But fuck, if it doesn’t kill me, knowing I can’t give him everything he needs, everything he deserves.
I bite down on my inner lip, tasting the coppery tang of blood where some dickhead’s wedding ring caught me earlier. The money’s so fucking tempting, but the thought of being alone with one of these cum-stains makes my skin crawl.
“Alright, fine,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “But if this prick tries any funny business, I’m out. No amount of dough is worth that shit.”
Jojo just smirks, her nicotine-stained teeth glinting in the neon light. “Room 3, baby girl. Don’t keep the daddies waiting.”
Jojo doesn’t give a fuck as long as she gets her money. And neither do I, as long as I get mine.
She wobbles off on her six-inch lucite heels, leaving me in a cloud of cotton candy vape. I take a deep breath, my lungs burning from the cheap perfume and cheaper liquor that permeates this place.
Five hundred bucks. That’s a game-changer. I can do this. I’ve swallowed my pride and spread my legs for less.
2
Dimitri
"Suka, whatthe actual fuck am I even doing here?” I grunt as a scantily clad waitress with more plastic in her tits than in my fucking credit card leads us to the VIP room.
The place reeks of cheap perfume, stale cigarettes, and a fucking waste of time.
It’s a far cry from the high-end establishments we own, but tonight, I’m playing the role of babysitter to this sweaty, hairy pig who calls himself a politician.
Pizda, and I fucking hate politicians.
Erik’s stupid voice rings in my ears. “It’s only gonna be a few hours,brat.”
Fuck you, Erik.
I glare at the fat pig, imagining grabbing his fancy tie and yanking it till he chokes on his own shit.
A few hours of this crap might as well be a lifetime in hell.
He insists there are better dancers here. I scoff, the sound ripping from my throat like a fucking chainsaw.
I sweep my eyes across the room, taking in the sad sacks of shit stumbling around us—thesekhuycouldn’t dance their way out of a wet paper bag if their lives depended on it.
Fuck me, this place is a joke.
Red velvet couches so worn they’re practically begging for mercy, a mirrored ceiling that’s seen more ass than a proctologist, and three sad-ass poles just waiting for some desperatesukato grind on ‘em for pocket change.
It’s luxury, alright—if you’re a blind rat with no fucking standards. I can almost smell the desperation and cheap booze.
Blyat, what a shithole.
I sink onto a couch, the worn upholstery creaking under my weight.
I let out a low growl.
My knuckles are still sore from the fight, the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. Usually, after a match, I’d find some willing pussy to take the edge off, but tonight, I’m stuck playing nice with this asshole.
“Dimitri, my boy,” the pig says, his fat fingers wrapped around a glass of scotch, “I must say, I’m impressed with how you’ve been handling things since Luka stepped down. The Ivankov Bratva is lucky to have you.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
Pizda! Lucky, right.
More like saddled with the responsibility of keeping this ship afloat while Luka plays house in Hawaii.
