Her Royal Master

by Renee Rose

  He wasn’t wearing a suit. Neither were Freddo and Tommy. Tonight could get bloody, and who wanted to ruin a thousand dollar Armani? No, just a short-sleeved button-down and slacks tonight. With his customary swagger, he led the way to the front of the line snaking onto the sidewalk in front of Blue Turtle, the upscale club Jake Carr owned.

  Jake was in deep shit.

  Yuri could give two fucks about Jake or his cocaine habit-induced problems. It was Jake’s captivating little sister he wasn’t going to let die.

  Lucy.

  The Blue Turtle’s resident DJ was an ongoing source of fascination for Yuri. How did something so fresh, so full of light, exist in their world of darkness? It was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

  Her music pumped out on the sidewalk, the bass loud enough to demand their heartbeats amp up the speed to match. The bouncer at the door recognized them and opened the velvet rope for them without a word. “Where’s Jake?” Freddo demanded in notes of deep baritone asshole.

  The bouncer shrugged his shoulders. “Not in yet—I haven’t seen him.”

  Freddo glowered at the guy for a minute but he clearly didn’t know anything, including enough to be scared, so they moved on, into the club.

  The moment they walked in, Yuri’s eyes went to the DJ booth, where they were always drawn.

  Lucy bounced in the plexiglass enclosed space, pumping her arm in the air, an exhilarated grin lighting up her beautiful face. High cheekbones made her face heart-shaped, and a bow shaped her mouth. Her pale skin was flawless and bright, decorated with a tiny piercing of a diamond up by one eye. She could have been a model. Or an actress. But instead she had this counter-culture thing going—hair dyed platinum and pulled into two fuzzy pigtails high on her head. Fucking adorable.

  Just seeing her lifted a weight from Yuri’s shoulders, only it immediately slammed back down onto his chest, because yeah. If Jake no-showed tonight, Lucy would become their hostage until he did. You don’t stiff the don his drug money and expect to get away with it.

  She caught sight of them as they pushed through the crowd, and looked away quickly, telling him she knew why they were there. He sure as hell hoped she would cooperate and just inform them of her brother’s whereabouts. Or call him to come down.

  He walked to the booth and tapped on the glass. She stood on an elevated platform, so he had to reach up to knock, but he knew she saw him there.

  She pretended she didn’t.

  He walked around to the side and tried the handle on the door but it was locked from the inside. Smart girl. A bouncer saw him and started to come over, then he must’ve realized who Yuri and his cohorts were and quickly diverted his attention to something else.

  Yuri threw his shoulder into the door until the plywood splintered and the lock broke away.

  The look of terror Lucy gave him gutted him. But she should be afraid. Only a healthy dose of fear was going to get her out of this mess. He stalked up the stairs.

  She tore her earphones off and shouted over the music. “You can’t be in here!”

  Up close, she was even harder to take in, her light so bright it fucking blinded him. She wore a simple white tank top—wife beater style and too small, so it hugged her androgynous body. In hot pink glittered letters, the word kinky glowed across her small tits. It nearly made his knees buckle. Was she kinky?

  No. It was just a sassy shirt she wore to grab attention, along with the miniscule jean skirt that barely covered her ass, and the platform sandals with straps that tied around her ankles. She probably had no idea what kink even meant.

  He ignored her declaration and countered with his own. “Where’s your brother?”

  She visibly paled and her mouth tightened, but she lifted her chin with a bravado he had to admire. “Something came up. He’s not coming in tonight.”

  He pointed a finger, using the warning look he’d first perfected as enforcer for a teenage street gang back in Russia. “Call him. Tell him to get his ass down here, or there’s trouble. Do it now.” He turned and left, not able to stand there and see the fear he’d put into that precious face a moment longer.

  It made him sick to threaten her.

  He tripped back down the stairs and met Freddo and Tommy, who’d gone to the bar.

  “Manager says he’s not in yet but she’s expecting him later,” Freddo said.

