Year of the Scorpio: Part One

by Stacy Gail

  A huff of amusement escaped him. “Fearless, how long have you known me?”

  I counted back to that first unforgettable meeting. “Thirteen years. Almost fourteen.”

  “During all that time, you’ve gotten to know me pretty well, yeah?”

  “I suppose.” Though I was giving serious thought to knowing him better.

  “Do you think I’m the kind of guy who wears fucking pajamas to bed?”

  Oh. Um... “Actually, I’ve never given that a thought.”

  “Give it one now. Picture me in bed. What am I wearing?”

  The words reverberated around the interior of my skull like a gong.

  Picture me in bed.

  Picture me.

  In bed.

  Red alert—hot flash imminent.

  “Uh...”

  “Come on. Tell me what you see me wearing to bed.”

  “Nothing.” There. I said it. Now all I had to do was wait to see if a person’s face could actually explode from the heat of a blush.

  He nodded, his dark gaze holding mine so completely I couldn’t see anything else. “That’s right. I can’t sleep in any kind of clothes, and you can bet no lady friend I brought up for the night was packing a nightie or whatever the fuck you call those things to sleep in. If she was in my bed, she wasn’t sleeping, and she sure as hell wasn’t wearing anything.”

  “Got it.” We had to get off this subject, pronto, before my mortification took a hard bitchy right turn at the reminder that he apparently enjoyed an endless parade of one-night stands. “I’ll just make the best of it.”

  “Hold on.” He pushed to his feet and disappeared down a hall off the front room, only to come back holding a crisp white dress shirt he’s obviously just pulled off a hanger. “Use this. You still like bacon for breakfast?”

  I nodded and took the shirt, all the while struggling to pretend there wasn’t anything at all intimate about wearing this spectacular man’s shirt to bed. But there was no getting around it; that was what a woman did with her man’s shirt after an energetic night between the sheets. Not that I’d ever worn a man’s shirt to bed. I’d had exactly two lovers in my life, and they’d been nothing to write home about. Neither of those guys had been able to handle the reality of dating a Vitaliev, so they hadn’t hung around for long. Certainly not long enough for me to even think about wearing their shirts.

  But when it came to Polo, wearing his shirt to bed seemed to hold a profundity and significance that reached mammoth proportions.

  Either that, or I was over-thinking things again.

  “What?” The bite of impatience in Polo’s tone snapped my attention back to him, and belatedly I realized I was staring at the shirt like I’d never seen one before. “If it isn’t good enough for you to sleep in, I don’t want to hear it. It’s this or sleeping in the raw, and you’re not sleeping naked under this roof. Not unless I’m sleeping with you.”

  With that, he turned and was out the copper-plated double doors before I managed to pick my jaw up off the floor.

  Polo

  The techno throb of the music filling Heaven’s strobing interior underscored the churning inside Polo as he made his way past the bar that ran the length of the lower level. It had to be that long, since it was as much a stage as it was a bar for the all-female bartenders that Heaven employed. Heaven’s Angels, as they were called, were paid a small fortune not just because they knew a Moscow Mule from a Manhattan, but because every last one of them could inspire enough wet dreams to float a battleship. That was one of the reasons why there was an army of bouncers at stations scattered throughout the club; the Angels were a precious asset that had to be protected at all costs.

  But there was another reason his security staff was so heavy. Retirement was nice, but it wasn’t a magical eraser that wiped away his past as if it had never been. He appreciated Borysko letting him go—hell, he fucking loved the old bastard for that mercy—but that didn’t mean he was free of that world. He doubted he’d ever be truly free of it. It would always be there, a stain that only he could see and feel, as it soaked deeper and deeper into the pores of his skin and into what was left of his soul.

  In his mind, that stain was a brilliant blood red.

  Polo nodded at Indigo Ruiz, a former street punk-turned-informant. Over the years, Indigo had proven himself to be so invaluable he eventually got hired on as an assistant to Yuri Rodin, head of security for the entirety of Paradis Nouveau. Now in his early twenties, Indigo wasn’t big or bulky, or even remotely threatening, so at first glance he didn’t seem like he belonged in a security detail. But Indigo had insane skills when it came to gathering information. Whatever crazy shit was going down in Chicago, Indigo knew all about it.

