repeated, drawing the word out. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Some of us just have natural chemistry," Tony said. "Can't force it. Like a good swing."
"A golf reference," Larry said, perking up. "Now you're speaking my language."
"You're always speaking golf," Sofia said. "I'm starting to think you love the fairway more than you love me."
"I love you more than a hole-in-one," Larry said solemnly. "But that's a very close second."
David leaned forward, grabbing the champagne bottle to refill glasses around the table. "All right, enough sentiment. We're here to celebrate Tony and Jeannie surviving five years of marriage. That deserves more than just champagne and emotional speeches from Dee."
"I don't make emotional speeches," Dee said. "I make tactical observations delivered in a compelling manner."
"Tactical observations," Dale repeated, shaking his head. "You're the only person I know who treats a dinner party like a military operation."
"Someone has to," Dee said. "Otherwise you'd all be ordering appetizers and having a mediocre time."
"We're at a nightclub," Lauren pointed out. "There aren't any appetizers."
"Exactly my point." Dee's grin was sharp. "Someone had to make sure we weren't just standing around in a parking lot drinking warm beers."
"Hey," David said. "Parking lot beers have their own kind of charm."
"They do if you're nineteen and your only goal is to get drunk before your parents notice you took the car," Jimmy said. "At our age, we deserve a booth with a champagne bucket."
"Jimmy's right," Tony said. "We've earned the bucket."
Jeannie reached past him to grab a piece of cheese from the forgotten charcuterie board, popping it into her mouth with a satisfied hum. "Speaking of earning things—how's the podcast going, Jimmy? I feel like I haven't heard a new episode in weeks."
"Editing," Jimmy said with a groan. "I've got three episodes in the can, but the editing is killing me. I keep second-guessing everything. The pacing, the audio levels, the segues—"
"You're overthinking it," Tony said. "Your listeners don't care about audio levels. They care about content."
"They care about audio levels too," Jimmy countered. "I get comments. People are ruthless about background noise. I had one guy complain about my neighbor's dog barking in the background for three hours of a five-hour true crime episode."
"Three hours of dog barking?" David asked. "That's not a background issue, that's a content choice."
"The dog was in the first ten minutes," Jimmy said. "But this guy wrote an essay about it. A whole essay. Posted it in the episode comments like it was his thesis statement."
"The internet is full of experts," Dale said sagely. "Everybody's got an opinion and half of them have Wi-Fi."
"Speak for yourself," Dee said. "I have excellent Wi-Fi and even better opinions."
The conversation ebbed and flowed, sliding from podcasts to work to the kind of trivial observations that filled comfortable silences. Tony let himself drift through it, half-listening, half-focused on the warmth of Jeannie pressed against his side. She was talking to Lauren about something—a book, maybe, or a TV show—her hands moving with animated energy as she described whatever had captured her attention this week.
He loved watching her like this. Unaware of his gaze, fully present in the moment, her face alive with passion for whatever topic had caught her interest. She had a way of making even the most mundane subjects feel urgent. Important. Like they mattered because she was the one talking about them.
Jeannie caught him staring and raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing," he said. "Just appreciating the view."
"Gross," Sofia said. "Larry never says things like that. He tells me I look 'serviceable' when I ask if he likes my dress."
"I've never said serviceable in my life," Larry protested.
"You thought it," Sofia said. "I could see it in your eyes. 'That dress is serviceable for a Tuesday evening dinner with mild social obligations.'"
"I think 'mild social obligations' is the name of a law firm," Jimmy said.
"It's the name of our marriage," Dee muttered.
The table dissolved into laughter again. Tony felt the familiar warmth of belonging settle over him like a blanket—these people, this moment, this life he'd built. He reached for his champagne glass and caught Jeannie's eye. She raised her own glass, a silent toast between them, and the world beyond the booth seemed to fade to soft static.
She raised her own glass, a silent toast between them, and the world beyond the booth seemed to fade to soft static.