  “Bullshit,” he rasped, his Russian accent always growing thicker when he got tough.

  “Right. So we grabbing the girl?” Tommy asked.

  “Not yet.” He spoke too quickly. Willing his body to hang loose and easy, he surveyed the club. “We wait. If he doesn’t show by closing time, the girl comes with us. I told her to call him.”

  “And you think he’ll come running down to get his ass kicked?” Freddo snorted.

  “No. But we can’t grab the DJ in the middle of a set. They’ll call the cops in a heartbeat.”

  “No one here wants the cops involved,” Tommy countered.

  He was right. The club may be high end and filled with hordes of beautiful people, but it also was a mecca for drug sales of all kinds. Which was how Jake had got himself fucked.

  “They will if you drag the girl out in front of three hundred witnesses. Sit. We wait.”

  Yuri wasn’t their leader. He was just a fucking soldier. Freddo was his capo, but his experience in the Russian mafiya had encompassed a lifetime’s worth of street cred, so they’d learned to respect his opinions. He just hoped he could keep leading this show until Lucy was out of the don’s crosshairs.

  Tommy strong-armed his way into a table and chairs and they waved down a cocktail waitress, who came running, having learned months ago that if she gave them special service, they tipped in c-notes.

  He slid his chair around where he could keep an eye on his beautiful DJ, which wasn’t anything new. He always positioned himself where he could see her. Watching her revel in pumping up a crowd was the only glimmer of light in his fucking mess of an unlived life. Three years he’d been working undercover for the FBI as Don Diego’s enforcer, and he still hadn’t managed to nail the guy. His life was a series of drug drops and beatings. He had yet to be ordered to kill, which was either a good thing or bad. If the order came through Freddo, he’d be in a bad place—forced to choose to kill or blow his cover without nailing Don Diego. The part that gave him night sweats was wondering which he’d choose. He had so much blood on his hands already. A little more in the name of justice wouldn’t change much.

  Or would it?

  Wasn’t his soul supposed to be saved now that he’d gone straight?

  On the other hand, if he managed to get a recording of Don Diego making the order to kill, he’d have succeeded, making his mentor, boss and possibly only friend, Leo, proud.

  The Russian was staring at her. That wasn’t new. Every time he came into the club he found a chair with a view of the dance floor and watched—not the dance floor, but her. As if there was anything interesting about a DJ. She’d been tempted to flash her tits or something just to see what he’d do.

  But tonight was different. Jake hadn’t told her exactly what happened, but from what she’d pieced together, some money or drugs had been stolen from him and now he owed the mob. He’d told her they’d given him a deadline and he was trying to scrape the money together. He’d also promised he’d have it figured out in time, but based on the way Yuri the Fury had busted in her DJ booth door, Jake’s time was up.

  Her gut twisted with dread. She’d known, the first time she saw the mobsters in the Blue Turtle, her brother was in over his head. But of course he wouldn’t listen to her. She was six years his junior, which meant he still thought of her as a baby.

  It probably didn’t help that she’d done nothing with her college communications degree except backpack across Europe, rock his dance floor, and sign up for a yoga teacher training course. He was the one telling her to fix her life. But he’d been partying too much since he opened the nightclub.

  She got it. It
was an exciting, glamorous world, and by the simple nature of being the club owner, he was a rockstar. He’d started snorting coke recreationally and occasionally dropping E. Then he’d started dealing—just a little to his best customers, he’d told her. And his dealers? Yeah. They were members of the Italian mafia. Who also happened to employ one intense and sexy Russian with an apparent crush on her.

  She’d asked Jake to be careful, but he always exuded confidence. He’d told her he had it handled. Nothing bad would ever happen.

  Famous last words.

  Oh God, no. She couldn’t think that. Jake would show up with the money any minute now. And hopefully he would never do business with these men again.

  Somehow she made it through her set, but with the Russian and his Italian heavies staring her down, she’d lost her mojo completely. Not that anyone on the dance floor noticed.

