by Lana Sky
They stare right through me as I pick my way across the street. Either luck is on my side, or something else consumes their attention. Keeping my head down, I don’t question. In and out. Information. That’s all I need.
Red hair. Blue eyes. Petite.
“The fuck are you?” Someone nudges my hip the moment I mount the curb. Not a redhead, but a lanky brunette with a thick Russian accent. The remnants of a healing bruise circle her left eye, and she hasn’t even bothered to hide her mark—the indigo tattoo at the nape of her neck that proclaims her name and her number. 23.
I ignore her, pushing through the thick of the crowd, but her breath remains hot on the back of my neck.
“This street is Piotr’s territory,” she hisses. “He doesn’t like competition.”
I stop cold. That name shouldn’t affect me the way it does. Not now.
“I’ve never seen you before,” the girl adds, continuing to follow me the moment I remember how to move. “Most girls usually don’t look so…clean.”
She’s right. Everyone here is sporting some bruise or another. Each injury serves as a painful incentive to fight for the next car that slows before the curb. A panting blonde wins this round and claims the passenger’s seat of some creep’s Volvo, slamming the door behind her.
I stare long after the car has turned the corner. Once upon a time, I was that girl.
Not anymore. The night air sinks into my lungs, acting as an anchor against the memories, and I blink, focusing on the club once again. The bouncers guarding the doors are alert tonight, but it’s not the girls they’re watching. The road has their sole attention. They don’t even trade a joke like they would have in the old days. It’s as if they’re waiting for someone.
Or something.
“They’ll beat your ass if they know you don’t belong here,” my newfound shadow snarls into my ear, following my gaze. “I suggest you leave, or—”
“Have you seen this girl?”
The change of subject throws her off, and she steps back.
“She’s fifteen. Red hair. Her name…” I reach into my bra and withdraw a crumpled photograph I printed from a police database what feels like a lifetime ago. The edges flutter in the wind as I shove it beneath the girl’s nose without looking at it myself. “Her name is Anna.”
The girl raises an eyebrow, cutting her gaze to the photo and then away. “No.”
Disappointment claws through my chest, but I swallow hard and return the picture to its place nestled against my rib cage. This could be a blessing in disguise. After all, there’s a reason Grey wanted to focus his operation here. More girls than usual have been washing up in rivers or winding up dead in alleyways. All of them sport the same infamous indigo tattoo.
The syndicate is getting sloppy.
Or fearless.
“You said Piotr owns this block?” Somehow, I don’t choke on the name.
“Yes, Piotr. He runs the entire strip. And you don’t want him to see you,” the girl whispers. “You’re pretty. He likes that.”
“Is he here?” My voice shakes this time. But I’m here for Anna, not him. I’m here for Anna…
“No, he isn’t,” the girl says.
“What?” My confusion is genuine. Piotr’s absence is a new development. An alarming one.
The brunette blinks, her gaze a fraction sharper as she hones in on my ill-fitting wig and then my thigh as if sensing the holster strapped to it.
“I need to work.” Her gaze flickers away, and she’s already backing out of my reach. “I’m not sleeping in the alley again, and Vlad said he’d break my jaw next time I—”
“Vlad’s in charge now?” Old fear seeps into my tone, impossible to smother.
Suddenly, the microphone hidden against my chest weighs a ton. I don’t even have to picture Grey’s reaction to know I’ve gone too far. Focus, girl, he’d snarl. If you can’t keep your shit together, then cut and run.
“Thanks,” I croak, turning on my heel. “I’ll take my chances on another corner—”
“Wait.” The girl grabs my wrist, stopping me mid-step. “Oleg,” she calls to one of the bouncers. “New girl feels sick. I’ll show her where to wash up.”
Oleg, a beefy man with a bald head and a beer gut, grunts. “Five minutes.”
The girl pulls me along, and I do my best to stagger, keeping up the act.
“Where are we going?” I ask when we reach the back of the club.
A bony hand slams into my lower back, shoving me forward. Shit! I stagger into the wall, helpless as my wig is yanked from behind. Not off, but up, revealing the nape of my neck.