The static shattered when a wave of commotion rolled through the VIP section like a physical force. A collective gasp, a rising tide of excited squeals, the frantic scraping of chairs and the sudden crush of bodies moving toward the entrance. The amber lighting caught a cluster of towering figures descending the stairs, and the energy in the room shifted from celebratory to electric.
Max Glover moved through the crowd like a god stepping into his temple.
He was bigger in person than on television, which seemed impossible given how the cameras loved him. His shoulders strained against a tailored black shirt, open at the collar to reveal a hint of tanned chest. His jaw was cut from granite, his smile a weapon deployed with surgical precision as he greeted the swarm of fans pressing toward him. The chiseled features that graced billboards across the city were even more striking up close, somehow more dangerous.
Behind him, five men fanned out like a human wall. Tyler Johnson led the pack, his 325-pound frame casting shadows that swallowed the smaller club patrons whole. The offensive line moved with the casual confidence of men who had never encountered a locked door or a lost fight. They were celebrities in their own right, but they deferred to Max with the practiced ease of soldiers protecting their general.
"Max! Max! Can I get a selfie?"
"Mr. Glover, one more photo!"
"Over here, Max! Look this way!"
The shouts blurred together into a cacophony of desperation and adoration. Bodies pressed forward, phones extended like offerings, faces alight with the fever of proximity to greatness. The VIP section had transformed from an exclusive sanctuary into a feeding frenzy within seconds.
Larry practically levitated out of his seat. His chair scraped backward with a screech that was lost in the din, and he was already moving before his ass left the cushion. "Holy shit. Holy shit. That's Max Glover. I need—Sofia, my phone. Where's my phone?"
"You're holding it, Larry," Sofia said flatly, but he was already gone, weaving through the crowd toward his hero with the single-minded determination of a man possessed.
The dance floor stretched between the booth and Max's position—two hundred feet of pulsing bodies and laser-lit chaos—but Larry crossed it like a man walking on water. His golf polo was untucked by the time he reached the edge of the crowd, his voice rising above the others as he shouted Max's name with the desperation of a dying man calling for salvation.
"Max! Max Glover! I'm your biggest fan! Can I get a picture?"
Max turned, his practiced smile never faltering. He said something to Larry—something that made Larry's face light up like a child on Christmas morning—and threw an arm around his shoulder. Larry's phone fumbled in his trembling hands, nearly dropping twice before he managed to capture the moment. His grin was so wide it threatened to split his face.
"That's pathetic," David observed from the booth, but there was no malice in his voice. Just the amused condescension of a man who had never felt the pull of celebrity worship.
"He's just excited," Sofia said, but her eyes weren't on her husband. They were fixed on Max Glover, tracking the way he moved through the crowd, the way he touched shoulders and clasped hands with the ease of a politician. "And can you blame him? Look at that man."
The other women followed her gaze. The table went quiet for a moment—not awkward, but appreciative. The kind of silence that acknowledged the obvious.
"He's not bad," Lauren conceded, tilting her head. "If you're into the whole Adonis thing."
"I'm into the whole Adonis thing," Dee said without hesitation. Her eyes raked over Max's frame with the critical assessment of a woman who knew exactly what she liked and wasn't afraid to look. "That man could read the phone book and I'd swoon."
"You don't swoon," Dale said, but he was grinning, watching his wife watch another man with the comfortable security of someone who had nothing to fear.
David leaned forward, his voice carrying over the noise of the crowd. "Speaking of which—you comfortable with your wife drooling over another man like that?"
"Completely," Dale said, taking a long pull from his beer. "We've got an arrangement. Free pass lists."
"Free pass lists?" Tony raised an eyebrow. "That's a new one."
"It's simple," Dee said, tearing her gaze away from Max long enough to engage with the conversation. "We each have a list of celebrities we're allowed to sleep with without consequences if the opportunity ever presents itself."
"Like a hall pass," Sofia added. "From high school."
"Except for celebrities," Dale said. "It's just a fun game. Never gonna happen, but fun to talk about. Keeps things interesting."
