Like her.
She’s on stage again. I don’t want to react to her. I’m doing everything I can to look anywhere else, but she’s not making it easy on me. In fact, she’s making it hard.
I glance down and wince.
Very hard.
It’s not even her sultry moves or tiny G-string that has my body in an uproar. It’s the hatred. It’s buried in the wavy red hair tumbling down her back. It’s coating those full lips with bright red lipstick. It’s magnetic in the way her eyes gravitate toward mine the minute she walks on stage. I don’t believe in all that paranormal bullshit, but if ghosts walked the earth, we both just found one.
She’s not happy about it either.
Like last night, that woman senses me, or maybe it’s the threat of death igniting her fight or flight instinct. Either way, she’s already trapped. See, me and death? We’re different sides of the same coin.
A throat clears behind me. “Nikolai Garetovsky.”
Hearing my given name makes my eye twitch, and I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. Contrary to what most Americans think, not all Russian accents sound the same. Even the slightly watered down ones. They’re as distinct as birthmarks, and this one’s as pleasant as nails on a chalkboard.
“Dmitry,” I say, taking another drink.
Normally, when someone barely acknowledges your presence, it’s a good indication they want to be left alone. There’s no hidden meaning there. In fact, it’s pretty fucking cut and dry if you ask me.
Except no one asked me. Especially Sergei’s right-hand man, who drops an empty glass and a full bottle of vodka on the table before sitting next to me. “You are not welcome here, you know.”
I tighten my hold on my glass. “No, please, join me. I insist.”
“I have not seen you for many years,” he notes, pouring himself a drink while kicking his feet up on the chair in front of him. “What brings you back to Miami?”
I don’t do small talk. But, seeing as how I’ve got some time to kill, and Dmitry’s always been a stupid son of a bitch, maybe I can use both to my advantage.
“I missed your smiling face.”
He runs his tongue across his top teeth. “She does not want to see you.”
“What makes you think I care?”
Dmitry smiles. “Because you were here last night as well.”
I hold up my drink. “Beluga. It keeps a man coming back for more.” Downing what’s left, I slam the glass on the table and shift my gaze toward the stage. She’s on her knees now, straddling the pole while dipped into a gravity defying back bend. The minute she turns her eyes my way, I hold them without an ounce of mercy.
Even from ten feet away I can see her gasp, and the fear flashing across her face.
She found my gift.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t land a hit straight to my dick.
A condescending laugh diverts my attention, and I turn toward the source. Dmitry is leaning back in his chair with his thick arms crossed over his chest, and a smirk planted in the middle of his scarred face. “Stick to the vodka, Nikolai.”
“What’s that supposed to mean.”
“I do not like you.”
Am I supposed to be shocked here?
I cross my arms, mimicking his posture. “Should I return our best friends bracelets?”
I half expect him to throw me out. Instead, he just sits there glaring at me. “Even though I do not like you, I am going to give you some free advice.”
“Lay it on me, Dr. Phil.”
“Do you like your balls?”
“I can’t say they’re my favorite part of my anatomy. That top billing goes to my cock. It’s pretty impressive.” I smirk and gesture toward my lap. “Not that my balls aren’t, but they don’t violate noise ordinances if you get what I’m saying.”
“Mudak,” he mumbles as he takes a drink. “I mean do you like them still attached to your body. Because if you get them anywhere near her,” he tilts his glass toward the stage where Ava is bent over and staring at us from between her legs, “Sergei will cut them off and send them to your mother.”
I grit my teeth in an effort to remain in control. “And why is that?”
“Beyond the fact that you killed his step-son?” he asks, raising an eyebrow with a drunken smile. “He personally decides who touches her and who doesn’t.”
Not anymore.
“Yeah, well, I’ve always had somewhat of a soft spot for her too.”
“Ava might remember differently.” He laughs and refills both our glasses, splashing liquor onto the table. “I am surprised you have the nerve to show your face here.”
A dark haze coats my vision, but I manage to hold back the beast trying to claw its way free. “I’m in town on business, and Seven always did have the best girls.”
“Even better now that I manage it.”
My chest tightens. “I want to book a VIP room.”
He lifts his drink and pauses, holding it inches from his face. “With who?”
I point toward the stage. “Her.”
Dmitry nearly chokes on his drink, but I can’t really blame him. With one word, I pretty much whipped out my dick and pissed all over his warning. It’s risky—I hadn’t planned to tip my hand so early, but when the brass ring comes around you don’t just sit on your horse and watch it go by. Hell no. You shove every motherfucker out of your way and grab that son of a bitch.
And that redhead up on stage with a pussy full of dollar bills? She’s my brass ring. I’ll do whatever I have to in order to add her to my trophy case.
Dmitry waves me off. “I just told you she is not for sale.”
That’s where he’s wrong. Anything’s for sale if the offer’s worth the risk.
Reaching into my jacket, I pull out my leather wallet and count out ten crisp one hundred dollar bills before slamming them on the table. “Are you sure about that?”
He looks at me again. It’s just a flickering glance, but it tells me all I need to know. He hasn’t changed in eight years. His pockets still run deeper than his loyalty. Snaking a hand out, he slides the cash across the table and tucks it away. “Room four. And if you leave marks, I will tell Sergei history has repeated itself.”