  The DJ who gave her an hour’s break between sets came into the booth and she pulled off the headphones and put her records back into her plastic crate, taking it with her, since she didn’t trust other DJs not to steal them. She went straight from the booth through the door that led behind the bar, annoying all the bartenders as she lifted her crate high to get past them. Though she didn’t look, she sensed the Russian trailing her along the other side of the bar. She kept moving, into the storeroom, where she shoved her records into a locking cupboard and grabbed her purse. From there, she went out the far door and around the corner to the women’s restroom, just as the Russian pushed through the crowd to catch up with her. Inside, she leaned against the wall and attempted to slow her heart rate.

  She checked her phone. No response from Jake.

  Damn him.

  She needed to get out of the club.

  A scantily-dressed, leggy brunette stood at the mirror, primping. Lucy fished a twenty dollar bill out of her purse. “I’ll give you twenty bucks if you kiss the sexy Russian standing outside this door.”

  The woman grinned, snatching up the money before Lucy had even finished talking. “What’s he look like?”

  “Blond. Built like a fighter. Tattoos everywhere.” Yuri’s black ink extended up his neck, down his forearms, and across his knuckles.

  Her smile grew wider. “Okay.” With a flounce, she whirled on her high heels and clicked out.

  Lucy followed close behind, slipping past as the brunette wrapped her arms around Yuri’s neck and tried to slip him the tongue.

  Lucy ducked down, crawling under cocktail tables toward the emergency exit in the back, praying he didn’t see her.

  Over the music, she thought she heard the sound of a smack and squeal, and hoped the Russian hadn’t hurt the woman.

  The club was packed and the music pumping. No one even noticed her crawling under their tables. Or, if they did, no one reacted quickly enough to say anything. She emerged at the end of the line of high-tops, just feet from the back door. The alarm would go off if she went out of it, but the bouncer was there and he could disable it.

  She made a mad dash for him, but a strong arm caught her around the waist and dragged her back against six feet of solid muscle. Fear coiled with something else—dark interest in the man who’d captured her.

  It’s like the captivation she had with villains and anti-heroes. She was the type who always rooted for them to get their day.

  The bouncer started toward them, but then recognized Yuri and paled. He shot her a “what should I do?” look.

  Not wanting to get him killed, she averted her eyes.

  Yuri wrapped one hand around her throat. He didn’t squeeze, but used it to pull her head back against his chest, the threat of asphyxiation obvious and clear. “Little DJ,” he spoke directly in her ear, his thick accent so much sexier that way, “I would love to let you sneak out the back door, except for two things.”

  She cursed the trembling in her limbs, which she was certain he felt. To make it worse, his hand at her waist started to roam, slipping inside her tank top and skimming across her belly. It sent ripples of heat and tremors cascading down her inner thighs. “Wh-what things?” she managed to breathe.

  His warm palm coasted over her skin, up to one breast, which he squeezed through her bra. Back down to the waistband of her jean skirt, where he insinuated his fingers. “One. Nobody gives me the slip, so the boys would know I let you go.” His lips pressed against her ear so it seemed like he spoke right into her very cells. His fingers wriggled deeper into her skirt, making her clit come alive with the nearness. “And two, I can’t let another one of Don Diego’s thugs pick you up instead of me. Then I couldn’t protect you.”

  She wrestled with her breath, trying to even it out, slow it down before she hyperventilated. “P-protect me?”

  He couldn’t wedge his fingers any further into her skirt so he settled for grasping the top of her panties and pulling up, tugging them into the seam of her sex, the fabric threading over her pulsing nub. “Yes. Come with me now. I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you. You have my word.”

  A shiver ran through her, but it wasn’t of fear. There was a solemnity to the oath he uttered that made goosebumps stand out on her arms. She’d long suspected the Russian had a thing for her and this seemed to confirm it.

  He gave one last tug of her panties and eased his hold on her, turning her around to face him. “Come.” He took her hand and led her toward the back door, nodding at the bouncer before he shoved the door open.