“Let go!” I twist, swatting her hand away, but it’s too fucking late.
Without resistance, the brunette takes two steps back, a smug smile tugging at her mouth. “Everyone’s heard of Piotr,” she says. “Everyone—”
“So what if I have?” I can’t stop myself from rubbing the back of my neck, where my own tattoo lurks.
“Listen.” With a wary glance at the mouth of the alley, the girl steps closer. “I’ve been here six months, and I’ve seen six number tens come and go since then. It’s like he hates the number more than the girl who wears it—wait!” She looks back as a fire door opens from the inside of the club.
A man is standing behind it. He’s tall, with a buzz cut, a tailored suit, and a cold expression. A bouncer. “You two,” he snarls in Russian. “Get back to the fucking road—” He breaks off, cocking his head as someone shouts something from within. “Wait. Come. You dance tonight.”
The girl beside me doesn’t hesitate. She hastens to the door, her eyes downcast.
“Did you fucking hear me?” The man whistles to me as if beckoning an animal. “Come.”
My feet drag me forward. The moment I reach the doorway, I’m shoved inside and transported seven years in the past. The hall even looks the same—peeling linoleum and gray walls. Up ahead, the faint pulse of music—different than the polka blaring in the front office—seeps out.
We’re herded down the hall, into the main club. At least a hundred men crowd a barroom, all facing a raised platform in the center of the darkened space. For their entertainment, a handful of topless girls barely out of puberty prance around to the beat of pounding bass.
Dancing, they call it.
My only consolation is that none of them have red hair.
None of them are Anna.
“Hey! You there!”
A man in a leather jacket barrels in our direction. I don’t recognize him. Built like a bear, he’s the epitome of the bouncer Piotr liked to employ. Every nerve in my body hums with awareness. Just how many marks in my file might I earn if I blow my cover now?
My fingers flutter to my hip, but someone pushes past me, knocking me off-balance.
“We have to change,” the dark-haired girl says, raising her voice above the music. She snatches my wrist, tugging me along the outskirts of the club and down another hallway. With no one in sight, she leans in close. “No sudden moves,” she mutters into my ear. “Trust me.”
She turns, leading me inside a cramped room lined with shelves. It’s one of the “dressing rooms,” stocked with enough tacky lingerie to supply a pornography studio. Bustiers. Thongs.
“You have to get dressed,” the girl warns. She shimmies out of her dress and pulls an even more risqué outfit from a hanger—a black thong and bra. “You might be able to sneak out if you can make it to the front. But not like that.” She frowns disapprovingly at my body. “Here.” She fishes something from a shelf, and a shudder runs through me at the sight of a white bustier and a matching pair of shorts. It can’t be the same pair. It can’t.
My fingers shake as I accept the garments anyway. She’s right. Swallowing hard, I pull my dress off, and the microphone clatters as it hits the floor.
“You’re a cop.” The girl eyes the device while tugging on her thong. “Thought so—”
“What are you doing?” Not running to tell, for one. Why?
I pull the bra on first before trading my underwear for a pair of white shorts. They’re not nearly long enough to hide the gun.
“You have to leave it,” the girl whispers.
I shouldn’t, but my fingers are already unfastening the straps of the holster. With my free hand, I rip the wig off and shove the gun inside it before hiding everything on the lowest rung of the nearest shelf. The last item I tuck away is a discolored picture on printer paper. A haunted girl stares at me from the surface of it, almost as if accusing me of leaving her a second time.
“Wait.” The brunette bites her lower lip, eyeing my back and the second tattoo etched there. “You’ll need to hide that too. Here.” She strains on her tiptoes and grabs something from a higher shelf. “Put these on—”
“No.” I cringe into the wall and trip over my heels. “I’ll wear something else.”
“There’s no time!” She presses the gaudy prop into my hands.
An ivory harness makes up the bulk of the costume piece. Two enormous white wings large enough to obscure my lower back spring from it. My throat tightens as I woodenly insert my arms through the frame.