“Dmitry,” I say, shoving my chair back, “maybe you haven’t heard—I really don’t give a shit.”
Ava
I pace beside the blood red couch, trying to block out the thumping bass coming from outside the door. Room number four isn’t a total shithole. It’s not anything like the horrors inside room nine, but it’s far from a honeymoon suite.
Although, there’s one of those down the hall.
Each VIP room has a different theme, depending on your kink. Bondage? Wedding night virgin? Bad schoolgirl? Naughty nurse? No problem. Seven fulfills any fantasy a patron could possibly desire. Even ones that make me nauseous, like the serial killer’s torture room.
That’s room nine.
I wish I were kidding.
Not that I’ve spent much time in there. Unlike the rest, I’m usually not offered up as an item on the psycho-kink secret menu. It’s my one saving grace. Not because anyone here gives a shit about me. It’s only because hard core sadism leaves scars, and scars cost sales.
It’s not about nepotism. It all comes down to the mighty dollar.
Still, all the other girls are horrified my father “lets” me dance in his club, but no one dares complain about special treatment. That’s because I’m one of them when the back room doors close. We’re all “highly encouraged” to entertain in the VIP rooms.
“Highly encouraged” is Chernov code for do it or die.
Once you sell your soul to the Chernov Bratva, they own you forever. There’s no happily ever after. There’s no ending where the guy saves the girl. That’s why I begged Rose to run as far away from here as she could. The minute she signs her name, it’s in blood, and it’s forever—or at least until she’s no longer useful.
Some of us never
had that choice.
I’m not here willingly. I’m not some petulant mob princess who takes her clothes off just to raise a middle finger to Daddy. Years of threats, secrets, and violence forced me into a role of complete degradation because that’s what my father craves—penance by perversion and suffering by shame. Family or not, defy him and you pay with your life one way or the other.
I stop and rub my damp hands down my bare thighs. At least Ethan chose room four. This one kind of fits my mood. Everything’s bathed in red, from the tinted lights to the red walls to the red velvet couch.
Almost like the Scarlet Letter of Sin.
I resume pacing while glancing up at the iron clock hung above a partially mirrored wall. Ethan said we’d meet in room four at midnight, and it’s already almost half past that. My stomach is still in knots at the idea, but he swears he knows people who can hack into the security cams and block access so no one will know we’re not actually fucking.
VIP room four, he said.
Midnight, he promised.
He’s late.
A chill sends goosebumps scattering down my arms, and I rub them. The leather studded bracelet around my wrist catches my eye, and I shake my head. Sure, I’m absolutely dressed the part for a meeting with the FBI. If black strappy leather and a collar doesn’t scream I’m honest and trustworthy, I don’t know what does.
Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead and…
My thoughts trail off as the door opens. Relieved, I spin around expecting to meet Ethan’s lanky frame, but what I face stops my heart.
He steps inside and shuts the door, taking all the air inside the room with it. I can’t breathe. I’ve imagined this moment in my head a thousand times. I imagined what it would be like—what he would be like. But never once in eight years did I envision it happening like this.
“Hello, Ava.”
The shiver from moments ago becomes a violent tremor.
That voice. That low, gravelly voice. It’s the same as I remember. The one I hear in my dreams, and the one I cry out for in my nightmares. Hearing it is like drinking contaminated water when you’re dying of thirst. You know it can kill you, but the need is so strong it’s worth the risk.
However, the man standing before me isn’t the same one locked inside my memories—the one with midnight black hair always covering one stormy gray eye, and a cocky half smile. The loner who brought a broken little girl out of the shadows. The protector who held my hand during my mother’s funeral. The friend I grew to love with all my heart.
I watched that boy turn into a man and rise up through the ranks of the Miami Bratva. The same man whose last words to me were filled with so much volcanic hate, they could’ve melted steel.
The version standing before me is darker and more muscular. His floppy black hair is cut shorter on the sides and connects to a light beard, partially hiding a vertical scar on his left cheek. A scar I desperately want to know more about, but will never ask. Mostly because the next thing I encounter is a violent, angry tattoo of an eye that covers his fisted hand leading to one that disappears under his leather jacket only to reappear around his corded neck.
Flames burning tortured souls.
I meet his glare, and the same eyes from my memory stare at me, but instead of stormy, they’re volatile.
“Niko,” I choke out. “You’re here.”
“Yes,” he answers. “But then again, you already knew that, didn’t you?” I open my mouth, but he doesn’t stop for an answer. “You’ve seen me. You got my gift.”
It isn’t a question. We both know what he’s referring to. The second I saw that orange blossom in my car, I knew only one person could’ve left it. On some level, I guess I’ve been waiting for him ever since.
“No, I didn’t,” I say, wringing my hands.
He sighs heavily. “Don’t lie to me, pchelka. I’m not here to play games.”
I almost crumble to the floor when his old nickname for me rolls off his tongue.
“How do you know I’m lying?”
