“A gift,” Mikhail says, spreading his hands as if he’s generous. “For my friend. To relax.”
I don’t look at her. My gaze stays on him. “Keep your gifts, Mikhail.”
The girl hesitates, waiting for a cue. Mikhail waves her off, annoyed but not surprised. They step back, disappearing into the haze like they were never there.
Lev grins around his glass. Dima doesn’t even blink.
Mikhail exhales smoke, shaking his head. “Always business with you, Anton. Never pleasure.”
I take another pull of vodka, the bite sharp on my tongue. He’s wrong. There is pleasure. But it doesn’t look like this. Doesn’t smell like cheap perfume and stage lights.
It looks like garlic on her hands. Smells like butter on her skin. And that’s a problem I can’t drink away.
I set the glass down, the ring of it sharp against the table.
“Your hospitality is noted, Mikhail. So is your honesty.”
His eyes narrow, measuring. I lean forward just enough for my words to land heavily. “Loyalty runs both ways. You’ve shown me yours. I don’t forget things like that.”
It’s not a promise. Not yet. But it’s enough.
Mikhail smiles, broad and practiced, but there’s relief behind it. He claps my shoulder once, hard enough to sting.
“Then we understand each other.”
I rise. Dima slides out after me, Lev lingering lo1`ng enough to grab one last handful of peanuts just to annoy the staff.
Outside, the night air hits cooler. Bass from the club rattles the glass behind us, but out here it’s quiet—just neon bleeding across the pavement and the low hum of engines on The Strip.
Boris waits at the curb, car idling, cigarette glowing between his fingers. He flicks the ash, opens the back door.
We’re halfway across the sidewalk when Lev pipes up. “You know what’s funny?”
I don’t answer. Never a good sign when he starts like that.
“The way you act like she doesn’t matter.” He stuffs another peanut into his mouth, crunching loud enough to make two girls in sequins waiting for a cab glance over.
Neon splashes across his grin, red and blue. Cars slide by, bass thumping, laughter spilling out of open windows. The Strip never sleeps. And in the shadows between the lights, I know eyes watch. Always.
“What the fuck do you know about it?” I keep walking, shoulders loose but aware, scanning the parked cars, the drunks weaving too close to the curb. Timofey has half the city greasing his pockets; surprise attacks don’t need guns when a car door opens too fast.
“You think you’re fooling anyone?” Lev goes on, like he can’t hear the risk around us. “Mary’s not like the others. She’s not trying to bleed you dry or fuck her way up the ladder. She’s… different.”
“How do you know?” My voice comes out flat. A dare.
Lev smirks, slow and satisfied, like he’s been waiting for me to bite. “Because it’s Mary.”
The words hang there. Too simple. Too true.
Dima, who hasn’t said a word since we left the club, finally speaks. His voice is low, steady. “Lev’s right.”
We all turn a fraction, even Boris flicks his cigarette out and looks up from the curb.
Dima shrugs once, massive shoulders rolling under his jacket.
“Because it’s Mary,” he repeats, like that explains everything.
But I don’t deserve someone like her.
