by Susan Stoker
A few beats of silence pass before I finally get a reaction out of him. Clasping his hands together, he leans forward, his voice deep, monotone, and colorless. “Perhaps I was unclear. I wish to be left alone and to not have my privacy invaded.”
Ignoring his brush off, I pour the clear liquid into the two glasses. “Well, that ship sailed about thirty seconds ago. You know, when you invaded mine. Besides, maybe company is just what you need to loosen up.” Setting the bottle back down, I cock my chin at his hard expression. “I don’t know what’s clenched tighter, your hands or your ass.”
His jaw tightens, straining the muscles in his neck. “Do you not have other tables to serve?”
His thick accent wraps around me like a coat of thorns.
I don’t trust Russians. Mainly, because I am one. We’re extremists. We’ll take a bullet for one friend while driving a knife in the back of another.
Plus, the ones who frequent Seven are regulars, either patrons or business associates. I know them by face, if not by name. But this guy is new, and in my world, new is never good.
It’s deadly.
I shouldn’t be here, but I’ve never been one to color inside the lines. I’m not a princess to be sheltered.
Eventually, I’ll be queen.
A pakhan with an eye for opportunity, a mind for business, and a thirst for blood.
“There will come a time you’ll walk through a door that will lock behind you,” my father keeps telling me.
I’m ready now.
I just wish he’d unlock the shackles and let me prove it.
Maybe the man sitting across from me holds a skeleton key. Nobody’s here to stop me or question my authority. If he’s a threat, now is my chance to earn my place behind that closed office door.
That’s when I make my mind up.
“I’m off the clock,” I comment. “Now do I get my answer?”
“Tough customer?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. And you’re evading.”
Yet again, he doesn’t answer me. Apparently, we’re locked in a battle of wills, but at least it gives me a chance to assess him. He’s definitely older. Late thirties, maybe early forties? The lines webbing from the corners of his eyes paint a picture of experience and haunting loss.
This guy has seen some shit.
I have no idea what he looked like as a young man, but something tells me he’s aged like a barrel of whiskey. Fresh and young, it can be bleak and one-dimensional, but with time, it becomes smoother, more complex, the flavor lasting much longer.
Lascivious images flood my mind at that last thought, sending a rush of heat between my legs.
“Are you all right?” For the first time, I catch a faint hint of amusement in his voice. Unfortunately, when I glance up, I find the same stoic stare and razor-thin lips.
Well played.
Still, he intrigues me. He’s not conventionally attractive, a trait both refreshing and telling. Perfection is just a beautiful mask. It’s a man’s visible flaws that speak his truth. Take the jagged scar running from the inside of his right eyebrow, down the bridge of his nose, for instance. There’s a lot of truth buried in that scar. Truth most girls couldn’t handle.
Then again, I’m not most girls.
He shifts his gaze around every corner of the club, then shoves a frustrated hand through long layers on top of his dirty blond hair. I’ve decided it’s the only thing on him that isn’t orderly and efficient.
His face gives nothing away. No expression. No smile. If I didn’t see the man take a breath, I’d wonder if he was real.
And those eyes—cold, blue, and empty.
Mechanical.
Frozen.
The moment he swings that steely gaze back on me, another shiver runs down my spine. Looking away, I swipe the bottle and continue pouring. “You got a name, Iceman?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Mik.”
Well, shit. I didn’t expect him to cave that quickly. Time to move onto phase two of Operation Jailbreak.
“Mik. . .” I bite my lip, tracing my teeth with my tongue, and push the shot glass toward him. “Have a drink with me, Mik.”
Mik stares at the shot glass, his arms folded tightly over his chest. “I drink nothing that is not bottled or canned.”
“Any specific reason?”
“Only a fool drinks open liquid someone has given him.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Paranoid much?”
His response is a narrowed gaze, sharp enough to draw blood. “No, experienced much.”
He doesn’t relent, the intensity of his stare cutting right through my act. He knows my sudden sex kitten routine isn’t a come on. It’s a diversion. Whoever Mik is, he came here with an agenda.
But he won’t leave with it.
A pair of tits can be deadlier than any bullet. I should know. I learned from the best. My mother didn’t get to be the head of the Miami Bratva by fucking men to get what she wanted. She got there by fucking them over and taking it.
“Suit yourself.” I sip my drink, my gaze narrowing a fraction as the alcohol flows through my bloodstream.
He sits back in his chair, stroking the blond stubble on his face. “Do the owners usually allow their waitresses to drink on the clock?”
“I’m not a waitress.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “A dancer?”
“You could say that.” I could say a lot of things. Doesn’t make them true.
He stills, balling his fist at his chin before slamming it onto the table. I flinch but stifle a shriek.
Well, that was unexpected.
Okay, so he isn’t particularly fond of strippers, but his reaction seems a little excessive. According to the heavy sigh he lets out, he agrees. “Then do you not have somewhere to be? A dance to perform? Men to entertain?”
I settle my gaze on the side of his face. “Do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Talk so formal all the time. I haven’t heard you use a single contraction since you opened your mouth. It’s a little odd.”
