But I’ve been working eighteen-hour days for weeks straight while half the city’s crime families get picked apart by an enemy we can’t see or track.
I need something that isn’t another crisis or another missing shipment.
Maybe that’s why I said yes to her, this gorgeous distraction who had the audacity to chase me down and demand an audition like she’s the one with power here.
I’m not just the owner of this club; I’m the man who runs this city.
The next in line to the bratva throne. She knows my family owns this club, but she's not a New Yorker, so she doesn't understand what the Baronov name means here.
“After you,” I say, gesturing for her to enter the private room.
Uncertainty flickers across her face before she ducks her head and steps inside.
The black corset cinches her waist tight, and my gaze drags over every curve as she walks ahead of me.
She caught my eye earlier when I was coming down the stairs. She was sitting near the far wall, nursing a drink. Waves of blonde hair falling past her shoulders, cat-eye makeup, red lips, and that tattoo sleeve of vines and flowers wrapping around her right arm.
She’s fucking hard to miss with her fifties pinup girl looks. Beautiful in a timeless way that doesn’t require surgery or filters.
Still, Oksana should know better than to bother us with staffing issues, but there was genuine sympathy in her voice when she pleaded this girl’s case. Another woman from Moscow trying to make it in a foreign city.
I agreed because if I didn't, I'd spend the rest of my life wondering what I missed.
The noise from the club cuts off the moment I close the door, sealing us in. She looks around the room, appearing less sure of herself now that we’re alone.
The Emerald Room is all about decadence. Rich burgundy walls, crystal sconces throwing warm light across polished wood.
There’s a bar in the corner stocked with top-shelf bottles, and a leather couch facing a small raised platform with a pole under a spotlight.
My brothers and I gutted and rebuilt every room when we took over, erasing whatever history these walls held.
I don't think about what they looked like before. Or what Velour used to be.
I drop onto the couch, spreading my arms across the back and letting my legs fall wide.
Might as well enjoy myself. Watching this beautiful woman dance might be the first moment of peace I've had in weeks.The Ghost has been tearing through New York's underworld for the past two weeks—stolen shipments, hijacked deliveries, ambushed soldiers. Nobody knows who they are, what they want, or when they'll strike next. All we know is they're well-funded, well-trained, and always one step ahead.
It's exhausting. I've been running on too little sleep and too much whiskey, which explains why I'm here instead of at another emergency meeting.
“Do you have any music preferences?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.
A smirk tugs at my lips. “Surprise me.”
She pulls out her phone, selects a track, and music with a heavy bass and a driving beat fills the room. With a final breath, she wraps her hand around the chrome of the pole.
“Not so fast,” I grit out.
She freezes, her eyes—deep hazel with bursts of amber—snap to mine.
“You came in here talking a big game. Telling me you’re different, better than my other dancers.” I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees. “So prove it. But not up there.”
Her brows furrow, confusion crossing her face. “What do you mean?”
“Come here.” I crook a finger at her. If she’s this desperate for the job, I’m going to make her earn it.
“Why?” Her cheeks flush pink, fists clenched at her sides.
“We don’t do pole routines in the private rooms.” I settle back, watching her process this. “That’s for the main area. In here, the girls give lap dances with a lot less clothes on. You were so confident out there, so sure you could handle anything. Was that all talk, or can you back it up?”
