This time in Glasgow, at the opening of our new club, Vixen. The light bouncing off her silver minidress catches my attention, even up in the VIP lounge. She’s spectacular, the dress showing off her long, toned legs. Briefly wondering how they’d feel wrapped around my waist, I shove the thought out of my head. I have business to handle tonight, and a rock-hard dick is not ideal.
“Who are you staring at?” Lachlan asks, leaning in front of me.
“Isla Blackwood,” I put my hand on his face and shove him back, “she’s down at the bar.”
“She’s got an impressive level of arrogance, I’ll give her that,” Lachlan snorts. “Crashing our club opening?”
She’s laughing, tossing her black hair over her shoulder, the curls sweeping down to her waist. The image of wrapping that long, long hair around my fist while I lead her mouth down to my cock-
Stop it, ya’ stupid bastard!
Ah, fecking hell. She’s flirting that tiny arse off with one of our worst clients, Arseni Petrov, a bloodthirsty psychopath and the last man she should be talking to. The Petrov Bratva may not be in the Red Trade, but he’s left a line of broken bodies behind him.
“Angus, head down to the south bar,” I say, “circle Petrov and invite him up to the VIP lounge. Tell him there are many pretty girls eager to make his acquaintance.”
“On it, boss,” he hurries down the stairs.
“Lachlan, go round up some pretty girls,” I suggest, “we need to keep that bloody prick out of the general population.”
“Agreed,” he sighs, finishing his drink and wandering off, issuing instructions into his headset.
Where is she? Shite- she was right there at the end of the bar, that Russian prick looming over her and-
Isla’s not stupid enough to wander off with Petrov. She can’t be.
Dropping my glass, I race past Angus on the stairwell, pushing past dancing couples on my way to the bar.
“Petrov,” I snap at the bartender, “where did he go?”
Wide-eyed, he points to the hallway leading to the bathrooms. “He was with a young lady-”
I’m already moving through the line of people, looking for the telltale silver flash of Isla’s dress. Stupid girl! I should let Petrov rough her up. Why am I protecting a Blackwood?
The feel of her breasts pressed against me that night. The smell of citrus and vanilla… Growling I move faster, shoving people aside if they don’t get out of my way.
“Boss? I have Petrov, no sign of the girl,” Angus is at my side, breathing hard.
“Where?”
“Over here,” he leads the way to another VIP lounge area on the terrace outside. The night is cool and outdoor heaters keep our laughing, chatting guests comfortable. Petrov is sitting in one of the deeply cushioned seats, a lit cigar between his fat fingers and a blank expression on his face.
“Privet,greetings, Arseni. How are you enjoying your evening?” He looks odd, his eyes are a bit unfocused.
“It is an excellent club, my friend,” he finally says, finally lifting the lit cigar to his lips.
Leaning closer, I see his wildly expanded pupils. That could be from any number of club drugs. There’s a whole tray of them laid out upstairs. But I’m catching the slightest whiff of cayenne.
That little witch.
It’s called C:Ay, a new memory deletion drug that makes the victim forget a certain amount of time, five to ten minutes for a small dose to entire days for a larger one. The soul unfortunate enough to be drugged regains consciousness with complete alertness and not the slightest clue they’ve been had.
Now, why did sweet little Isla put one of our biggest clients in a C:Ay-hole? What did she steal from him? Petrov showed up without a briefcase, so it had to be something on his person…
The Blackwood Clan’s main legitimate income is from jewels, rare diamonds are their specialty.
Christ. She didn’t.
Petrov holds his hand up, blinking. “Where’s my fucking ring? My fucking ring is gone!”
