Ava.
The troubled little girl I vowed to protect.
The beautiful young woman I tried to resist.
The Bratva princess I grew to hate.
How the mighty have fallen. It must have been a long way down from that pedestal.
A stripper.
Of course, Ava never did have the stomach for bloodshed. That’s why Daddy did all the dirty work, and she watched everyone’s hands stain with blood while hers stayed pristine. Innocent until the moment they took everything away from me.
X clears his throat again, a habit that’s getting annoying. “Never was a stable one, that girl. Something loose up there.” He taps his forefinger against his temple.
I manage a smirk. “How touching.”
“Two weeks ago, the Feds got an anonymous tip a shipment of weapons smuggled in from Kazakhstan had been delivered to Seven. Turned out to be bogus, but everyone knows Seven offers more than a dance if the price is right. They caught a lot of the girls performing paid illegal acts.” His face reddens in the moonlight, and he jerks on his collar. “Ava Chernova was one of them.”
“Is there a point to this story?”
“They were arrested, and all but Ava were let go within a few hours. It took two days for her to return. Makes you wonder what she told them that had Chernov running so scared he’d risk taking out his own kid.”
Those words catch my attention more than anything he’s said all night. Who knows? Maybe she told the truth eight years too late.
The extended stretch of silence draws a hitch in his breath. “If you need anything else, you have Arthur’s number. Good luck, Mr. Gaheris.”
I fight a smile as he speed walks into the darkness.
“Xavier,” I call out, and he pauses before rounding the shed, his hand slipping under his jacket. Bold move, considering I’d have a bullet between his eyes before he could aim. “When you get to Gator Downs, bet on Backstage Drama. Odds are twelve to one, but I’ve got a hunch.”
Understanding floods his face, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I could see his heart slamming against his ribcage right through his cheap suit.
I don’t have a hunch, and he knows it.
Like I said, I make it a priority to know everything about everyone around me.
* * *
There’s an old Russian proverb that says, Trust, but verify.
Personally, I think if you add the words never and always to that phrase, you live longer.
That’s why I’m weaving in and out of traffic with barely a breath separating risk and suicide. After dealing with Lancaster and Calthorpe, I’m on edge and filled with chaotic energy. An insatiable hunger that can only be satiated with blood or flesh. Since I can’t supply the first option tonight, flesh will have to do.
Miami offers hundreds of places for a man to find it, but I only need Seven.
Because she’s there.
Twisting my way through the bustle of the city, I find a parking spot and kick the door open. Retrieving the Glock from my black bag, I tuck it in the holster underneath my jacket and step foot on familiar grounds.
It’s hot as hell. I know I was just bitching about the same shit in Louisiana, but this is different. It’s December, and it feels like that bare-assed Coppertone bitch should be skipping by any time now with her middle finger in the air. My feet are hitting the pavement in time with my breath and every inhale feels like I’m sucking in cream of oxygen soup.
I fucking hate Florida.
Scenarios rush through my mind as I anticipate what I’m going to do when I get to the door. I’m here to observe tonight, but that doesn’t mean I won’t take everyone out if needed. From what I remember, there are usually eight guards manning the interior. Assuming that doesn’t include Dmitry and Blade, I’m looking at a wall of no less than ten Russian assholes. Ten to one odds aren’t the best even for a skilled marksman, but Arthur didn’t hire me because I’m good at what I do. He hired me because I’m the best.
As Seven’s steel-covered walkway comes into view, I stop to formulate a plan. However, two more steps, and I’m distracted by the neon red sign sitting atop the square building, bathing everything in a red-light district worthy crimson glow.
Seventh Heaven.
The irony that it’s lit up in whore red isn’t lost on me.
Seventh Heaven is the official name of the club, but nothing that happens in there is holy, so most everyone around here calls it Seven. Personally, I’d just call it a laundromat. Sergei cleans so much money through this place, he single-handedly keeps Tide in business.