  “Full house, kings over tens, boss,” Indigo said by way of greeting, and it didn’t surprise Polo in the least that the young man knew Dash’s hand. His expression was almost as mournful as Dash’s. “Kings over fucking tens, with half a mil on the table. Christ Almighty. How the hell does anyone walk away from a sweet-ass hand like that?”

  “She didn’t,” Polo said, not breaking stride as he headed for the back stairs leading to the office suites on the second level. He gave a nod to the guard at the head of the stairs, known throughout the ranks as Andrew the Giant, and he more than lived up to the name. Just over seven feet tall and covered in slabs of thick muscle, the mere size of Andrew was enough to make most men shit themselves. No one outside their circle knew that Andrew was half-blind, enjoyed playing a soulful Spanish guitar, and while he was amazing at breaking legs, he couldn’t bring himself to kill anyone.

  In the world of the Vitalievs, Andrew was as close to a gentle giant as they were ever going to get.

  Polo entered his office and let the door close behind him, shutting out the driving thump of music from the club below. Instantly his attention hit on the man leaning against the edge of his desk, the manager of Heaven and Yuri’s son, Alexei. Alex had been one of his first friends when Borysko had brought Polo into his home after years of hostage hell, and often took the bows for finally getting Polo to speak. But Alex hadn’t been the one to break through to him. Dash had been the one who’d dug his lost voice out of the endless darkness. She was the one who’d made him believe that even a hideous monster like him could come into the light.

  It had never mattered to him that Alex had been ordered by Yuri and Borysko to act as Polo’s companion. Nor had it mattered that Alex had given them daily reports. What had mattered was that Alex had been there even when he hadn’t had to be. Those first rough weeks and months of recovery were long gone, but Alex and their friendship had remained.

  “Where’s your pops?” Polo made a beeline for his desk, glancing out the windows to the dance floor below. As usual, the place was packed, including the VIP balconies across from where his office and private balcony were located.

  Just the way he liked it.

  “He got a call from downstairs. Some douche smacked his date in front of one of our guys. He was immediately asked to leave, which prompted the douche to turn around and smack our guy. My pops wanted to personally oversee the douche’s education regarding how it feels to be smacked on a professional level. Maybe it’ll make the douche pause the next time his hand starts to itch.” Alex shrugged, his stockbroker-style short blonde hair gleaming under the light. “Sometimes the old man gets nostalgic for the old days. He has to get his shits and giggles somewhere.”

  “Just as long as they’re discreet about it. It was just a few weeks ago that I closed on the River Walk property for the new club. With renovations now in full swing on River Styx, I’m getting ready to build up hype for it. That means I don’t need some woman-beating fuck-up making our operation look bad.”

  “No worries, Polo. Pops has been giving tune-ups to assholes since before we were born. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “True that.” Polo’s scowl melted into a grin. “Remember how he taught us to get right in their faces after getting their ID an
d reading off their address like we were committing that shit to memory? How much you wanna bet he’s doing that to the douche?”

  “It’s an effective scare tactic. The douche doesn’t have to know that half the time my old man can’t even remember where the fuck he parked his car.” Alex snorted. “How long do you think the renovation’s going to take on River Styx?”

  “Estimates are three months. Liquor licenses are already applied for, and Wyla has agreed to be in charge of hiring the bartenders while you handle the rest of the staffing.”

  “Wyla, the battle axe.” Alex couldn’t seem to stifle a shudder. “I think she can bench-press as much as I can.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it, but that’s cool. She’s got a nose for the right sort of woman we want behind the bar—someone who’s street-smart as well as having a pretty face. Wyla can teach anyone how to mix a drink, but if you’re a thin-skinned pussy in this business, you’re not going to last long.”

  “So you’re going with an all-female bartending roster? I thought you wanted River Styx to be different from Heaven.”