“You always twist your fingers when you lie.” He motions toward the hands that are currently knotted like a pretzel in front of me. “Any man worthy of calling himself Bratva learns to read people beyond their words. Mouths lie, but body language betrays even the most skilled deceiver.”
Ignoring his veiled insult, I latch onto one word he said. One word that reminds me who I am, who he is, and where we are. But mostly, it reminds me a threat doesn’t have an expiration date.
Bratva.
Shit! Ethan will be here any minute.
“You can’t be here, Niko. Dmitry will find out.”
He smirks. “Oh, I’m fairly certain he already knows.”
“I don’t understand. He was there. He knows what happened after…” The rest of the words get stuck in my throat, and I look away. “How have you continually walked into Seven without someone putting a bullet in your head?”
“Ava, you may have become a woman, but your mind is still a child, isn’t it?” He sighs, and I think I catch a glimpse of the old Niko, my Niko, until he lifts his chin. There’s no pity in his eyes—only a raging darkness cultivated by years of deception. “Wrath is a fickle woman with no loyalty, and greed will fuck an open wallet every time. But the worst one, pchelka? That’s pride. Pride traces your cheek with one hand and then drives the knife in with the other. But then again, you know all about that, don’t you?”
There’s so much to explain. So many webs to unweave. But I know there’s no time. Ethan is on his way, and before long, our party of two will become a threesome.
And I know from experience, Niko doesn’t share.
“Someone is coming to—I mean, I won’t be alone for long. You have to go.”
A hum of disapproval vibrates in his throat. “I thought after all these years I’d get a warmer welcome than this. After all, I did pay a thousand dollars for you.”
A thousand dollars.
I gasp. “Oh God, You’re the man who bought the—”
Holding up a chain with a key dangling at the end, he swings it between us like a pendulum. “Bondage room,” he finishes, walking toward me. His gait is confident, but his metallic gray eyes are predatory, like glassy pools of impending death.
When there’s only a breath between us, he cups my jaw, lifting it to meet his stare. I remind myself the Niko I knew would never harm me. No matter what he thinks I did, he couldn’t torture me. I repeat those words in my head as his fingers press hard into my skin, dangerously edging toward painful.
“Let that sink in for a minute,” he continues, flashing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re mine for an entire hour. A full sixty minutes to do whatever the fuck I want. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t thought about anything else for the last eight years.”
“You can’t seriously want to restrain me, Niko. Not after…” I swallow, fighting to say the words out loud. “Not after everything that happened.”
“After what you did, give me one good reason I shouldn’t.”
In my mind, I have a dozen of them, but not one passes my lips. Instead of pouring my heart out to him, I turn my chin and stare off to the side.
Niko chuckles, the sound low, deep, and wicked. He twists a strand of my long hair between his fingers. “I always did find your silence endearing, Ava,” he whispers in my ear right before grabbing a whole handful of my hair and jerking my head back until I’m forced to look up him. “Well, until it landed me in your father’s underground prison for something you did.” Without warning he slams us both against the wall. “I wonder how quiet you can be now?”
I open my mouth to scream, but any sound is stopped when his thumb presses against it, trailing down until it roughly caresses my bottom lip.
“What’s wrong?” he taunts, still running his thumb back and forth. “Isn’t this what you always wanted?”
“No,” I beg, my voice barely above a whisper. “Not like this.”
He drops hi
s hand and steps back, the loss achingly painful. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not here for your pussy.”
I wince at the coldness in his words. It reopens old wounds, and the bite it leaves makes me want to bite back. “Then what do you want? I can’t take back what’s already done, and you’re not going to believe anything I say anyway. So, if you’re not here to fuck me, then why do this?”
A slow, sadistic smile spreads across his face. “My cock will be well taken care of, don’t worry.”
His words rip a hole in me, sending callous bravado spilling out like water. “So you wasted a thousand dollars just to jerk off later?”
Niko absorbs my steeled barb, remaining dangerously calm. “My money wasn’t wasted. I paid to personally let you know I’m back. To get in that pretty little head of yours. To tell you how you’re the only thing I’ve thought about over the years. To remind you of your promise. But most of all, to make you fear me, Ava. To make you wonder which day will be the one I’ll come for you. Wonder when I’ll break you. Wonder when I’ll mindfuck you so hard, you’ll surrender your freedom, your tears, your obedience. Wonder which day I’ll finally let you in, and trust me, Ava, you don’t want in.” He takes a deep breath, his ruthless voice deceptively soft in my ear. “Because what lives inside is the monster you created.”
Neither of us move. I don’t think I even breathe as his lips barely trace the outer shell of my ear. The light touch holds a promise so strong it almost crushes me under its weight.
I don’t want to react. This man threatened to take everything from me. I should fight him with everything I have in me and scream for Blade. Instead, I lean into him, shamelessly pressing my body against his. An almost inhuman growl rumbles in his chest, and his free hand grips my hip, jerking me against his hardness. His body remains still, and I wonder if the underlying connection I always knew existed between us, the one that steadily grew into attraction, has overpowered the anger inside him. His lips slide from my ear to my neck, ghosting across my skin. It’s as if he thinks the moment they touch, we’ll poison each other.
Darkest Deeds: Cavalieri Della Morte Page 5