I ignore the way her voice dips into a low, suggestive hum. There isn’t a universe in which I’d touch her—not even with a ten-foot pole.
“I’ll wire you your percentage for the help you provided. That’s all you’re getting.”
“Well, that’s not very nice. Maybe I should tell Daddy this deal is a bad idea after all.”
“Do that, and it will be the last thing you say,” I warn, my voice turning lethal. “Take the money, Kim. And spend it on something… what was the word you used? Ah, yes…nice…for your husband. The poor fucker deserves it after marrying a traitorous bitch like you.”
I hang up before she can respond.
One hour.
In one hour, I’ll finally push things in my favor.
There’s only one problem. Frankie is here. At my club.
“Kostya, we got the call,” I say, and in an instant his carefree grin melts into focused seriousness.
“You’re shitting me. When?” he asks, just as Kim’s text with the address comes through.
“We have one hour.”
“Then let’s get going!” Kostya springs to his feet, practically vibrating with excitement.
I keep my smile in check, but I’m glad he’s looking forward to this. Since we got back from Russia, he’s been all-in with my plan, throwing in smart ideas of his own and offering me solid counsel. The kid might not like doingBratvabusiness, but he sure has a head for it.
“Oh, you have to be off?” Frankie asks, immediately sensing that playtime is over. “Then I guess I should go home, too. I’ll call an Uber.”
“The fuck you will.” Kostya snatches the phone right out of her hand. “No way is my niece getting into an Uber with some stranger.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble,” Frankie says.
“No problem at all. We’ll drop you home,” Kostya assures her.
“Actually, we can’t,” I cut in. “The meet is on the other side of town.”
“So what? They can wait a few minutes,” Kostya scoffs.
“The more time we give them, the riskier it is that they’ll second-guess everything and back out,” I warn, giving him a look that says this is our one shot.
“Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Kira,” I say, hating what I’m about to ask, “can you call your boyfriend to come get you?” But the moment she starts nervously chewing her bottom lip, I know Lucky isn’t an option. I cross my arms and narrow my gaze at my niece. “Lucky doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”
She shakes her head. “He doesn’t like it when I come see you at your place of work.”
“And he’s right,” I say, surprising her. “A strip club is no place for a young woman like you.”
“But is it really a strip club anymore?” she counters. “I mean, this place is incredible. It has that bootleg 1920s vibe. Almost burlesque. I rarely see any of the girls with their clothes off.”
“If you stayed a little later, you would,” Kostya laughs. “Besides, every time you show up here, Kirill tells the girls to keep their clothes on for your sake. He still wants to give you the impression we’re classy or some shit.”
“But this place is classy! I mean, it even showed up in the Chicago Sun as a must-visit nightlife spot.”
It’s true.
Who would have thought a few changes to the girls’ routines and a complete makeover of the place would bring in wealthy and upscale clientele?
Oh, that’s right… I did.
