“Too early to tell,” Renee said dismissively. She wouldn’t even look up at the woman. Over the years, she had learned not to give unimportant people important time. This hostess was just another example of why that rule was a necessity.
The woman nodded and disappeared without another word.
Renee released her husband’s hand and sat back in the booth when the woman was gone. “You know, I’m not drinking that water, right?”
“Hey, I’m trying to do better. Was that direct enough or would you like for me donkey punch her on the way out?” Anatoly asked jokingly.
Renee laughed at the thought. “I think that was sufficient, but you see what I’m talking about now. Hoes can smell money like a shark smells blood in the water.”
“I don’t pay attention to these women,” Anatoly said, shrugging. “They are…white noise.” Glancing past her, he saw Anil walking toward them. “Here he comes. Act normal.”
Renee jabbed at her nervous husband. “Now, Ana, you know you’re not normal.”
Ignorant to his audience, Anil walked up to the booth with his notepad already out and his pen in-hand. A bright, trained smile crossed his lips as he nodded courteously at both Renee and Anatoly before he recited his normal spiel. “Welcome to The Southern Table. Home to the famous caramelized okra platter. I’m your waiter, Anil. I’ll be serving you, tonight. Have you guys ever been here before?” He wrote his name on the pad, tore out the sheet of paper and placed it in front of them.
Anatoly could see Renee’s big smile in the corner of his eye. She was enjoying this far too much. “No. This is our first time,” he said, realizing they had the same eyes.
“Well, we’re happy to have you. Is that a Russian accent I detect?” Anil asked, only seeing the tattoos on the man’s hands after. Shit, this was a made guy. Russian mobsters had a reputation in Miami, and normally where ever they were, trouble shortly followed.
Anatoly raised his hand and waved it. “What gave me away?” Renee kicked him under the table at his smugness. “Yes,” he said, a little gentler. “I’m Russian. What about you?”
“Oh, I’m from all over,” Anil said, staying professional as possible. It was part of his job to be warm and inviting, but he didn’t want to piss this guy off. “Umm, fun fact. I was born in Trinidad and Tobago, lived in Cuba and now I’m here in Miami.”
“So, you’re an immigrant too?” Anatoly asked, already knowing the backstory. He’d read the file. “See, we have something in common.”
“Yeah, not a good time to be one though, according to the news.” Anil turned up his lip. In his nervousness, he had accidentally gone political. That was a no-no at The Southern Table.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about the wall,” Anatoly said, trying to make the young man feel more comfortable. “You’re tall enough to jump right over it.”
Anil wasn’t sure if this guy was joking or fucking with him. “Tonight’s menu has a few special entrees on it…”
“Are you in school?” Anatoly cut him off.
“University of Miami,” Anil answered, lowering his pad. “I’m pre-med.”
“Smart, hard-working immigrant. Isn’t that interesting,” Anatoly said, proud of his little brother. He could tell a lot about a man within seconds of meeting him, and Anil was just a normal hump trying to make something of himself. He respected that. Criminal life wasn’t for everyone, if it were, there would be no need for criminals.
“I would have thought you were an athlete,” Renee said, trying to play normal with her husband. “Especially since you’re like seven feet tall.”
At least someone here didn’t take themselves too seriously. Anil liked the beautiful black woman sitting across from the Russian. Her million-watt smile was carefree, her big, brown eyes were friendly. It was much easier to talk to her.
“Everyone asks that. I don’t play basketball, football, any of it. I run first thing in the morning, hit the gym as much as possible and eat a lot of eggs because it’s the only protein that’s cheap enough to buy in bulk.”
The hostess returned with the water that Anatoly had sent her for earlier. Quietly, she placed it on the table in front of Renee and exited stage left.
Anil was surprised that Charmaine hadn’t tried to be her normal inappropriate self with the Russian. He was definitely her speed.
The one-time Anil had gone on a date with her they ended up back at her place for a night cap. In her bedroom, one wall was covered with books, which was sort of sexy. He liked the educated type.
