Sofiya
SONG: PRETTY & PETTY BY CARDI B
I watchAngel's hands wrap around the pole, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought left off hours ago. The familiar beats of her favorite song blast through Lush's speakers. The lights shift from color to color—purple to blue to pink—practically a show on their own. No expense was spared on the design and special effects in this place. Angel moves without thinking, she could probably do this routine in her sleep by now. I let out an encouraging whoop as I pass the stage, watching her top fly off toward a frat boy sitting too close to be tasteful. His thrilled face makes me laugh—a real laugh that surprises me—as I make my way toward the dressing room. Angel gives him a coy smile, crawling toward him on her hands and knees. He'll be an easy mark tonight.
Once again, I wonder why they designed the club with the dressing room in the very back, but I continue weaving through tables and chairs toward the bright red door labeled "Do Not Enter." I give a subtle nod to the group of men sitting in a dark booth, clearly here for anything other than the women. Bratva men, judging by the watches and the way they hold themselves. Hopefully that means it'll be a good night. They tend to bepolite—read: disinterested—and great tippers. They prefer their strippers to be decoration, in the background looking pretty like beautiful pieces of art or vases full of flowers. When you become a permanent fixture, people stop noticing you. Every day I become more invisible, the more information I can glean. And every piece of information leads me straight to The Four.
Father owns Lush. Every meeting, every overheard conversation gets me closer and closer to my revenge. One day my four tormentors will all be dead, and I'll have my freedom.
I give the security camera a wink as I open the red door marked “Do Not Enter.” The faux luxury of the dressing room illustrates the seedy underbelly of Lush perfectly. What looks like a glamorous and wealthy strip club is in reality a money laundering scheme, with a touch of prostitution. But the priority of Lush is being a safe haven for deals and meetings. I run my finger across the scratches on the faux marble counter as I make my way to my beauty station. Seems fitting. Everything here is beautiful from a distance. The closer you get, the cheaper and more damaged it appears. Everything here is cracked underneath the surface.
Even me.
I smirk in the mirror, ignoring the chaos of the other women around me as they get ready. Our Mother—what we call the older, retired dancer who helps us get ready and provides supplies—hovers nearby. Kind of like a den mom, she's always available and always has what we need. From cocaine to tampons.
Angel comes in a few moments after I get seated, her song now over, sweat gleaming on her body.
"You're late," she says, nudging me with her shoulder as she sits at the station next to mine. She grabs a wipe and gets to work fixing her eye makeup.
"I walked right by Aleksandr, gave him a nod and everything," I say, referring to our manager.
Aleksandr is nice enough, but it's clear he's more interested in kissing the ring than being an actual businessman. Unfortunately for him, the ring he kisses doesn't even belong to Pakhan. The Bratva is nothing but layers and layers of bureaucracy and leadership. The government has nothing on the nightmare that is vague leadership with a structure full of egos and violence. At least with the government no one is going to shoot you because they had a bad day or they're hung over.
Mostly.
Getting to be in the presence of the Pakhan is much harder than anyone would think. It's definitely harder than I ever thought it would be when I started my revenge mission.
"Is Brad working?" I ask as I start to apply my foundation, heavy as usual. So far no one has recognized me, but when I know Father's men are in the club, I always apply my makeup a little heavier than normal. I've never recognized any of the men here, but I know it's only a matter of time. Despite the Bratva structure, it's still a small world. I honestly don't know how I'll feel when I see one of The Four again. I just hope it doesn't happen before I'm ready.
"Yes, thank God. Aleksandr has his friends here again, and I have no desire for a repeat of last time," Angel says.
"I don't blame you, but I'll never forget the look on Aleksandr's face when you broke Mikhail's nose." We share a look before we start laughing.
"Any whales tonight?" I ask, referring to wealthy clients, while moving onto contouring my face. It's amazing how some simple lines on your face can practically make you shapeshift.
"Sadly, no. The richest marks tonight are Aleksandr and his friends." Angel carefully reapplies eyeliner before shrugging her shoulders.
I pretend to be disappointed, but this actually plays into my plans for the evening perfectly. Turns out revenge is a marathon, not a sprint, but every shift I come in and dedicate myself to slowly making progress. Inch by inch I get closer. I continue to build trust, blending in, being a reliable employee, and most importantly, being present when Father's men are. I hate Aleksandr and his friends with a fiery passion, but they'll be discussing Bratva business. And I'll be sitting in one of their laps while they do.
Every night I learn more and more about the men, their schedules, their plans. Who knew men were so stupid when they can see boobs? I can listen to any conversation unhindered as long as I have my top off or shake my ass.
I finish my makeup, a subtle, smokey eye with a dramatic red lip. I've left my thick, dark hair down with a slight curl. Leaving it down is always useful as a quick way to hide my face if I get concerned someone could recognize me. I miss my natural light blonde hair every day, but the black dye job was a necessity. Now that I think about it, I should have realized I wasn't Father's. My light hair and bright green eyes matched neither him norMomochka, both had brown eyes and hair but still far darker than mine.
Angel helps me lace my customary corset. I'm the only girl that wears one. But I'm also the only girl with a large scar on her back. A large scar that must remain hidden at all costs. No matter how much I disguise myself, that scar would identify me in an instant. It's easy enough to pop the bottom of the corset when I dance. As long as men can see the goods, they don't care that I'm never fully topless. Half the time I don't think they could even tell you what color I'm wearing.
Once I'm sure I look as good as I ever will, I make my way out onto the floor. A quick sultry walk through the tables soon has me giving a lap dance to an older man. His erection pokes me asI writhe on his lap while continuously removing his hands from my ass. I look up and make eye contact with Brad—he's already taking a step forward, but I shake my head. This mark is handsy, but he's old and harmless. For all I know I could be one last thrill before he kicks the bucket.
As soon as I finish, I start tucking myself back into the corset. My head shoots up when I hear a sharp whistle. I look and see the doorman, Jack, waving at Brad who is already storming through the floor toward Aleksandr's table. My interest piqued, I make my way to a better vantage point under the guise of looking for another dance. Rule number one of working at Lush is ignoring anything that has to do with Aleksandr and the other men of the Bratva unless told otherwise.
A man I don't recognize is standing in front of Aleksandr's table, holding a knife in his hand. I notice a dark liquid dripping off the blade. That's when one of Aleksandr's friends stands but something is wrong. He's wobbling, and it's clear it's taking an immense amount of effort to stand. I can see the men shouting at each other, but I can't hear anything over the deep bass of the music blaring.
I have a moment of panic. There is no way I will let someone else come in and start taking out Father's men. They are mine. I also don't need this club getting shut down or deemed too risky to keep operating. I don't know who this knife-wielding man is, but he has to go.
I continue weaving my way toward the group, watching Aleksandr pull a gun with no attempt at subtlety. It's only a matter of time until a non-Bratva customer spots the scene and then we're fucked. The Bratva has a lot of pull, but even they can't avoid the police completely.
I stop and duck behind a nearby lounge chair, quickly unstrapping my sky-high heels, hefting the weight of one inmy right hand. The girls often joked they would make a great weapon. Guess we're finding out tonight.
I rise to my feet, careful not to make any sudden, attention-drawing movements. Brad stands to the right of the knife holder, who has another of Aleksandr's friends—Victor, I think—a knife at his throat. Aleksandr is still aiming his gun, but I can see his hand shaking from here. I give a snort. I hate Father, but you would never catch him hesitating to kill someone threatening him, especially in his own business. No way will Aleksandr survives this. Either the knife-wielding man takes him out or Father will.