For the first time, he laughs. To be fair, it’s more of a sarcastic huff, but it’s progress. “Because you are American. Your language is…” He waves a hand in the air. “How do you say…? Unrefined.”
I have a feeling not many people stick around to push this guy’s buttons. But I’m finding that the harder I push the more chinks in his armor I cause.
Raising my hand, I flag down a passing cocktail waitress. “Ginger!”
She doesn’t hesitate to change her course and arrive at our table. Partly out of friendship, but mostly out of fear. I may be young, but I have access to the guillotine.
“Bring my friend a….” Pausing, I gesture toward the bar. “Pick your poison, Mik.”
His eyes never leave mine. “Any bottled beer is fine.”
Ginger nods dutifully.
“Unopened,” I call out as she walks away.
This time, those tightly pursed lips curve up in a wicked smirk, and something happens to me. Words get caught in my throat. My mind blanks. He’s melting, and I’m drowning.
Don’t chase storms. My mind warns. This man is a chameleon.
But I don’t listen. In fact, I do the exact opposite. After Ginger returns with his beer, I toss my shot back, and not only do I chase the storm, but I run right into the fucking eye. “Aren’t you going to ask me my name?”
He inspects the beer and then pops the cap off on the end of the table, satisfied I haven’t tried to poison him. “No.”
“Gotta tell you, Mik, your conversational skills need a little work.”
“And I told you: I do not want company.” He takes a long swig from the bottle, the battle within him playing out across his face. Finally, he relents, letting out an irritated growl. “Well, what is it?”
“What’s what?”
“Your name?” he grumbles.
I can almost feel the chains around my wrist unlocking.
“Bebe.”
I’ve said the name so many times in the last three months, I’m not shocked at how easily it rolls off my tongue.
I anticipate answering more questions, just not the one he asks. “That is quite the bruise you have, Bebe.” He tips the bottle toward my face.
Fuck.
I resist the urge to brush my fingers over it.
My bruise. The reason I’m here instead of a classroom at South Dade University.
The reason my boyfriend ended up as shark bait instead of my skeleton key.
4
Zasha
They say those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it. Too bad Evan Parker didn’t pay attention.
I thought three layers of makeup covered the splotchy yellow, green, and purple bruise spanning my right cheekbone. It’s finally fading, and since no one has said shit for days, I assumed the evidence my late boyfriend left had become invisible.
I should’ve known better.
With that laser stare of his, Iceman could see through a concrete wall.
“I fell,” I lie, brushing my hair over my face.
“Into a fist?”
I open my mouth, ready to fling the sharp insult sitting on my tongue when I catch a flash in those emotionless eyes.
It’s barely there half a heartbeat before disappearing, devoured by the blank void he controls like a virtual puppet string. But it’s too late to hide. Growing up Bratva, I’ve learned always to be aware. To notice everything. To see the unseeable. The slightest tap of a finger could signal a bloodbath.
That flash is another chink. I’m getting to him. Mik is a man of few words, but that’s by design. He can learn to control his tongue. He can even train himself to control his expressions. But there’s one very demanding part of a man that will always have its own set of rules.
And this is what he wants.
He wants me to slip up.
He wants domination.
That flash was nothing but arrogance. A provocation designed to tip my hand.
“Why did you come here tonight, Mik?” I run my index finger along my collarbone. His jaw clenches again, those glacier-frosted eyes tracing every touch. “It’s obviously not for the scenery. Don’t you have better places to spend a Thursday?”
“I am waiting for someone.”
I wink. “Maybe you’ve already found her.”
That earns me a patronizing smirk. “Unless Bebe is short for Niko or Ava, then no, I have not.”
I knew it.
See, Papa? I told you I’m ready.
Even though my head buzzes with the need to hurl accusations and demand answers, I hold back, mimicking Mama’s aloof disinterest. “Oh, you know them?”
“You could say that,” he says, throwing my words back at me.
Now the bastard’s just playing with me.
As Mik lifts his lips, I see that flash again. This time it’s brighter, almost like a match sparking in his eyes. Slowly lowering the bottle, he pins me with a stare so molten, layers of skin melt under its command. “Do you know Zasha Gaheris?”
Fuck. Shit. Fuck.
Didn’t see that one coming.
No way am I coming clean now. I’ve already circled the first seven layers of Dante’s Inferno. Might as well punch my ticket to the eighth and check out the view from Fraudville.
“You could say that.” I lob the words right back to him. “Why do you ask?”
His tattooed hand grips the bottle tightly. “I need to find her.”
And I need to ensure you don’t.
My stomach twists into a bouquet of knots. This isn’t about either of my parents. He’s here for me. For once in my life, I understand all the unreasonable demands for secrecy—the aliases, the private tutors, the wigs, and colored contact lenses. No social media accounts whatsoever.
It was to prepare for this.
I can’t get a read on him. He’s an opaque wall I can’t see through to decide if he truly doesn’t know my face, or if he’s playing a game. But it doesn’t matter. He may be older than me, but I can move chess pieces around just as strategically.
Never underestimate a Chernov.