But all of them were interracial romance novels about Russian billionaire mobsters. It was sort of intimidating. If she read about those guys all the time, how would she ever find him interesting? He was just a poor college student trying to get buy on tips – there was absolutely nothing remarkable about him. Plus, all she did was talk about other people’s money, not what she was going to do with her future. It made perfect sense to him after seeing the books and listening to her all night. She was looking for someone with money to take care of her. And nine times out of ten, if they did get serious, she’d dump him soon enough for someone with that money.
So, he did the smart thing. He chalked their eight hours together up to just a casual encounter and never asked her out again.
“So, let’s talk menu,” Anil said, pushing up on his toes and rocking forward. “We have quite a few popular entrees.”
Anatoly had already looked over the menu and didn’t see anything that jumped out at him. “Do me a favor. Just put together something nice and bring it out to us. Surprise me.” He knew a few things about running a restaurant having spent so many years at Mother Russia, and a good waiter always had a few suggestions.
“I’ll be happy to do that, sir.”
“I’m not a sir,” Anatoly corrected quickly. “You can call me anything but that. People call my father sir. They call me boss, but you don’t work for me, so…whatever.” He glanced over at Renee who was quietly dying of laughter.
Anil wasn’t sure what else to call a guest. No sir. No boss. He shrugged it off. “Okay, bro,” he said, tapping his pen on the pad. “Should I bring you a bottle of wine or a cocktail?”
“I’m pregnant,” Renee offered. “So, nothing with alcohol for me, please.”
“I’ll take a vodka.”
Nope. Anil wasn’t going to take the bait. “Top shelf?”
Anatoly nodded.
“I’ll take a coke,” Renee said, ducking her head. She could have bought her husband for a nickel at that moment. He was speechless, and she was so very entertained.
“Great. I’ll bring out one coke and a vodka and then I’ll put in your orders.” He stepped away from the table. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Renee leaned in when Anil was gone. “So, did you see what you needed to see?” Personally, she liked Anil. He was different from the other Medlov men. Innocent, perhaps.
“Da,” Anatoly said, turning his attention back to his wife. “I don’t think that I can get much more out of him without making him suspicious.”
“Probably not.” Renee pushed the glass of water across the table. “But we’re not leaving. I want to enjoy a real date.”
“Real dates end with real sex,” Anatoly reminded with a lusty glare under his thick lashes. Licking his lips, he threaded his fingers together. “It’s either that or you pay the bill.”
Renee knew what her husband wanted. “I tell you what, if you can be a gentleman and sweep me off my feet, then tonight…” she trailed a finger over the top of the table. “Face down. Ass up.”
Anatoly cracked a smile. “Now, you’re talking.”
Chapter Thirteen
Specialty Acts…
Bouncing Beaver Strip Club
Miami Beach, FL
R yan Colt kept his gentlemen’s club spotless. It was a pet peeve of his to not have anything dirty around him. The clinical term for his condition was OCD, but for him, it was just plain good manners. Other clubs could do what they
wanted - not wash down their poles, not bleach their floors, not clean their windows or spot clean their furniture - but his shit was always on point.
As he stood in the men’s bathroom inches behind the cleaning girl with a Guns and Ammo magazine rolled up in his right hand like he was about to discipline a dog, Ryan felt the sudden need to teach the maid some manners. God, he wanted to clock her right in the back of her head, knock some sense into her the way he did his other girls. But she was untouchable. She worked for a legitimate business, had family and friends. Someone would make a stink. And a stink was something he couldn’t afford.
“You still missed a spot,” he pointed out, while the Latina woman scrubbed the white porcelain toilet for the third time since his lecture had begun. He could feel his blood boiling right beneath his starched white collar. Fucking idiot. Anyone could see that piss drop from a mile away. He could practically smell it. She was just being lazy. Like all other women, this one needed to be on a short leash.
On her knees, she scrubbed up the urine and dipped her brush back in the blue plastic bucket. “Sorry, Mr. Colt,” the woman said, glancing back at Colt’s knuckles that had turned white from squeezing the magazine so tight. Did he mean her harm? He had never struck her, but she had heard the stories about him like everyone else who was in his employ. Ryan Colt was a violent man with a short temper.
