by A. Zavarelli
Just as I predicted, there’s still an accent. I totally underestimated the charm factor there. It’s rare that I find myself tripping over words, but that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. Still, I school my features and try to look unflappable. I need to focus on the Russian, I remind myself.
“No biggie.”
“Is it not generally an unwritten rule for women to fight in these things?” he asks.
“Well…” I flash him a cocky grin. “Lucky for me I don’t play by the rules.”
I expect him to throw me a bone. A smile. A twitch. Something. But I get nothing.
“Ye defeated one of my best fighters tonight.”
I can’t tell if he means it as a compliment or not, but I take it as one. “Thanks.”
Lachlan remains steadfast in his indifference, and I don’t really know how to shake him of it. I need to play my hand carefully here.
“I don’t recall seeing you around here before, butterfly.”
The way he emphasizes my fighting name sounds like a threat all in itself. I hate to admit it, but this guy is a little more intimidating than I want to give him credit for.
I blink up at him, formulating a plan. I’m going to play up the fragile little woman card in hopes it’ll soften him towards me when I pop back up later. I doubt he has any heartstrings to pull, but it can’t hurt to try.
“I only fight when I need the money.”
Lachlan narrows his eyes, and I know he isn’t buying it. He taps his fingers against his thigh, and for a brief moment, I almost wonder if he’s nervous. But then I notice his eyes darting to some men across the room. I turn and my face sours on visual impact. The frigging Russians. They’re eyeing me off, but one of them in particular is looking right at Lachlan.
I flash them a sweet smile and wave. I hate them. I hate them all.
When I turn back to Lachlan, he seems agitated, but it dissipates quickly.
“I have to head on,” he says. “Catcha, butterfly.”
My jaw clenches to keep my mouth from falling open. At the very least, I hoped he’d ask me for a drink. My phone number. Something. But his blatant rejection stings, more than I want to admit.
I knew I should have flirted with one of his soldiers, but he totally cock blocked the hell out of that plan.
“Yeah,” I grumble. “See you around then.”
Chapter Four
Lachlan
The very moment I depart from the girl, the lads are back at my side, talking their usual shite. Distraction and agitation war in my mind as I approach the waiting party. He’s a big fella with a whole load of tattoos up and down his neck. The beef of the operation, the Russians use this one for threat. Boris, his name is. He looks like one too.
His head jerks in the direction of the door. One of them wants a word with me. A silent nod lets him know I’ll be along shortly.
“Wait here,” I tell the lads. “And keep an eye on Donny. Don’t let him back near the girl.”
Ronan nods, and I follow the soldier out the door. A black car idles at the curb, the windows too dark to see within. In the back seat, Alexei waits for me. This turn of events catches me off guard, which is rare form, I’d like to say.
In the Russian bratva, Alexei is known as the Ghost. It’s a privilege to know him in person, since very few people do. The brains of the entire gambling operation, this one right here. Also, considerably the Russian’s most valuable asset. Personal sojourns like this don’t come about often, so already I know this is important.
He has my full attention. Something most people don’t know about Alexei is the lad’s almost full blown deaf. He reads lips very well and does so without being too obvious. The only reason I picked up on it myself was because my nanna did the same. We have a routine where I pretend I don’t know, and he agrees I don’t either.
“To what do I owe this special journey?” I ask.
“Viktor called,” Alexei replies. “The girl. She’s one of yours?”
His words catch me off guard, and Alexei doesn’t miss it. He never misses anything. Before I can calculate a response, I work on sussing out his motives.
Besides the obvious, Alexei has one very blaring weakness. Women. This same weakness urges him to drink the glass of Cognac in his hand. It would also be the very reason for those bloodshot eyes and the darkness on his face for the last few months. Something I can relate to. Women bring about nothing but trouble. Word is this last bird of his really did a number on him. Lucky for me, I’ve a cure for that. Avoiding them entirely.
I’d have figured by now Alexei would be on the same page in that regard. So what in the bleeding hell does he want with the girl? She isn’t my business. But judging by Alexei’s face, whatever the issue is, he’s about to make it my business.
“She’s Irish,” he remarks. “Yes?”
“Aye.” She’s American Irish, but to them it’s all the same.
“So she’s one of yours?”
He wants me to say yes. For that reason alone, the word no lingers on my lips. Trouble. I can feel it coming.
“Right.” I sigh. “What’s this about, lad?”
He sighs too and then leans back against his seat. He knows as well as I do if the girl were ours he’d already be aware of it.
“I believed the girl to be yours,” explains Alexei. “This is what I told Viktor.”
Viktor, as in his boss. Already, I don’t like the direction this is heading.
“Care to tell me why?” I ask.
“Ivan has an issue with her. Viktor would like a trade once the alliance is sealed. The girl for the traitor.”
Fucks sake. I scrub my hands over my head and release a breath. The Russians still don’t know whose been betraying them. As part of the negotiations, Niall has asked that the traitor be handed over to us as payment for Carrick’ death. Something I’m very much looking forward to.
Adding that girl to the deal has caught me off guard.
“Viktor realizes this may take some time,” Alexei adds. “So he asks that you handle it for the time being.”