“Good luck with that.” I snort, maintaining my composure. “You’d have better luck breaking out of prison.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Well, since that circle has already been crossed, luck should be on my side, yes?”
The son of a bitch is laughing.
Oh my God, he really has no idea who I…
Wait, what?
I replay his words in my head, rearranging them until they make sense. “Box has been checked,” I correct, crooking my finger over my lips to hide my smirk.
His eyebrows draw together as lines dart across his forehead. “What box?”
“You said, ‘since that circle has already been crossed.’ The phrase is, ‘box that’s been checked’.”
“Whatever.” Swiping his beer off the table, he slumps into his chair. “Fucking Americans.”
Actually, luck is on my side, Iceman. You just inadvertently hand-delivered a corner piece to the “Who the hell is Mik” puzzle.
He spent time in prison, vacating on his own terms, it seems.
I tuck that information away for later.
A later which may never come.
I thought Mik would have broken by now. Most men do. I may be young, but I’m hardwired for this shit. Immorality flows through my veins. My education came from infamous men whose body count secured their place in history.
Blood and business create the perfect storm...and the perfect criminal.
Unfortunately, one whose freedom is ticking away by the second. I’ve never met a more frustrating man in my life than Mik. I still haven’t figured out if he’s here to kidnap me or kill me.
My skin heats. Along with something else.
One minute, I think he might throw me across the room; the next, I wonder if he’s going to throw me on the table.
Think, Zasha. Remember. Notice details.
Somehow, he got past Tag without being a member.
This all started with his interest in my altercation with Seth.
He admitted to looking for my parents.
Obviously, he knows my name, but not my face.
Paranoia won’t allow him to drink anything he can’t open himself.
His anger flared when I said I was a stripper.
My bruise set him off.
He’s an escaped convict.
It all sounds too familiar. Too routine. As if his mannerisms and triggers are more orthodox than odd. I should be afraid of him, but I’m not. It’s as if I recognized him before I even sat down.
Shit, if he had dark hair and a scowl, I’d swear he was my…
My heart plunges into my stomach, my entire body becoming a solid block of ice. “What kind of prison?” I rasp. He raises an eyebrow, so I clear my throat, trying to maintain an unaffected tone. “Federal?”
Please say yes.
His blue eyes snap toward me. “Why do you ask?”
Thinking fast, I offer a coy shrug. “Bad boys turn me on.”
He shakes his head as if I’m some silly little cocktail waitress, blindly wading in waters she’ll never understand. “Is that right? Then what does it do for you to know it was a Colombian shithole? I was not there to save someone, lisichka. I was there to end them—with as much pain as humanly possible.” He leans across the table, and like a magnet, I follow. “Does that change your mind?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Even if the man was innocent?”
He’s baiting me again. But this is one test, I know I’ll pass. Gritting my teeth, I hold his stare. “There’s no such thing as innocence. Only degrees of guilt.”
He pulls back, his posture suddenly stiffening. He didn’t expect that. “Then you should be pleased to know this one would have broken your morality scale. However, you are wrong about innocence. There are those who exude nothing but light, and at this mudak’s hand, the Magdalena River ran red
with their blood.” The words are spat with such hatred, I flinch.
The Magdalena River.
My heart slams against my chest. I’ve heard that story my entire life. The Colombian in question was an arms dealer with a lucrative side business. Human trafficking. The sick son of a bitch bought and sold girls as young as four to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Multiple people wanted him dead, therefore multiple guns came for him.
One of them was Mik.
Another was my father.
That’s the moment everything clicks. When all the mismatched puzzle pieces snap into place, and I see the whole blood-soaked picture. The man sitting across from me is the friend whose life my father saved in a Colombian prison years before he married my mother. The friend who then helped him save her from my piece of shit grandfather.
That friend’s name was Mikhail Drozdov. One of only two men in the world to gain Niko Gaheris’s trust.
The threads of his cloak have unraveled. But it’s too late to deviate from the role I’ve chose to play. “So,” I ask, blinking up at him. “What are you, some kind of dark angel?”
“No, lisichka. I am no dark angel. I am death.”
Lisichka. Little fox. Somehow, I don’t think he means the name to be a compliment on my looks, more like a nod to my deception.
Holy shit. Does he know I’m lying?
“Are you here to hurt the Gaheris family?” My breath hitches. My role is no longer clearly defined. I’ve drifted away from an overly friendly waitress and exposed the heart of a daughter.
He shakes his head. “Nyet. I am trying to keep history from repeating itself.”
“What does that mean?”
As if realizing I’ve steadily pelted his armor with rocks, his relaxed features tighten into that impassive mask. “I think our time together has expired, lisichka.” He rises to his feet. “Enjoy your night.”
“Wait!” Before my brain makes sense of my body’s actions, I leap across the table. Mik stills, his eyes slowly lowering to where my fingers hold on to his wrist.
“Why?” One word. Loaded question.
My mind races to come up with an excuse, but those damn eyes are chiseling into the side of my head. It’s anxiety that shifts my eyes toward the wall, but it’s instinct that draws them up the stairs and down a darkened hallway.