"You're telling me you'd actually be fine with Dee sleeping with another man?" David's voice carried an edge of disbelief. "If she came home and said she'd hooked up with Max Glover?"
"If Max Glover wanted my wife, I'd ask him for tips," Dale said with a laugh. "That man's a legend. And it's not like she's going to run off with him. It's just fantasy. Makes the reality better, you know?"
"I don't know if I'd call it better," Lauren murmured, but she was smiling.
"Dee's not the only one at this table with Max Glover on her free pass list," Dale added casually, gesturing with his bottle toward the women.
Jeannie's cheeks flushed crimson before she could stop them. The heat crept up her neck, spreading across her face like a confession written in blood. She reached for her champagne glass, hoping the motion would mask her reaction, but the damage was already done. Her eyes darted to Tony, then away, guilt flickering through her expression like a shadow.
"Wait, are you serious?" Lauren's voice carried genuine curiosity. "Who else has Max Glover on their list?"
Sofia moved with the grace of a woman who had spent years mastering the art of deflection. She tossed her dark curls over her shoulder, drawing attention away from Jeannie's burning cheeks with practiced ease. "Well, it certainly isn't Larry," she said, her voice dripping with theatrical disdain. "Unless Max has a golf handicap I don't know about."
The table erupted in laughter. Larry was still across the dance floor, too engrossed in his hero worship to notice his wife's comment. The moment passed, the attention shifting away from Jeannie's blush and toward Sofia's quick wit.
Jeannie exhaled, the breath leaving her lungs in a rush of relief. She risked a glance at Tony, but he was watching the crowd, his expression neutral. She told herself he hadn't noticed. Told herself the flush in her cheeks could easily be blamed on the champagne, the heat of the club, the proximity of so many bodies.
She didn't see the look that passed between Tony and Jimmy.
It was subtle—the kind of communication that came from a lifetime of shared history. Jimmy raised an eyebrow over the rim of his glass. Tony responded with a barely perceptible shake of his head. Eleven words exchanged in the space of a heartbeat, understood completely by both brothers.
Tony turned back to the table, his smile firmly in place. But something in his hazel eyes had shifted. Something watchful. Something patient.
Across the dance floor, Max Glover was working the crowd with the precision of a master. His wingmen had formed a loose perimeter around him, keeping the most fervent fans at bay while allowing the attractive ones through. Tyler Johnson's gaze swept the room with a predator's attention, cataloging faces, assessing threats, looking for opportunity.
Max's eyes found their booth.
His gaze skipped past David, past Dale, past Larry still hovering at his elbow like an overeager puppy. It landed on Jeannie, and something flickered in his expression—interest, recognition, the particular spark of a man who had just spotted a challenge worth pursuing.
Jeannie was laughing at something Lauren had said, her head thrown back, the column of her throat exposed in the amber light. She was beautiful in the way that caught men off guard—not the manufactured beauty of the club crowd, with their heavy makeup and practiced poses, but something real. Something alive.
Max's smile widened.
He said something to Tyler, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. Tyler nodded, his eyes following Max's gaze to the booth. A silent understanding passed between them—the kind that came from years of playing together, drinking together, hunting together.
Jeannie felt the weight of his attention before she understood its source. It settled on her like a hand on her shoulder, warm and insistent. She looked up, her eyes meeting Max's across the crowded room, and for a moment, the noise of the club faded to nothing.
He raised his glass. A silent toast. Acknowledgment.
She should have looked away. Should have turned back to her friends, dismissed the moment as nothing, chalked it up to a celebrity's casual acknowledgment of a random woman in a crowded club.
Instead, she held his gaze. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for him to read the truth she had been trying to hide from herself.
Tony's hand found the small of her back, warm and familiar. "You all right?"
She jumped, the spell broken. "What? Yeah. Fine. Just—it's loud in here."
"Want to leave?"
Her eyes flickered back to Max for a fraction of a second—a tell she didn't realize she'd given. "No. I'm fine. We're celebrating, remember?"
Tony's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. But he nodded, his hand remaining on her back as he turned back to the conversation.