“Handle it, as in…?”
“Keep her under control.”
A pause falls, and then, “for the sake of the alliance, of course.”
I’ve no blasted idea what this girl’s involved in. And now they want her under our protection? Pure bollocks. Things are too unstable. Too volatile. Alexei is well aware of this. Spotted it from twenty feet away that girl is trouble.
“Ivan feels she is a threat,” Alexei carries on. “Given that she’s a possible witness to our business dealings with her father. Things did not end well with that relationship. Ivan’s been looking for her for years.”
That’s a load of shite if I ever heard one. There’s no way that girl in there has been evading the Russian mob. If that were true, she’d have better sense than to walk into the fights tonight like she did. She didn’t seem the least concerned about them.
I don’t want to ask the next question. But it comes unbidden.
“Have ye any plans for this girl yet?”
Alexei nods, glancing out the window. “She will be given a choice. She can marry one of ours who will take full responsibility for her.”
He doesn’t have to tell me what the flip side of that choice is. There could only be one. They feel she’s a threat, and so this archaic compromise seems to be the girl’s only option at this stage. I might feel some sympathy for her if I wasn’t bound for the same fate myself. The Russians are fond of their arranged marriages. If I’m to take my place by Niall’s side, I will first have to take the leap with one of Viktor’s daughters.
Jaysus Christ.
I’ve no doubt Alexei handpicked me to deliver this information. He believes me to be soft like him. We don’t generally involve women in our business. By giving Viktor his assurances and relinquishing the burden of responsibility to us, the lad’s jacked me arseways. I’m bound by honor to the impending a
And now we must use the girl as a pawn to do it. A big ask. I don’t like it. But I’ve no choice. The syndicate is already on tenuous ground. Things have been shaky between our two factions lately. Suspicion is high. Tensions are higher. A seed of mistrust threatens to bloom into a noxious weed if we don’t get it under wraps now.
“Now that we understand each other,” Alexei says, “I’ll give him your word, yes?”
I don’t like it. But I reach out and shake his hand anyway.
“Ye have my word. I’ll sort her out.”
***
“Jaysus,” Rory whistles. “Did ye see the body on her though?”
“I saw,” I growl. “Now quit banging on about it.”
He raises a brow at me, and I tell him to piss off. I’m not in the mood for his shite. He carries on anyway.
“Seriously though. Those tits… and that ass… goddamn righteous I tell you. Can’t say I blame Donny for getting distracted the way he did.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. In spite of my foul mood, my cock’s formed its own opinion on the matter. I want Rory to stop talking about her. All of them need to stop running their gobs about her.
“There’s not a righteous thing about her,” I announce. “That bitch cost me five grand.”
Rory grins and glances back at Ronan who has chosen to remain carefully disinterested on the matter. Ronan takes that stance on most things. Only because I know him so well can I tell he doesn’t like the girl. I’ve got to say the feeling’s mutual. She came out of nowhere and destroyed one of my best fighters. It didn’t sit well with me either, and now I know why.
“Think she’ll be back next month?” Rory asks.
“Do you ever shut your cake hole?” I clip out.
“I’m just surprised ye didn’t get her number at least,” he says. “So I guess ye won’t mind if I do.”
“Nobody’ll be getting her bleeding number.”
This time Ronan’s disapproving gaze burns into the back of my head. I glare back at him in the mirror as I pull up to the curb. Rory gets out, and Ronan lingers behind when I leave the car idling.
“I’ve some business to do. Keep an eye on things for me?”
He nods, but gives me the stink eye. As far as loops go, Ronan’s in on just about all of them. This one’s a different story. A man has a right to keep a few things to himself now and then.
“An hour tops,” I tell him.
That’s my cue for him to get out. He’d never shut up if he knew what just went down with the Russians. Ronan can only handle this kind of information in small doses. He’ll need to warm up to the girl a bit before I clue him in.
He shuts the door, and I drive to the empty parking garage downtown where I meet my contact. Detective James is already waiting for me, his feet crossed as he leans back against his blue sedan with a newspaper and coffee in hand.
The garage is empty, but I don’t get out. He comes around to the passenger side and slides in beside me, wasting no time in handing off the file.
“The ballistics report. Your suspicions were confirmed.”
I already knew what I’d find in the file, but seeing it doesn’t make it easier. This confirms that the bullet inside of my grand-da didn’t belong to the Armenians. Niall will hand this off to Viktor as proof of their traitor though I’ve no doubt they’ll still argue the leak is on our side.
“Fecking Christ,” I mutter.
“I don’t envy you.” Detective James sips from his coffee. “Breaking news like that.”
I pull a fat stack of cash from my jacket and toss it into his lap. He moves to get out of the car when I stop him.
“There’s more where that came from.” I nod at the cash.
“What do you need?” he asks.
“Information.”
He takes out a notepad and pen from his pocket and stares at me. “On?”
My focus turns out the window and I tap my fingers against the steering wheel.
“Mackenzie Wilder.”