  The bouncer flicked off the alarm. “Good night, guys.”

  Really, dude? Not that she wanted him to get killed trying to stop them, but good night, guys when she was being led out by Yuri the Fury? Well, she supposed the way Yuri was holding her hand made it look like they’d hooked up and were on their way to screw like horn dogs, rather than… well, she didn’t know where they were going, but she sure as hell hoped it didn’t involve a pair of pliers and her fingernails being ripped off.

  I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you.

  Beautiful, dark Russian.

  He’d once seen a guy squeeze her breast in the club. It had been some drunk stranger, acting like an asshole. She’d batted the guy’s hand away, about to tell him to keep his nasty paws to himself, when suddenly the guy levitated, a set of tattooed knuckles wrapped around his throat.

  “Apologize,” the Russian, who had appeared out of nowhere, had snarled in his thick accent.

  The guy hung in the air, kicking and choking, too stupid or drunk to even understand what had happened. He turned blue in the face as the Russian shook him. “I said, apologize.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the guy had choked and Yuri had dropped him, glowering and cracking his knuckles as the guy literally bolted like a rabbit straight out of the club.

  She’d turned to Yuri and met his dangerous, ice blue gaze. She’d cocked a hip. “That wasn’t necessary.” There were six bouncers she could have called for help—if she thought she’d needed it, which she hadn’t.

  His resting face always appeared angry, but now it screwed up with fury. “Yes it was,” he growled. “You did not like him touching you.”

  She’d swallowed, fighting against the swoon those words produced. She didn’t need a Russian mobster with serious anger management issues taking an interest in her protection, no matter how sexy she found him. “What do you care, anyway?”

  For the first time, that intense gaze of his faltered. He looked away, fists still clenching. “I don’t know.” He spoke through tight lips, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

  Her belly had fluttered, a wash of warm tingles sweeping over her. Did Yuri the Fury have a reluctant crush on her? She’d thought it so highly unlikely it was laughable. No one had a crush on her. Guys wanted to fuck her, sure. Only because she looked fun and available. But no one cared about getting to know her. No one sat at their table drinking iced vodka staring at her for hours on end while she played.

  Except Yuri.

  So, as he led her through the parking lot like they were on a date, one part of her fear flutt
ered in a direction that almost resembled excitement.

  Until she saw the other two goons stalking toward them from separate directions, all converging on a shiny black Mercedes.

  Christ, she was being kidnapped by the mafia! She attempted to wrench her hand free from Yuri’s, turning to bolt back toward the club, but in just a half-second, he had her up off her feet, one strong arm around her waist.

  “Don’t fight me,” he ground out. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Yeah, right.” She struggled for all she was worth. She parted her lips to scream, but he anticipated her move and clapped one hand over her mouth, carrying her quickly the rest of the way to the Mercedes.

  One of the guys opened the back door and Yuri forced her through, keeping a tight hold of her wrist as he climbed in beside her. A guy sandwiched her from the other side. “We’re in.”

  The car lunged forward with a screech, tearing out of the parking lot and making Lucy shriek. Her breath came in audible pants, almost cries.

  “Where are you taking me?” She cursed her voice for sounding so high.

  “We’re holding you until your brother delivers the money he owes,” Yuri said. “Be good and no harm will come to you. I promise.”

  Be good.

  Now there were conditions attached to her safety. So much for his vow. She should’ve known not to trust a tattooed Russian mobster. Who does that, anyway?

  Holy mother of God, what was going to happen to her? To Jake? This was right out of a movie, and she knew how every movie ended—with people either dead, or in the hospital. An angry tear worked its way out of the inside corner of one eye. She clamped her teeth together, willing the rest of them back.

  But the Russian saw.

  Alarm flashed across his face, followed by anger. His hands curled into fists on his lap and he looked away from her, out the window. “Stop. Crying,” he grated through clenched teeth.

  His tone was angry, but what would he be angry about? Shouldn’t asshole mobsters be happy when they’ve scared a girl to tears?