  “It will be, but not in that regard. Hot chicks and liquor—can’t go wrong, man.” As Polo sat down behind the desk, he took his phone out of his pocket, then forced himself to set it aside. Calling Dash just to see if she’d changed into his shirt was too control-freakish, even for him. “Did you take the call when it came in?”

  Alex didn’t quite manage to stifle a sneer. “No. He was smart enough to ask for my pops, who is old-school enough to make sure the message is delivered to you face-to-face.”

  “Got it.”

  “Did Dash really have a full house loaded with kings?”

  “Yep.”

  Alex chuckled. “What’d the other guy have?”

  “Beats me. He bugged out the second I said the word cops. Fucking trust fund man-baby didn’t even have the courtesy to play the hand out. I thought real poker players had more balls than that.”

  “Nobody’s more ballsy than Dash.” Alex paused to reconsider, and that sneer resurfaced. “Except maybe Knives.”

  “Nah, Knives Vitaliev is more tactical than ballsy. He won’t roll the dice until he’s got everything in place and feels he can’t lose. Dash is the polar opposite of that—she goes for the high-risk gamble, then hopes for the best.” Again he looked to his phone and had to consciously will himself not to call her. For fuck’s sake, where was his self-control? He saw her five frigging minutes ago. Though, five minutes ago she’d been wearing her own clothes. Now, she might be slipping into his shirt and nothing else... “I’ve always thought it was a good thing Dash and Knives are on the same side. Otherwise they’d wind up canceling each other out.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Alex said, then paused when a knock on the door preceded his father entering the office. For his part, Yuri Rodin looked like a barrel-chested bear in his ever-present neat suit and tie, his dark gold hair now liberally streaked with white. “Generally speaking, I like plans. Most people do. That’s why Knives has gotten such a fierce reputation so quickly after taking over the business. I hate to admit it, but it’s hard to beat a man with a plan.”

  “Tell that to an impulse player. No one can plan to counter spontaneity. And when it comes to thinking on their feet, that’s when the risk-taker’s genius really shines. That’s why I said I’m glad Knives and Dash are on the same side. It’d be World War III otherwise.”

  “Borysko’s children got both the best and the worst of their papa,” Yuri chimed in, absently wiping his hands on a pristine white handkerchief. Polo kept a sharp eye on it, looking for telltale smears of blood. “Both have courage and cunning, yes, but with Dasha you also have the compassion that Borysko didn’t have until much later in life.”

  “Yeah,” Alex said, and the sneer tried hard to curl his upper lip. “Knives definitely missed the boat on that one.”

  “This is why I say Borysko’s children are both the best and the worst of Borysko, and the rest of your thoughts on this matter will be kept to yourself, Alexei. You gossip like an old woman.”

  Alex eye-rolled. “Thanks, Pops.”

  Polo stifled a chuckle and focused his attention on the older man. Yuri Rodin’s voice was deep and bore the heavy accent of Mother Russia. He’d come to the States with Borysko Vitaliev and Pavel Medvedev, serving the role of an intelligence-gatherer in their new country. Like Borysko, Yuri made no excuses for their ultra-violent ways when they first fought to gain a foothold in Chicago. He had been Borysko’s lieutenant, and he’d been an invaluable guide for Polo when he’d been learning the ropes within the Vitaliev organization. When Borysko died, the Rodins had transitioned full-time into the legitimate world of business with him, joining Polo in his new-found freedom as he’d worked to make Paradis Nouveau a success.

  “If anyone would know the best and worst of Borysko Vitaliev, it’d be you, Yuri.” Polo lifted a brow at his former mentor as the older man settled his impressive, still-muscular mass into a seat across the desk from him. “So, Knives called you with a message? Why didn’t he just call me?”

  “He said he didn’t wish to interrupt.” Yuri released a gusty sigh, his big chest deflating like a bellows. “He knew you were doing your best to guard Dasha when she wasn’t necessarily in the mood to be guarded. He knows his sister well.”

