“Sorry, I spaced out this morning. Promise I’ll do better tomorrow.”
“I hope so,” he says evenly. “Whatever’s messing with your focus, deal with it. Don’t let it sit and fester. That’s how problems start running your life instead of you.”
I give him another faint smile, grab my things, and head out, hoping he’s right and that I’m not making a bigger mistake by going to see Kirill again.
Once I’m in my car, it takes me a split second before I turn the ignition.
I get what my dad was saying about letting things fester. But that’s not the case here. If anyone finds out I’ve gone to Little Russia—not once, not twice, but three times—it’ll be my ass. Dom might be lenient with me, but my father, theCapodei Capi himself, would not.
Still, it’s Lucky’s goofy face from breakfast that keeps coming to mind. The idiot fell hard for a girl who doesn’t even know where she comes from. If Kirill has any insight on that, then both Lucky and, especially, Frankie need to know.
That’s the thing about having too many siblings. Someone’s always getting into something, and the rest of us have to swoop in and fix it.
And in my case, that means making sure nothing gets in the way of my brother’s stupid happiness.
An hour later, I’m parked outside the last place I should be. I should be heading to class right about now, not staring at the neon-lit silhouette of a naked woman.
But here I am. Coming to my brother’s rescue by finding out why his girlfriend’s choice in jewelry seems to touch a nerve with theBratvaunderboss of all people.
Lucky, you’re going to owe me big time for this.
As expected at this early hour, the strip club isn’t open for business.
I hate places like this. They’re fucking demeaning and exploitative. Still, sex sells, and as long as there’s demand, there will always be supply.
I’d say that makes all men nothing but misogynistic pigs, but having been here before, I know most of the ones who frequent this club aren’t necessarily here for the show.
This isBratvaterritory, after all, so it’s no surprise the club doubles as both a playground and a waiting room where Kirill’s men line up for their cut or their orders.
Knowing my last name alone makes mepersona non gratain a place like this, I hold my head high and waltz toward the entrance as if I have every right to be here. Thankfully, no one’s around to stop me today, but even if there were, I’d handle them the same way I handled the last bouncer who tried.
Inside, the club looks different without the flashing lights and music. The air still smells faintly of stale liquor and cheap perfume, and the bass that usually shakes the floor has been replaced by the low hum of the cleaning crew’s vacuum. A couple of cleaners move quietly through the haze, collecting bottles and wiping down tables while a few of Kirill’s men linger in the back, either murmuring into their phones or eyeballing me.
I can tell my presence here has left a bad taste in their mouths, but not one of them has the stones to approach me. Something tells me Kirill’s behind that. Not that he’s here to confirm it. Nine a.m. is apparently too early for him to drag his ass out of bed, because he’s nowhere in sight.
With nothing to do but wait for the asshole, I take a seat at a table and lock eyes with a waitress carrying a tray with empty glasses. There’s a hollowness in her eyes, her shoulders drawn tight as she makes her way toward me.
“I, um… would you like anything to drink?” she asks, her voice uncertain, glancing around at the men still watching us like hungry dogs.
“You wouldn’t by any chance serve coffee in this dump, would you?” She nods, still looking like she wants to tell me to get the hell out while I can. “Then I’ll have a coffee.”
“I’d suggest water, miss. Bottled water,” she says quietly, glancing toward the bartender.
“I’m good with coffee. Don’t worry. He’s not man enough to put cyanide in it.” I laugh. However, she doesn’t look convinced. “Just tell him I’m a guest of his boss,” I add, throwing a taunting look at the bartender.
That should guarantee my safety. For now, anyway.
Not that I’m really a guest. I’m sure even he has his suspicions that I’m crashing this place. Still, if he thinks he can earn brownie points with his boss by killing me with a laced coffee, he’s welcome to try.
I keep my eyes fixed on the bartender as he pours coffee into a mug, his scowl alerting me that it will be cyanide-free.
The waitress returns, visibly relieved. I hand her a hundred-dollar bill for her troubles.
“Keep the change.”
She smiles, then hurries off, leaving me to watch as some girls practice for their upcoming performance.
Hey, I’ve got no problem with women using what God gave them to make a buck. What I do have a problem with is when choice is taken away from them. I don’t know if these girls are here of their own volition or if they are being forced.