Chapter Five
Mackenzie
I spend every one of the next six days jotting down notes about Lachlan and his crew and practicing my dance moves. Between taking lessons and Scarlett teaching me, I’ve picked up a few good tricks that I know I can pull off well. It isn’t really the tricks I’m worried about. Scarlett used to dance in clubs like this one, albeit far less classy, and she filled me in on the dirty details.
I don’t know how things work at Slainte, but I know being an exotic dancer isn’t easy. It’s not all about grinding on a pole and shaking your ass. You have to hustle, and you need to have unflappable confidence. Some men are going to treat you like shit. They’re going to tell you to piss off because your tits are too small or your ass is too big and you’re not their type, or they might get all grabby and feel entitled to it. It can go either way really. Plus, add alcohol into the mix, and you just know there are going to be problems. Some places have rooms in the back where other stuff goes on if the client is willing to shell out. I’m hoping to hell that Slainte isn’t one of them. Regardless, I won’t be partaking in that.
From everything I’ve learned about the club, it seems a lot more upscale than most. But that doesn’t mean anything, really. It could just look nice and presentable on the outside. I won’t know until I’m in the midst of it what I’m getting myself into exactly. Still, I’m convinced I can pull this off even if I’ve never actually worked as an exotic dancer. I just need to be sexy and unique and give these guys a reason to let me stick around for a while.
Easier said than done, considering I’ve never really had a boyfriend. But what I do have is a body that I’ve worked my ass off for and my God-given looks. Men go ape shit over my blue eyes and black hair. Toss in some leather and lace and they think they’ve got a little hellcat on their hands.
If only they knew the real me.
I take a deep breath and give myself one last glance in the mirror. Everything is in place. It’s taken every last ounce of my patience to wait these six days before walking into the club. But I knew it was important. I don’t want to come off too strong, but I definitely need to up my game. I have no doubts my plan is going to work. It isn’t because of my unwavering confidence. It’s because it’s the only option I’ve got left.
The tight black leather jacket and spandex mini skirt can only help my cause. Beneath lies more leather in the form of a strappy black bra and thong. Fishnet thigh highs and a smoky eye complete the look. No question about it, I have no intention of fighting fair tonight.
Giving my hair one last smoothing over, I grab my keys and purse and head out to the curb. Ready or not boys, here I come.
***
By the time I make it to Slainte, it’s just after 1:30 am. Enough time for me to grab a drink and catch me an Irishman. Here’s how I think it’s going to go. One of the soldiers will recognize me from the fights. He’ll come over and offer to buy me a drink. He’ll mention said fight, and I’ll remark how hard up I am for cash and how I really need a job. And, oh, by the way I’m an exotic dancer.
The lightbulb will click, and the next thing you know, he’s telling me he can help me out. I’ll flirt and be eternally grateful, and boom… I’m in.
This plan has a lot of variables, I know. But it’s all I’ve got left since Lachlan’s rejection last week. Ultimately, I need his approval to get a job here. That’s the part I’m not too confident on.
The bouncer stops me at the door and gives me the customary once over before deeming me socially acceptable to grace their fine establishment. Once I’m in, I feel a weight off my chest. I’ve never been inside of Slainte, but it isn’t quite what I imagined.
The entire front bar is decked out in opulent oaks and mahoganies. The walls are a rich crimson red, and the floors polished hardwood. The scent of beer and liquor permeates the air, teasing the patrons with the promise of everything one could want during a cool Boston Autumn. It’s warm and homey, inviting even. But then again, I suspect that’s probably how Niall wants it to look. While there isn’t exactly a sign on the door broadcasting Niall’s affiliation with the place, it’s a well-known fact he owns the joint. Which means the people who frequent this establishment are either one of two things. Business associates, or those too naïve to know any better. A quick glance around confirms my suspicion that it’s mostly the latter in here tonight.
With a sigh, I walk straight to the bar and take a seat. It’s not like I expected the whole crew to be sitting up here in the open, just waiting for someone like me to come along and eavesdrop. It still would have been nice though. I flag down the bartender and order up a Patron on the rocks with salt and lime.
It goes down smoothly and warms my belly, steeling me with the courage I’ll need to see me through tonight. I swivel around in my seat and scan my surroundings. The front of the building houses a very cozy and inoffensive looking little pub. This is where the unwitting civilians imbibe and take part in the Irish hospitality. Downstairs and in the back, however, is another story.
From all outward appearances, this place is legit. And while I’m sure it does well enough on its own, I have to wonder exactly what other kind of criminal activity they’re fronting here. It’s a well-known fact that the Irish deal in guns and run some underground gambling establishments. But it’s their association with the Russians, or more specifically, Talia’s Russian, that I’m worried about. I need to know if they traffic in women. How many of these young college girls are at risk of disappearing after they visit this place?
There’s only one way to find out, and that involves getting into the back of the building. The one that’s closed off by dark walls and a pair of velvet curtains with a burly bouncer standing guard. That’s where the exotic dancing takes place, and unlike other clubs, it’s VIP and invitation only. That was where Talia worked, but she wasn’t a dancer. She swore up and down she was just a cocktail waitress, but I had a bad feeling about it all along. When I told her my concerns, she brushed them off and said the guys she worked for were great.
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