  Polo snorted. “Yeah, he does. What’d he want?’

  “Nozhi would like for you to carve some time out of your schedule for him after he meets with Dasha. He wishes to discuss exactly what went wrong at this poker game Dasha was in, and how best to keep his sister safe from this point on.”

  “Be on the lookout for Knives angling to suck you back into the fold.” Alex put an ominous voice to the suspicion already lurking in the back of his mind. “What are you going to do?”

  “Keep my freedom,” Polo muttered darkly. “Above all else, man, I’m going to keep my fucking freedom.”

  Chapter Four

  All in all, I wasn’t a fan of waking up not knowing where the hell I was. I stared at the unfamiliar tray ceiling and tried to understand why the sun was on the wrong side of the room when my brain finally woke up along with the rest of me.

  Oh, yeah.

  I was at Polo’s place, probably for the first and only time, if he followed his usual pattern.

  Wonderful.

  I pulled back the light-as-air down comforter and hung my legs off the side of the bed, glancing down at the shirt I was virtually swimming in as I went. I adored Polo’s shirt. It was so long on me it fit more like a dress, and I had to roll the sleeves up multiple times just to get my hands free. The once-pristine white silk was now sleep-rumpled and no doubt smelled like day-old perfume, but it was more comfortable to sleep in than most nighties I had.

  Maybe if I asked nicely, Polo would be a sport and let me keep it.

  Just as I was trying to psyche myself into climbing back into yesterday’s clothes—a shudder-worthy prospect if there ever was one—there was a quick knock before the door opened. Polo appeared as I was drawing breath to say “come in,” and he looked as elegant as always in tailored pants, dress shirt and a form-fitting vest.

  That was one thing I’d always admired about Polo; he took pride in how he presented himself. Though, of course, I was sure he’d look good in just about anything, from suits to well-worn jeans and an old T-shirt, and he sure as hell could rock the nothing-at-all look...

  Damn, it was getting hot in there.

  “You look half-asleep,” he announced in a way that made me want to hide until I had access to a mirror, a bottle of hairspray and maybe a professional makeup artist. “Did I wake you?”

  “No.” Hoping that my bed-head wasn’t too horrific, I pushed to my feet and tried to look alert—a tall order without coffee in my system. “I’m usually up with the sun, but I think I overslept. What time is it?”

  “Almost eight. Your brother called to let me know he’s on his way.” Polo closed the distance between us while his gaze did a he
ad-to-toe sweep. Like magic, I became painfully aware that in addition to being sleep-tousled, I wore nothing but his shirt and yesterday’s teeny blue bikini panties. Needless to say, I’d had sexier moments. “How’d you sleep?”

  “With my eyes closed. Very well, thanks,” I amended quickly when his chocolate-brown eyes flicked back to mine. There was something there in those dark depths, something exciting and dangerous, that suddenly made me want to be a very good girl and not step an inch out of line. “I slept the night straight through. How’d you sleep?”

  “Naked.”

  That one word dropped into the quiet room like a chaos bomb. It unleashed a flash-fever of wild heat that ignited in my skin until I was certain I glowed with it. Even worse, that heat coalesced at the juncture of my thighs, and all I could do was discreetly squeeze them together in the futile hope of putting the fire out. “Oh.”

  Woo, brilliant conversationalist, that was me.

  Again, that slow, full-body sweep of his gaze slid over me like an almost-tangible caress. “That shouldn’t surprise you, though. Naked is how you pictured me in bed, remember?”

  “Um. Mm-hm.” It was the best I could do. My tongue had glued itself to the roof of my mouth.

  “Tell me, Fearless.” He moved closer, when I hadn’t thought closer was possible. The tips of his shoes almost touched my bare toes, and the caress of his breath sifted through my sleep-tangled hair in a way that had me stifling a shiver. “When you pictured me naked last night, did you like what you were picturing?”

  The lustful fever in my blood flashed white-hot, intensifying the slick wetness between my thighs until I had to consciously will myself not to moan. “Did you seriously just ask me that?”