Behind the bar, sure, I can pull off sultry and tempting. But the second I step out and the men see how much of ahandfulI am; their interest dies.
Kazimir Baranov would never want a woman like me.
Plus, he’s at least fifteen years older.
No, as much as Devin likes to tease me, there’s no chance in hell that the Bratva boss is here forme.Not really.
He’s just doing your dad a favor,that voice in my head whispers.
Devin, reading the room, leaves me alone to get back to work. I pull two beers, chat with a female lawyer who comes here to unwind (and, I think, has a thing for one of the dancers) and glance up now and then to see if Baranov needs a refill.
He’ll stay almost to the end.
That much I know. Kazimir Baranov doesn’t go home until almost two in the morning.
It’s approaching 1:30 a.m., and my least favorite crowd is here—startup bros. They’re trouble, but Jak turns his head when the coke comes out or the girls are grabbed a little too roughly.
Cinn makes a brief appearance, drawing a victim upstairs and into spending more money. Reflexively, I look to Mr. Baranov to see if he notices her—the way her pale skin seems to glow under the dim lights, the little teddy she has on that’s so narrow in the crotch it’s barely there.
He’s still watching me. I think. It’s hard to tell with the way his strong chin dips down, shadows darkening his brow. My eyes track the dark lines of tattoos that appear on the back of his hands, like the night climbing out of his suit and devouring him.
How far do those tattoos go?
How much of his body do they map?
“Mmm.Old menaren’t usually my thing, but he looksexpensive, doesn’t he?”
Cinn’s comment startles me when she wiggles by, dipping her finger into the cherry jar and sucking on it with a smirk. I glance up into the shadows again. Her insults are ridiculous, because no one with half a brain—or eyes—would call Kazimir Baranov an old man. He’s practically a tower of muscle, anddespite the silver in his hair, his beard is still dark brown and full.
“I wonder if he’ll let me sit in his lap.”
She’s played this game before—noticed Kazimir’s attention and tried to pull it away from me. I watch as she steps seductively up to his table. Pulls her hair over her shoulder, exposing her thin neck, the swell of her tits.
But his eyes don’t move from mine. Not until he lifts his chin in a flash of caramel, licks his lips as his eyes trace the pasties barely clinging to my nipples. A shiver wracks down my spine.
“Hey, sugartits.”
A tech bro blocks my view.
He’s maybe in his early twenties, and clearly too far gone. White powder coats one nostril and he tilts, catching himself against a barstool. His face is vaguely familiar. I squint, trying for a polite smile and opening my mouth to offer him a drink.
Instead he reels forward, up-and-downs my body when he can finally see it, and comments: “I don’t usually fuck fat girls, but I don’t think I’ll remember tonight anyway. And a warm hole is a warm hole, right?”
With a smirk, he reaches out and gropes me.
Behind him, Kazimir Baranov, leader of the Savannah Bratva, pushes his chair back with a screech.
Chapter 3
Kazimir
Words are often overrated, though Liev would counsel me to resolve this with a warning, to de-escalate and remind him – or tell him, if he somehow doesn’t know – whose city this is.
But a warning won’t do when someone touches what’s mine. And if I open my mouth, whatever I say will guarantee me a spot in hell.
No one puts their hands on Alyona Demsky. As soon as he touches her, something sharp and blinding snaps loose in my chest. Consequences don’t matter; not for me.
The boy’s jacket is expensive, thick and well-made under my hand when I grip the collar and jerk him back. He lets out an embarrassing yelp, like a puppy realizing that their game has angered an adult.
