“Where are we going?” I asked, a little unsure of what could be underground.

“You’ll see.”

Joseph stopped in front of a door that resembled one of those old bank safes. I didn’t even notice the buzzer on the wall until he moved his finger to press it. It lit up, and instantly, a secret window in the door slid open, and a pair of eyes stared at us.

Joseph opened his mouth to say something—I had no idea what—when the window abruptly slammed closed and the sound of a lock clicking echoed. The heavy door swung open slowly, and the man behind it bent down to give Joseph a hug. He was huge, as tall as he was broad.

“Good to see you. It’s been a while,” the burly man said.

“How’s it look tonight?” Joseph asked, and I wasn’t sure exactly what he was referring to because I had no idea what we were about to walk into.

“Private,” he said as he held the door open for us.

“Perfect.”

When we stepped inside, the first thing I saw was how dark the space was. There were numerous light fixtures attached to the walls, but they must have been set on the lowest setting possible. The booths had extremely high backs, which I assumed were for privacy, and they were scattered in no logical order. The bar resembled an old Western movie with rich, deep woods and bottles on the shelves that honestly looked a hundred years old.

“What is this place?” I whispered.

Aside from the Frank Sinatra music that played over speakers you couldn’t see, it was fairly quiet, and I didn’t want to draw attention.

“A limited-access speakeasy,” he answered, and I had no idea what that meant.

Once we sat down at one of the high-back booths, Joseph across from me, I realized that you really couldn’t hear any of the conversations happening around you. Which meant that no one would be able to hear ours either.

“What’s a limited-access speakeasy?” I asked.

A gorgeous woman appeared, almost out of thin air, to take our drink order. I had no idea what to get, so Joseph asked me what kind of hard alcohol I preferred.

“Vodka,” I said in response. “Always vodka.”

Once he ordered for me and she disappeared, Joseph leaned across the table separating us. “You know what a speakeasy is, I assume.”

I nodded.

“A limited-access one is basically like a private club. Only certain people can come in here.”

“Do you pay a fee?” I asked, genuinely curious. I’d never heard of such a thing before in my life.

“No. It’s not like a country club. But you have to be invited and accepted. The whole point is to keep private business private.”

“How do you get invited?”

“Word of mouth. Everyone who comes here is very powerful in their own way. But it isn’t just money that gets you in. Usually, that’s not enough. Your reputation counts. What you do for work. Who you do business with. All kinds of things,” he said, and I nodded like this was a totally common thing.