I’m walking and muttering to myself as I make my way toward the entrance. Fortunately, Blade’s not sitting there like the hound of Hades. I’ve never really had a problem with him, but as Seven’s head of security, he’s not likely to roll out the carpet for me. The guy’s been around as long as the club and knows more secrets than the Illuminati. Even if I somehow managed to get past him, there’s no way my gun would.
Instead, there’s a young guy sitting in Blade’s place who’s more interested in scrolling through his phone than watching the door. Lucky for both of us, he’s a moron. I get in undetected, and he gets to keep his thumbs.
I’m almost past him when he slams his free hand against my chest, barely glancing up from the phone. “There is a line, mudak,” he mutters in a slight Russian accent.
“I’m on the list.”
“Name?”
I flick my hand up between us, a crisp one hundred dollar bill tucked between my two fingers. “Ben Franklin.”
After slipping the bill in his pocket, the guy shrugs and waves me through without giving me a second glance. I’m not sure if I should be thankful or offended. Eight years ago, it’d take a lot more than a fucking Benjamin to turn a Bratva guard.
This place has gone to shit.
Once inside, I find a seat and wait for the show. It’s not ideal. I’m used to waiting in the shadows. Ideal would be in the back of the club in a corner where I could observe everyone and be seen by no one. But that’s not what I’m here for.
I want her to see me. Not too much, but just enough.
For an hour, I endure a party of drunk assholes I’d normally gut, tolerate countless bar waitresses trying to sell me expensive vodka, and stomach two of the worst strippers I’ve ever seen. I’ve had about as much as I can take when the first few hard beats of Warrant’s Cherry Pie snaps my eyes toward the stage. The curtain rustles and my heart rate spikes as two slim legs emerge. Instead of Sergei’s preferred whore’s uniform of a G-string and a smile, she’s wearing a white mesh mini-dress over a matching thong and bra that sends all the blood in my body rushing south.
She’s unlike anything I've ever seen.
Because the only thing I see is red.
It’s impossible not to because, hell, it’s everywhere. A volcanic eruption of deep lava-colored hair tumbles over her shoulders like a second curtain. But the wild explosion is nothing compared to what I find in the middle of it.
She slowly lifts her golden feline eyes, and I see the jaguar hiding behind them. Graceful, silent, and ready to strike.
Ava.
She takes a tentative step closer, and I have to control an immediate visceral response. I want to look away, but I can’t. Nothing about her has ever made me act rationally, but fuck, she’s nothing like the teenager I remember. This version of Sergei’s daughter isn’t the one from my violent fantasies. The one on stage is a walking paradox. A diabolical angel. A mind fuck with a body crafted for sin and a face carved from the heavens.
Salacious thoughts fill my head, forcing out a groan as I adjust myself. That’s when she sees me. I feel it. We’ve always had this bizarre connection, Ava and me. However, instead of shrinking in fear, she does something so reckless—so insanely foolish—I question if Sergei ruined her mind as well as her soul.
She grabs the pole and turns her back to me.
A move so bold it makes my cock harder than my gun
and twice as deadly.
Every killer’s instinct roars at me to put a bullet in the back of her head and get it over with, but I won’t—not tonight. For years my need for revenge has been like a disease eating away at my soul. Relentless. Savage. Unforgiving. I’ve wanted to bathe my hands in her father’s blood more than take my next breath.
Unfortunately, Sergei’s daughter will pay the price for both of them because he managed to find my one weakness in life and use it against me. The one thing he knew would keep my knife from his throat.
My family.
Ava
Direct eye contact can be the most powerful weapon or the ultimate weakness. It’s one of the first lessons I learned. I never let my guard down. I have rules for myself, and at the top of the list are pay attention to everything and speak as little as possible.
That’s why I stumble when I swing around and collide with metallic gray eyes. I hate myself for not immediately turning away, but I can’t. He’s not looking at me; he’s looking through me. The man in black is sitting at least fifteen feet away from me, but the chill running down my spine warns me distance means nothing to him. It probably bows down to him like everyone else in his path.