Spittle shot from his mouth as he over enunciated his words in frustration. “I pay you to keep these bathrooms clean. This isn’t a fucking third-world troth. Every fifteen minutes, you bring your fat ass in here and make sure that it is spotless.”
“Yes, Mr. Colt,” she answered again, trembling at his close proximity.
Ryan looked behind him, beyond the stall door, at the men’s bathroom attendant. “Joe, you make sure to keep an eye on each stall. If one gets dirty, you send for her to come back in here and clean it up immediately. My patrons expect a certain level of hospitality. Don’t make me say it again.”
Dressed in a cheaply-made black suit, the Cambodian man, Joe, stammered out his response, equally frightened by his boss’s irritation. “Yes, sir. I will, sir.” He wrung his hands nervously, reminding himself to start looking for a new job tomorrow.
Ryan bent down to the woman’s ear as she cleaned and jutted out his jaw. He could tell that she was afraid, but it only made him angrier. If she hadn’t been such a slob, she wouldn’t be in this position. This was her fault. Not his. His breath hissed against the side of her face. “If we have to have this conversation again…”
Her eyes focused on the back of the toilet and her heart nearly stopped. Swallowing hard, she waited for the threat.
“You’re fired,” Ryan whispered.
The bathroom door flew open, unmuffling the sounds of music from down the hall, and a drunk young banker stumbled in on the conversation. He paused, seeing that he was interrupting something tense. “Whoa.” He blinked fast and pulled at his tie. “I can come back if you guys are busy.”
Ryan’s red-hot demeanor quickly changed. He rose and turned around, pulling at the bottom of his vest. An eerie smile swept across his tanned face. “Not at all, sir. Please, help yourself. We’re just doing a little upkeep. The other stalls are at your service.” He stepped out of the bathroom stall away from the cleaning lady.
“Are you sure?” the drunk man asked. He glanced at the woman still on her knees in the stall and the attendant standing in the middle of the floor like a scared child and frowned. Someone was in trouble.
“Positive,” Ryan answered as he waved off the appearance. “Please. I insist.”
“Okay, if it’s no imposition.” The drunk man stumbled into a vacant stall and closed the door. The sound of his urine hitting the water in the toilet reminding both the cleaning lady and Joe of their transgression.
Walking over to the marble-top counter, Ryan turned on the sink and let the water run until it was scalding hot, then slipped his hands into the stream. He looked at himself in the mirror, gray empty eyes staring back at him, and leaned in to check his teeth. Before he could finish washing his hands, Joe passed him a white cloth for his hands.
“Thank you, Joe,” Ryan said curtly. He wiped his hands dry, making sure to use the cloth to dry up the water that had splashed on the counter, then discarded it in the trash. After one final glance at his flawless head of black wavy hair, he left his staff to their jobs.
Emerging out of the bathroom refreshed, Ryan headed out into his club to check on the girls. In a slow, even stride, he walked through the long hallway, illuminated by red receding lights and adorned with gold-framed posters of headline strippers.
In the main room, the lights are dim, a disco ball is reflecting its colorful glimmer over the span of the area, the house DJ is working the turntables, and the place is packed. Two bachelor parties are roaring on both sides of the club, a few drunk regulars are at the bar, and the main stage has a hodge-podge of upscale businessmen lurking below with fists of hundred-dollar bills. His girls are working hard. Half-nude never looked so good. He handpicked all of his dancers - brought them in, fixed them up, trained them to do one thing – make him money.
“You want a drink, Mr. C?” his waitress, Lana, asked, holding up a tray with one hand. She was new to the business, still in college and not a part of his stable, because he didn’t ever work his waitresses. She was petite, on the skinny side with short, curly fire red hair and thin red lips to match. Wearing a short skirt that barely covered her backside and a pink garter belt around her thigh, she pushed up on her tip toes to speak to him.
“I don’t drink on the clock,” Ryan reminded as he moved closer and looked down at her shirt. “It’s poor form.” He pulled her close, cupped her perky breasts, and slowly moved his hands down the torso to pull her tank top down. “There. More cleavage.” As soon as he touched her, he saw the alarm in her eyes. “More tips that way,” he winked.