“Better.” Still chewing on her lip, the girl nods in approval. “Let’s hope you remember how to blend in.”
That sounds like something Grey would say. He’s probably pitching a bitch fit by now. If I’m lucky, the least he’ll do is ensure I’m fired. Though maybe not. Snippets of conversation might get him a warrant. But if I could get him Vlad…
“Hey!” A knock rattles the door. “Hurry the fuck up!”
I square my shoulders as the door is thrown open.
The bouncer appraises us and gives the dark-haired girl a scoff. “Go get a tray,” he says, sending her off. Then he fingers my hair and frowns. “Who said you could switch the wig? Whatever. Come with me.” He inclines his chin for me to follow but continues to speak over his shoulder. “You dance. If you prove your worth, Vlad may not dump your skinny ass in the river tonight.”
How many of the girls juggling trays of vodka or dancing on stage hope to avoid that grisly outcome? With Vladimir Olshenkov’s name thrown into the mix, there is no boast too brutal to be proven correct. If I ever felt fear in my days as Ksenia, Vlad is one of the few bastards I might have ever harbored it for.
I find him holding court from a leather couch positioned at the farthest end of the stage. He’s cleanly shaved tonight. His girth has tripled since I saw him last, his jowls jiggling with every word he speaks. He isn’t scowling though; the bastard must be on his best behavior. Following the line of his gaze, I see why. A man is sitting across from him—a guest of honor? This far back, I can only make out his silhouette.
“Go!” The bouncer beside me slaps my ass, shoving me forward. “And be sure to fucking smile.”
My lips contort on command as I mount the stage. It’s one of the few things that has changed in my absence. Added length makes it long enough to serve nearly the entire expanse of the club, holding several girls at once.
Before tonight, I was sure I would never be able to dance the way I used to, stringing my body along like a puppet on a wire. Surprise, surprise, my old routine is still ingrained—the fallen angel with the fake wings.
I’m the only woman on stage with a prop—a fact the men in the audience don’t miss, a few whistling their amusement—but my attention is focused solely on the man seated at the head of the stage. The “throne,” we used to call it.
Vladimir Olshenkov barely looks up from the swill in his shot glass as he trades a few words with the dark-haired man beside him. A well-known criminal? I hope so. The identity of some thug doing business with Piotr would be the perfect leverage to cover my ass with Grey. But no… He turns, and I don’t recognize him.
A chiseled jaw anchors Romanesque features and intense blue eyes. Eyes that fixate on the right breast pocket where Vlad likes to keep his gun rather than ogle the dancers vying for his attention. The club itself holds his interest more than the dancers. He scans the room while brushing a mop of black curls from his face. Something’s off about his right hand. The ring and middle fingers are normal, but the remaining three are formed of black material and metal joints. Prosthetics.
There are no identifying tattoos on his arms to symbolize whatever cartel he’s loyal to. His black shirt and jeans can’t be traced to any one gang.
“My associate apologizes for his unexpected absence,” Vlad murmurs to him, his accent thick. “Please, enjoy yourself.”
The younger man says nothing—or, if he does, I don’t hear him. Desperate, I shuffle closer, dragging my hands along my hips while my heart hammers out a staccato rhythm.
All I need is a name. A location. Something worth the mounting risk. Something to leverage.
“Hey!”
I look down and find Vlad snapping his fingers.
“Drinks for my friend,” he commands a startled girl holding a tray a few feet away.
The brunette I came in with. She hurries closer and offers her selection of drinks. The stranger takes a shot of vodka, while Vlad amuses himself by pinching the girl on her ass. She trips, landing across the stranger’s lap, and spills booze onto the leather couch. I physically stop myself from lurching forward as the stranger grabs her arm. He should throw her off him. Hit her, even. Instead, his touch provides enough stability for her to lean against him, her mouth near his ear. The subtle motion of her lips could be a trick of the light. Either that, or she tells him something. Something that makes his gaze flicker toward me.
