Grabbing my phone, I check for messages. Nothing from Erik or Luka. Good. Means the night went smoothly. No fires for me to put out. Literal or otherwise.
I head for the elevator, my footsteps echoing in the empty gym.
The elevator dings again, doors sliding open to reveal the mansion’s opulent foyer. I step out, straightening my tie. Time to be Dimitri Volkov, Vor of the Ivankov Bratva. Not some hornymudakobsessing over a woman he can’t have.
My hand’s on the doorknob when my phone buzzes. Probably Erik, finally waking up to give me an update on last night’s shipments.
I fish it out of my pocket, unlocking the screen.
Not from Erik. It’s from Alina, our head of tech. The message reads:
Boss, we’ve got a problem. Someone’s been asking questions about the Orphan Camp. And they’re looking for you specifically.
My jaw clenches so hard I hear my teeth grind.
Suka. But there’s a twisted part of me that’s glad for this shit. Finally, something to sink my teeth into besides thoughts of thatsukaand her fucking smart mouth.
I’m done with Wren Davis.
Done wondering about the dead look in her eyes, the heat of her skin. She’s Sophia’s friend, which makes her poison. End of fucking story.
A snarl twists my lips, my eyes turning to ice. This? This I can handle. Threats, violence, blood—it’s what I’m made for. Not drooling after some stripper like a bitch in heat.
I’ll never see her again. And that’s fan-fucking-tastic.
13
Wren
“Hey,sugar tits!” some asshole calls out.
Without turning to see who the fuck it is, I’m rolling my eyes so hard they might fall out of my skull. Probably that creep, Jerry. Dude’s been trying to get in my pants since I started here.
The Rusty Nail’s packed tonight, air thick with smoke and desperation. Just another fucking Friday in paradise.
I adjust my crop top, black leather barely covering what needs to be covered. My tits are practically screaming for freedom, but that’s the point, right? Gotta give these losers something to ogle while they piss away their paychecks.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. Shit. I duck behind the bar, fishing it out.
Text from Em:
Dad flipped shit. Tore apart every room. Took the old TV.
Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.
“Wren! Order up!” Mack, the other bartender, shouts over the noise. He’s a decent guy, for a sleazeball. At least he keeps his hands to himself.
I shove my phone away, plastering on my fakest smile.
No time to worry about Dad now. Time to hustle.
The night’s a blur of overpriced drinks and handsy drunks. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to “accidentally” spill ice-cold beer on grabby fingers.
Regular faces pop up. There’s Old Pete, nursing his usual whiskey and looking like death warmed over. Trixie’s in her usual spot, fishnets and all, trolling for her next sugar daddy. And fucking Jerry, of course, eyeing me like I’m a steak, and he’s been starving for years.
“What’s a guy gotta do to get some service around here?” a new voice drawls.
I turn, ready to tell this fucker where he can stick his attitude. But the words die in my throat.
