My men's lips press together as if they're trying to hold back a laugh, the assholes.
The bachelor party has just passed the tipping point of enjoyable into incoherent as I step into the VIP lounge. Adam is laughing uncontrollably as his brother strips on one of the low tables as two of the girls shout and clap, waving dollar bills. My youngestbrother Alexsey, who manages the club, is standing by the bar alternately checking his phone and watching the party with a look of polite resignation.
“Oh, thank fuck you're here," he says. “Does that mean I can leave? Please tell me I'm not going to be this pathetic when I'm your age.”
“Why thank you, brother,” I say. “I hear the innocence of a mere twenty-six years of age. Wait till you hit thirty and you've killed a dozen more men.”
“You're only twenty-eight,brat,”he points out irritably. “And don't pretend your kill count is that much higher than mine.”
Our bartender has Russian prison tattoos snaking up each forearm. He continues to polish glasses with an impassive face. It's nothing he hasn't seen or heard before.
One of the club’s security men makes his way over to the bar. “Mr. Morozov, there is a group of young ladies that state they were invited to Mr. Zaitsev's bachelor party.”
“I said no hookers,” I snap.
He folds his hands in front of him, nodding respectfully. “I believe that they are college friends of his brother.”
“Very well,” I say. “Just keep them off Adam. Make it clear to them that they are not allowed to touch the groom unless they want a few fingers broken.”
“Not that Dmitri would do it,” Aleksey adds helpfully. “But I'm sure he'd be happy to get Irina to do it.” Irinia is our head of security here, and even the biggest guards are terrified of her, with good reason. She does not tolerate fools.
Walking over to the railing, I watch the floor. The guest DJ tonight is on fire, the electronica melting seamlessly from one song to the next as a crowded floor of glistening bodies writhe and twist.
“I hear I have you to thank for tonight's party?”
There’s a girl standing to my left, pretty, with short pink hair and intelligent eyes. “Well, I am the best man,” I say politely. My gaze is still clocking where security is on the floor; if they've noticed the drunk couple squabbling in the east corner or the two men who look like they're slipping tiny white envelopes into the hands of partygoers.
Two men that are definitely not ours.
I'm about to message Irina, but she's already on the way with four other black-clad bouncers, seamlessly surrounding the two men and taking them away before anyone notices. I realize the girl is still trying to talk to me.
“Did you and Adam go to school?” she asks, her smile still steady. Most women would be getting shrill by now, impatient as I ignored them, but this girl's got more patience - or more self-confidence - I'm not sure. “I'm Andrea,” she says, thrusting out her hand.
I take it reluctantly. “A pleasure. I'm Dmitri. If you'll excuse me, I have some things to take care of as the host, enjoy your night.”
“Maybe we can talk later?” She calls after me, but I'm already across the room, sitting with Adam.
"When's the last time you had a date?" he asks. “You know, with a normal woman who doesn't want you because she thinks you're a bad boy?"
"Normal women want nothing to do with me," I chuckle.
"Alexsey was complaining that you're turning into a cranky bastard the closer you get to taking over your father's job. He says you haven't gotten laid in the last decade.” He knows better than to use specifics in front of the other guests.
“My little brother is an asshole, and apparently obsessed with my sex life.” I say dryly. “But in this case, you know that taking over for my father is like any other corporate transfer. There's a lot of groundwork.”
Adam chuckles. “I can just hear your mother. I bet she's been mentioning something about getting married and settling down? Or maybe your dad is talking about how ‘a union would suit your new role and show stability and maturity?’” He deepens his voice to sound like Maksim.
I take a gulp of my drink. It's vodka, ice cold, and pure in a way that only the best ones are. Fortunately, unlike whiskey, gulping it is not considered inelegant. It’s a drink that you can shoot straight back, fire burning down your throat and warming your chest. “My father got married to hold off the psychotic daughter of one of his business rivals,” I say. “The fact that my parents fell in love with each other is one of the great mysteries of the universe, according to my Uncle Yuri. Arranged marriages are less common now, thank god. I should be able to hold off the holy chains of matrimony for another decade at least.”
“You old romantic,” Adam laughs, handing me a shot glass of Russo-Baltique. “You might surprise yourself and find some woman who can tolerate you. To the holy chains of matrimony!”
“Za zdorovye!”I laugh, clinking my glass to his.
***
Za zdorovye -Russian for “to your health!”
moy Vtoroy -Russian for "my second" a bratva rank designation