“Silly bitch,” Vlad snaps, shoving her to her feet. She mutters apologies and scurries off while the two men shift away from the spreading puddle of alcohol.
Oh, Vlad. I would give anything to shove my heel through his eye socket. Twist. Stomp. Grind. This bastard deserves more than a simple bullet to the brain. He deserves to be cut, burned, tortured. Rage sears through my veins, goading my movements. It’s his throat my groping fingers clench, not my breasts. Every sharp twist of my hips grinds the life out of him, bit by goddamn bit.
“You call this a fucking show?”
From my peripheral vision, I see Vlad gesture toward the women in front of him, myself included.
“Get me someone new.”
My pulse skips. One of the bouncers rushes toward the stage, and I reach back to unhook my bra. With a flick of my wrist, I toss the garment at Vlad’s feet.
“Wait.” He holds his hand up as the bouncer nears my position. Then he sinks back against the cushions of the couch, rubbing his chin. “She can stay.”
Air floods my lungs in a dizzying rush. He always did prefer the slow, vulgar shows. The kind where the girl pretended to fuck the stage, salivating for any man to give her a fix. He liked breaking those girls even more.
But a striptease can only buy me so much time. Focus! The girl told me that making it to the front is my only way out. Taking my eyes off Vlad, I scan the far wall, spotting the exit, which is guarded by another bouncer. Slipping past him should be easy enough. Gradually, I inch backward, still flexing my hips. One step. Two…
“You.”
Every ounce of air leaves my lungs as Vladimir sits forward, eyeing my body with a frown. This is it. I wait for his beady pupils to narrow in recognition or for his hands to curl into fists.
One of them slashes through the air, gesturing toward the couch. “He wants you to give him a dance.”
He didn’t notice. My heart starts beating again only to sputter to a stop as my brain processes the full command. Give him a dance. Slowly, my attention returns to the other man.
He’s watching me. Dark stubble covers his chin, but his smooth, porcelain features remind me of something from a cathedral fresco. Like a cherub. Or a demon.
I dismount the stage on trembling legs, and another morbid memory flashes. I hated being singled out for thes
e impromptu lap dances. They, more than anything, were the source of the beatings Vlad or Piotr would dish out every night.
“We have better girls,” Vlad says as I approach. “But if you like...you get to know her a little better, no?”
The other man mulls over the prospect of owning me. “All right.”
“Excellent!” Vlad claps and lets out a hearty chuckle. “You”—he snaps his fingers—“take him in the back.”
Those five words teleport me into the past. Take him in the back. Suffer for twenty minutes. Earn your keep. Do it again. Back. Fuck. Money.
Anything to avoid a beating.
“Are you deaf?” Vlad slaps me on my ass, snapping me into action.
I woodenly reach for the blue-eyed man’s hand. The wrong hand. He draws back, clutching his arm to his chest. He extends the opposite hand, however. When he finally stands, he towers over me. And he smells. Like vinegar. Or something more chemical in nature. Ammonia?
His shoulder collides with mine, jarring my precarious balance and cutting the thought off. He’s impatient.
Taking his lead, I start forward, pulling him after me.
“Enjoy,” Vlad tells the stranger, his voice conveying a warning to me at the same time.
Don’t screw up.
The threat chases me down the long, winding hallway, where faint moans and grunts come from behind a row of doors, many closed. A lone bouncer inclines his head toward the only open doorway.
I know, even before I freeze over the threshold, which room will be free. An agonizing pinch of nostalgia strikes again, ripping through my rib cage. Home sweet home.
My old prison has seen some renovations. Piotr’s opted for a darker decor nowadays. The dark-gray walls reflect the glow cast by silver sconces affixed above the bed. It takes up the most space—a custom size that allows him to “entertain” more than one girl at a time. Two oak nightstands bookend either side, and one holds another infamous artifact from my past. Round. Silver. It’s a basin probably meant to adorn some fancy dinner table. Piotr used it as an ashtray—usually. Some nights, it became his makeshift weapon. Vlad must want to impress this guest if he’s letting him have his tryst in here.