Our phones ping simultaneously. The message makes my blood run cold: “Boss, we found Yuri.”
Yuri. Our import-export guy. The man who’s been with us since we were snot-nosed brats running errands for Luka’s old man. The guy who taught me how to tie a tie for my first formal Bratva meeting. Who just last week was at my place for dinner, bragging about his kids and their damn math trophies like I give a shit.
“Blyat,” I mutter, exchanging a look with Erik. His face is grim, matching the dread pooling in my gut.
We take the stairs two at a time, the metal clanging under our feet. The air gets thicker as we climb, heavy with the stench of copper and fear.
Sergei meets us at the top, his face ashen. “Boss, it’s… it’s bad.”
I push past him, Erik on my heels. The storage room door is open, and I can hear murmured voices inside. My men part like the Red fucking Sea as I enter.
The sight that greets me turns my stomach. And I’ve seen some shit in my time.
Yuri’s body is strung up like a puppet, a mockery of the man he once was. His shirt is in tatters, revealing a torso that’s more wound than skin. They worked him over good before they strung him up.
His eyes are open, glassy, staring at nothing. But his face…Christ. It’s frozen in a scream that’ll haunt my fucking nightmares.
“Yob tvoyu mat’,” Erik breathes beside me. For once, he’s got no smart comments.
That’s when I see it. The wall behind Yuri, painted in what can only be his blood:
“????????? ???????? ??, ??? ???????????.”
“Traitors get what they deserve.”
The words swim before my eyes, fury building in my chest like a volcano ready to blow. This isn’t just business anymore.
This is personal.
21
Wren
The bass pounds through The Gentlemen’s Club, rattling my fucking teeth. Neon lights turn everything sickly, like we’re all trapped in some twisted funhouse. I tug at my G-string, the sequins itching like a bitch. Another shitty Thursday night in paradise.
I scan the crowd, telling myself I’m not looking for him. For D. But my eyes keep searching, hoping to catch a glimpse of that mountain of muscle and grumpy face.
Fuck. This isn’t me. I don’t do… whatever the hell that was with D. And I sure as shit don’t get hung up on anyone. It was just a thank you fuck, right? For saving my ass from those Russian goons.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Wren.
I shake my head, trying to focus. The laptop. Think about the laptop. Thanks to D scaring off those Petrov assholes, I still had the cash to get Lenny that computer he’s been begging for. Kid’sonly twelve, but he’s already talking about programming and app development like he’s the next Steve fucking Jobs. I don’t understand half of what comes out of his mouth, but if it gets him out of this cesspool, I’ll support whatever the fuck he wants to do.
The music changes, some auto-tuned garbage that makes me want to stab my ears. There’s maybe five sad sacks out there nursing watered-down drinks. Not worth the effort of a dance. I hop off the stage, ignoring the weak-ass catcalls from the few dipshits near the rail.
I push through the heavy curtain to the back, sighing as the cooler air hits my skin. The dressing room’s a mess of glitter, discarded clothes, and cheap perfume. Trixie and Candy are huddled in one corner, bitching about some john who stiffed them on a private dance.
“I swear to God, if I see that fucker again, I’m gonna shove my heel so far up his ass he’ll be tasting leather for a week,” Candy snarls, waving her cigarette for emphasis.
Trixie nods, her massive fake tits jiggling with the movement. “Fucking deadbeats. Why even come to a strip club if you can’t afford it?”
I snort, grabbing a water bottle from the mini-fridge. “Same reason they come here instead of getting laid for real. Delusions and desperation.”
They both cackle at that, Candy offering me a drag of her smoke. I wave it off, collapsing onto the ratty couch in the corner. My feet are killing me; these fucking stilettos are instruments of torture.
As I sit there, my mind drifts back to D. The way his hands felt on my skin, how he seemed to know exactly where to touch, where to—
Stop it, Wren. He is off-limits in every fucking way.
