Chapter 1
Alyona
“You know,” Devin quips, deftly mixing a Negroni next to me, “I’m not sure if it’s scary or hot that the leader of the Russian mob is stalking you. Maybe scary-hot?”
Refusing to make eye contact, I focus on my own task—slicing lemons and refilling the garnish containers. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
That’s an outright lie. When a man like Kazimir Baranov has his eyes on you, youfeel it.I’ve seen them up close—caramel brown that melts in the sunlight. Most people quake under his gaze, and I probablyshouldbe scared, but there’s a different word for it that I can’t find. It’s not exactly excited or nervous…maybe it’s stirred. Alert. Curious?
Devin’s hip rocks into mine, jarring the knife in my hands. I hiss a warning at her, and she ignores it.
“You knowexactlywhat I’m talking about, girl. It’s like clockwork. You know Jak saves a table for him now, right? On…” Devin taps a finger to her chin, pretending to think, “what was it? Oh yeah, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Your exact schedule.”
I drain a jar of cherries and say, “can’t you just ignore him?”
But the truth is, there’s no ignoring Kazimir Baranov. In the seven years since I moved to Savannah, I’ve been in the same room as him a handful of times. And even if my dad wasn’t his right-hand man, it’d be easy to tell that Kazimir runs things. He’s on magazine covers for being an innovator; at charity galas pouring money toward philanthropic opportunities. In dark alleys slitting throats, or so I’ve heard.
Distracted now, I glance up at the table he sits at three times a week. He’s at the level above mine, a stage-like area with dimmer lighting, shadows that swallow him as he leans back in the booth. The Foundry is all deep red, black, blue;blood and bruises,Devin likes to joke, but it feels too real with Kazimir here.
His silver-laced hair catches the light. It’s pulled back perfectly as always, in a tight knot at the back of his neck. His beard, though, is still dark, as are his heavy brows and eyes. They’re locked on mine, and it’s impossible to look away.
Slowly, he raises his glass; just slightly. A sign that he wants another drink.
“That’s all you,” Devin mutters, pulling her shoulders back to perk up her bare breasts before she heads off to deliver drinks.
Tongue darting out to lick my lips, I ignore the heat of a blush on my cheeks. Kazimir--Mr. Baranov—is my father’s boss; leader of the Russian mob; and he’s seeing me tits-out in a bar for Savannah’s elite. It feels forbidden, wrong, and delicious all at once. But a wave of insecurity swipes through me.
Ilikebeing behind the bar. I can hide this way; hide my curvy belly, my thick thighs that rub together no matter how many workouts I try. The clientele here, mostly men, come because Jak has created a place perfect for secrets and dark deals. Most of Savannah’s political moves are decided here, as are its criminal activities. But Mr. Baranov doesn’t do business here.
He only comes to watch me.
And he doesn’t look away when I step out from behind the bar, hand wrapped around a cold glass of ice and root beer, trying to ignore the way my nipples tighten at his attention.
With each step, especially up the small staircase that leads to his level, I can feel the jiggle of my body. It only deepens my blush. Kazimir doesn’t look away from my face, and somehow that makes this worse.
Is he not attracted to me?
You don’twanthim to be attracted to you!Another voice in my head argues back.Are you insane? The last thing you need is the attention of a Bratva boss.
The glass clinks as I put it down.
Kazimir looks up at me, slowly, his dark eyes level with my chest, but staring at my mouth. Subconsciously, I nibble at my lip.
“Anything else?” I ask, ignoring the tremble in my voice that Jak would be upset at. He insists that the clients come here for saucy, confident, curvy women that are ready to test boundaries. I’ve never quite fit that mold; I break boundaries, sure, but only because most of the “curvy” women here still have trim waists and tight little asses.
Not me.
“Nyet.”
As if the universe heard my thoughts, Kaz’s gaze drops down my body. He takes in the black floral tights leading up to a fitted miniskirt that Devin says accentuates my figure. Briefly, those caramel eyes land on the false-lace pasties that cover my nipples. Barely.
He shifts, just slightly, one hand adjusting his crotch in the shadow of the booth. I can’t help the gasp that slips out as I notice; and the way my mouth waters. I step back, almost stumbling.
His expression doesn’t change, and anxiety builds in my chest. I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking; a smirk, a frown, a snarl of disgust. But Kazimir Baranov only watches as I turn and hurry back down to the bar, toward a new customer who barely glances at me.
No matter how much I try to concentrate on smiling, laughing, or mixing drinks, I can feel him there.
Watching.