Something tells me he’s here for more than the just the show.
My mind is spinning when amidst the usual scent of stale liquor and sex, a wisp of jasmine floats by. Just a hint, but it’s enough to tighten my hold around the pole until I’m at a standstill.
Orange blossoms.
No, it can’t be.
Tearing my gaze away, I try to pull it together, but I’m too distracted. My heel snags at the end of the final rotation, slamming my chest into the pole with the force of a Mack truck. With the wind knocked out of me, I try to cover the screw up by tossing my hair back and crawling across the stage toward a drunk bachelor party.
I try to play my role, but they’ve been annoying shits all night and cheap ones at that. I’m even performing my best routine right in front of them, and they’re throwing pocket change on the stage like some delusional high rollers.
I tell myself it can’t get any worse as I slither across the floor, begging for a buck to be shoved in my jeweled thong. Flipping my hair back, I roll my eyes at the painted black ceiling.
“You’re so fucking hot, Ruby!”
Ruby’s my stage name. It sucks, but I didn’t put much thought into it. No one here cares what these men call me as long as they pay to do it. That’s all it has ever come down to anyway. Money. That’s all anyone’s life is worth, no matter who you are.
I force a smile. Climbing to my knees, I bend down and shove my tits in the blond lumberjack-looking one’s face. Hearing his slurred approval, I cringe just before he shoves a couple of bills at my crotch. Thankfully, I have great reflexes, because when his meaty hand makes a play for my right ass cheek, I kick out a heel and catch him center chest. His mouth rounds into a shocked O shape as he stumbles backward. He’s mad as hell, but I stand my ground, exchanging glares with him before he catapults himself toward the stage.
“Fucking bitch!”
Fortunately, he forgets to move his feet and falls flat on his face. The rest of the bachelor party springs to their feet, staring down at their fallen friend. Nothing about this is funny, but a throaty laugh escapes me anyway.
Fuck it.
I lean down on all fours and smirk at the grabby lumberjack still lying prone on the sticky club floor. “Baby, if you think three dollars will buy you a handful of ass, you need another drink. Then again, it won’t even buy that, so why don’t you take your cheap ass home.”
Dick.
Taking the three bills out of my G-string, I stand and throw them at his chest. “In fact, why don’t you take your three dollars and go fuck yourself.”
Crossing my arms, I glare at the drunk asshole until another wave of goosebumps break across my bare chest. I don’t have to look to know he’s staring, but I do anyway.
Then I wish I hadn’t.
The man in black is bathed in scattered shadows, but even with scarce lighting, those electric eyes glow. Except they’re different. Whereas before they’d been complete ice, now they’re edged in darkness. They’re dangerously narrowed, morphing into the sharp point of a knife and carving the lumberjack’s face to shreds. I can’t move or breathe in fear of what he’ll do. He doesn’t move either, his unrelenting gaze strained as if he’s fighting something back and losing.
He’s deadly.
The words come out of nowhere, but my gut is never wrong. I need to tell our bouncer to watch out for this guy tonight.
As if I conjured him, I see Blade pick up the lumberjack by the collar and escort him out. The next girl takes the stage, and I tear through the club, grabbing the behemoth of a man’s arm the minute he steps back inside. Before I can say a word, he spins me around, pressing my back against the wall and shielding me from view.
“What the fuck are you doin’?” he hisses while glancing over his shoulder. “You can’t be out here dressed like that.”
Blade’s biceps are the size of my waist, and his ruddy complexion makes him look like he’s constantly two seconds away from ripping someone’s face off. However, I’ve known the man since I was a teenager. Unless provoked, he’d sooner catch a mouse and set it free than snap its neck.
I point at the stage. “I was just up there dressed like this.”
“That’s different, and you know it. You’re safe up there. Out here…” He trails off, his meaty hand brushing over his closely cropped brown hair.
I’m about to remind him that I can handle myself, when I see his pinched eyebrows and downturned mouth.