“Sure thing,” she said, stepping back. Her smile was forced now and she wished that she had not spoken to him at all. “Well, gotta go. These drinks aren’t going to deliver themselves.”
“Bye, bye.” He watched her walk away amused. They all feared him, all of the dancers, the bartenders, the bouncers, right down to the cleaning lady. And he liked it that way, in fact it made his dick hard. A tight ship was not an easy accomplishment. People had to know there were consequences for not producing.
“Coming to the main stage, gents, is the one and only, mysterious, magnificent Eddy,” the DJ announced over the microphone, changing the music to draw the men’s attention.
Ryan didn’t like her half-ass introduction. He’d need to speak to the DJ about his lack of enthusiasm or vocabulary tonight before his shift ended. Folding his arms, he leaned against the wall and watched. Eddy was his girl. He had bought her four years ago from a pimp in Tampa who had to thin out his stable. While she hadn’t come easy or cheap, he eventually broke her of her slouching and smoking marijuana. Drugs were a necessity in the game, but nothing turned away a client faster than a cigarette or marijuana smoke. Now, she only popped pills for the long nights.
One of the bouncers walked up to him while he was watching. Looking in between his boss and Eddy, he finally spoke. “You’ve got a guy in your office. Says it’s important.”
“Who is he?” Ryan asked, eyes still on Eddy.
“A promoter. I think he wants some of the girls for a party.”
Ryan pursed his lips together and narrowed his gaze. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”
Eddy stepped out on the stage like she owned it. She had her long black hair pulled away from her face and cascading down her back. Glancing over her captive audience, she locked eyes with Ryan for a moment and then resumed her performance. He had never seen eyes so big and brown in all his years. She had finished him before with just those eyes. Her skin as black as night, flawless and smooth. Her lips so soft and plush until men fantasized of what it would be like to have them wrapped around their cocks. She ran her long, s
ilver nails down her torso as she swayed to the purple pole at the front of the catwalk. The music was hypotonic combined with her naturally wide hips, legs thick with carved muscle, tight calves and heavy, natural breasts large as melons. Eddy was a star.
The men were already throwing money on the stage, begging for her to take off her black leather corset and black thong. When she twirled around the pole with one leg hooking around the pole and the other extended toward the crowd, Ryan finally pushed off the wall and headed toward his office. If he stayed, in the mood he was in, he’d pull her off stage and fuck her right there on the catwalk. Instead, he would do it later, when the club closed.
***
The silver-haired, slick mouthed, Mickey Shelton sat in the back office of the club patiently waiting for Ryan to arrive. He sipped on a cocktail brought to him by the overweight bouncer and texted on his phone, but he was quietly irritated. How dare this guy make him wait longer than five minutes. In his business, that was just disrespectful. For goodness sake, he was Mickey Shelton, and he had personally come down here to throw this Colt character good business. The least the guy could do was not leave him stewing in his Armani suit like some jackoff.
He glanced at the time on his phone and shifted in his chair. “Should I come back when this guy is less busy or what?” Mickey asked in a thick Boston accent.
“He’ll be here in just a minute,” the bouncer said, standing by the door.
“It’s been a minute, actually ten. I just want to know.”
The knob twisted and the door swung open. Ryan stepped inside and glanced at the stranger. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, smoothing a hand over his tie. He walked over to Mickey and offered a hand. “Ryan Colt.”
“Mickey Shelton.” He shook the man’s hand without standing. Fuck this guy.
“How can I help you, Mr. Shelton?” Ryan asked, making his way to the chair behind his desk. He had promoters in here all the time trying to get him to showcase their girls, but he wasn’t interested in sharing his stage. All his dancers belonged to him. He owned them like he owned his clothes. Bringing in free-thinking girls might muddy the waters and give his ladies some bright ideas about leaving. There was also the issue of undercover cops and pimps trying to poach on his territory. But still he gave the man an audience just to see what he wanted.
Anatoly's Retribution: Book One (The Medlov Men 5) Page 18