The room’s crawling with richmudaks, draped in clothes worth more than most people’s cars. All here to stroke their own egos and maybe get their dicks wet. Disgusting.
I return to the bar, shouldering past some yapping suits. “Another,” I growl, slamming my glass down. The bartender, smart fuck, doesn’t hesitate. He pours a double whiskey, neat. I knock it back, relishing the burn.
Scanning the room, I spot Erik schmoozing with a group of men. Expensive suits, dead eyes, and enough muscle behind ‘em to start a small army. I recognize a few faces—big shots from the tech world, a couple of oil tycoons. Seems the Ivankov name still carries weight.
Erik’s got on that thousand-dollar smile, all teeth and charm. His tailored navy suit hugs his frame like a second skin, Rolex glinting as he gestures. Fucker always did clean up nice.
“Gentlemen,” he’s saying, “I assure you, our operations are cleaner than a nun’s conscience these days. The Skull Collector issue? Ancient history.”
One of the suits—balding, weak-chinned fuck—shifts his weight, eyes darting between Erik and me. His fingers fidget with his tie as he leans in, voice dropping to a near-whisper.
“We’ve heard rumors, Mr. Volkov, you and Mr. Orlov…” He trails off, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His gaze flicks to me, then back to Erik. I see his shoulders tense as he tugs at his collar, clearing his throat. “Whispers that you’ve been… aggressive in your cleanup.”
Erik’s smile turns sharp. “Let’s just say we believe in thorough housekeeping.”
I snort into my fresh drink. Thorough,my ass. We’ve been ruthless, tearing through the Skull Collector’s network like a fucking hurricane. Elena and her lapdog Zimniy won’t know what hit ‘em when we’re done.
Erik catches my eye, giving me a subtle nod.
“So, I’m fucking off for two weeks,” Erik says, knocking back his whiskey. His eyes never stop moving, always on the hunt. “Got shit to handle back in Italy.”
“What kind of shit?” I ask purposely.
He flashes that wolf grin. “The kind that keeps our balls out of a vice,durak.”
I know what he’s thinking. This Italy trip ain’t just business. He’s still chasing that Italian mafia princess’s tail. First time I’ve seen themudakget hung up on a cunt.
Some long-leggedsukain a dress that might as well be painted on stumbles into Erik, giggling like a moron. “Oh, I’m sooo sorry!” she slurs, pawing at his chest.
Erik, the smoothkhuy, just smirks. “No problem,devochka. Run along now.”
She pouts, clearly hoping to climb him like a tree, but Erik’s already turned back to me.
I roll my eyes. “Subtle as a brick to the face.”
He chuckles. “Can’t help being God’s gift,brat.”
I snort, turning away from his smug face. My eyes drift to the birdcage in the center, and suddenly I’m back in that shithole strip joint, watching her for the first time.
Wren.Fucking Wren.
The memory jabs like a hot poker, searing and brutal. Her raven hair, those fierce brown eyes, that “fuck you” attitude. My hand tightens on my glass, knuckles white.
One of the dancers writhes on the pole, her peacock feather costume barely covering anything. Her eyes lock onto mine, a sultry smile playing on her lips.
But she’s not Wren. No one is.
Three fucking years since that night at the Magnificent Mile.
I absently rub my chest, feeling the raised scar tissue beneath my shirt. The bullet wound throbs, a phantom pain that never really goes away. Just like the memory of waking up in that clinic bed, four months gone, only to find Wren had vanished. Just like the memory of Wren telling me we were nothing. Just a fuck. Just a goddamn cunt and dick.
“Yob tvoyu mat,” I growl, shoving past a group of suit-wearingpizdyheading my way. Fuckers and their fake smiles, always wanting a piece of the Ivankov pie. Not tonight. I need air.
I shoulder my way through the crowd, ignoring the offended gasps and dirty looks. The balcony door slides open with a hiss, and I step out into the cool Chicago night. The city sprawls below, a maze of lights and shadows. I lean against the railing, lighting another cigarette, the smoke mixing with the fog of my breath.
The shootout that almost ended me.
Four months in a coma, they said. Four months where Wren thought I’d ghosted her, where she slipped away like smoke.