Shit.
It’s not what I am that he’s worried about. It’s who I am. I may be “one of the girls,” but I’m still a Chernov. It doesn’t matter if I’m on that stage willingly or not. None of my father’s men would risk paying with their life if something happened to me.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”
There’s an awkward moment of silence before he steps back, opening me up to the crowd. “Yeah, well, what’s got you so antsy?”
I stare off to the side. “There’s a guy—”
He quirks a bushy eyebrow. “Another one?”
“This is different.” I guess he hears the crack in my voice because his face hardens. “He looked at me weird, okay? I can’t explain it, but his eyes aren’t right.”
“What do you mean, not right?”
I want to say that they’re hauntingly familiar. They’re a waking nightmare. They’re a cruel hallucination. I don’t say any of that. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek. “They’re empty. Like he’s here to do something evil.”
“You got all that in a dark club with a spotlight in your eyes?”
“Just go check.”
“Fine,” he mutters. “But you’re goin’ with me. I’m not lettin’ you out of my sight.”
Reluctantly, I nod, and we both weave our way through the crowd of testosterone until we reach an empty table. The table. I stare at it as my stomach roils.
“Nobody here, Ava. Guess he left.”
“Right. Thanks.” Flustered, I steer myself toward the shit hole of a dressing room, refusing to stop until I’m facing the greasy vanity mirror.
Cold, amber-flecked eyes stare back at me. It’s the same reflection I see at the end of every night, and tonight’s version is no more appealing. Bracing my arms on the chipped vanity, I scrunch my face, distorting the heavy eye makeup and fuck-me red lipstick Dmitry insists we wear. Holding my breath, I trace a finger down the inside of my right arm, each jagged indention confines me in a trance-like stillness. I stand there until my chest burns so bad, the air bursts out of my mouth in a hot rush, my hands dropping to the table as if they touched fire.
“It’s not him. It’s not him. It’s not him.” I repeat the chant over and over until I force myself to believe it.
For God’s sake, Ava, get a grip.
Not only am I paranoid,
I’m seeing things and acting crazy.
That’s because what I’m doing is exactly that. Crazy. However, when backed into a corner, losing my mind as opposed to my freedom seemed like the lesser of the two evils. Now, I’m not so sure.
I ignored the number one rule.
Keep your mouth shut.
Such a simple thing, but so hard to do when trapped by your own sins. I’d give anything if I could undo what I’ve set in motion, or at least refuse the carrot dangled in front of my face and take the punishment instead. It’s not like I don’t deserve it.
But I can’t. What’s done is done, and all I can do now is pray Agent Schaeffer lives up to his end of the bargain. He releases me. I steal evidence. He ruins my father. I betray everyone. He gets promoted. I disappear forever.
Again, it sounds simple, but the price I’ll pay for spilling my darkest secrets will end up costing me my life. I’ve created a beautifully perfect storm, and it’s headed straight for me.
Snatching a handful of makeup remover wipes, I knock over bottles of hairspray and body glitter, sending them flying across the wooden vanity and crashing to the floor.
“Fuck, shit, fuck!” I’m still grinding the wipe across my eye when the heavy metal door opens to my right. Squinting, I see two figures squeeze in before it slams shut behind them. I pause mid-swipe and glance up, waiting for Dmitry to speak.
He stands in the middle of the room, one of his large hands wrapped tightly around his companion’s upper arm, the other by his side. His stubby fingers rhythmically rub together as if he’s mindlessly counting invisible money.
The sight of him makes me nauseous. I can’t stand the asshole and he knows it. But, as Seven’s manager, he’s technically my boss, and he takes every opportunity he can to remind me.
I concentrate on taking off the rest of my makeup. “Dmitry.”
“You cost us money tonight again.”
“The guy was a douchebag. I did you a favor.” Grabbing a brush, I furiously work it through a glob of hairspray stuck in my hair.
Darkest Deeds: Cavalieri Della Morte Page 3