Page 109 of Violent Pawn

ANASTASIA

May

Lights cast a deep crimson against the club, creating an ambience clients fall victim to. Personally, they’re not my favourite, but they do the job. I wander through the intimate space, clinically scanning to count my girls while ignoring the sighs, touches, and whispers in favour of ensuring they’re safe and no customer is going out of bounds.

One of my security guards murmurs a greeting as I pass on my way back to my office, content for now with the status of the place. There are a couple more tasks to complete, then I’ll be headed to another club for a few hours to ensure all is well there too.

I pause on the balcony to complete another sweep. More couples are starting to wander into private back rooms, while some discreetly fuck in the alcoves. Talk is a low hush, everyone bathed within the atmosphere.

My phone rings as I turn away, the name of the bouncer from outside popping up. My heart skips because the last time I received a call from one of my staff while at work, a certain visitor came by.

“Cops are here with a warrant. I have to let them in.”

Blyat. Vanessa made the decision to keep the brothels mostly clean and never use the basements as storage for any product. Already, sex work establishments are regarded lowly by the law, so we didn’t need to up our chances of being invaded. Everything here is to code, and nothing will get us in shit other than my secret torture rooms they’ll never find.

The fact they’re here has me bolting down the stairs and speeding through the main floor, down the darkened hallway, and past the check-in desk where my staff is busy explaining rules to two newcomers who may find their evening destroyed in a matter of minutes.

As soon as the door opens, a badge is shoved into my face, followed by a letter into my hand. “Miss Petrov, you’re the owner of this establishment?”

“Manager. Vanessa Volkov owns it.” Close enough. Her name owns everything in the Bratva’s control, but I oversee the brothels, while we have individual managers stationed at each for the day-to-day stuff.

“Good enough.” The large man pushes by and starts lumbering down the hallway, his heavy steps thundering dismay to the guests. “That’s a warrant to search this place.”

The words on the paper blur as I rush after him, mentally cursing but politely asking, “What’s this about? If you feel the need to search, may I request you do so later, after business hours? I have a full room, as you’ll see in a moment.”

Steps trail closely, and a wary glance over my shoulder reveals more of his cop buddies following.

“What’s this about?” I demand again, losing a bit of the girlie tone into something more on the level of don’t fuck with me. “Miss Volkov won’t appreciate this. I’d prefer to speak with your superior.”

The Bratva has plenty of pull throughout the country, but usually from behind closed doors and underhanded deals. We have insiders on the force—which no one decided a call about this was worthy?—and contacts at the government level that can be useful when needed. They understand we’ll remain out of the public’s way if we keep out of theirs, but that isn’t to say we also don’t have the occasional run-in with the law when a cop gets trigger-happy over the possibility of eventually taking down the Bratva. After all, the deals Ursin once swung, and now Vanessa maintains, aren’t cleared at police level, even the chief. It’s a top-of-the-country thing.

Which is why I grit my teeth and keep up with the man making huge-ass strides.

“We have an anonymous tip you’re illegally selling contraband from this particular business.”

My heart hammers, having little to do with the speed because Vanessa would have mentioned it if she was using the club as a go-between. While I know for a fact they’ll find nothing, it doesn’t unwind the tension knotting my shoulders.

Unfortunately, he reaches the entrance to the main room, causing nearby couples to stop what they’re doing and stare. Servers pause in the centre of the floor, gripping trays as they warily hover, looking past the cop to me for direction.

He scans the room before glancing around to either side of him, spotting the many switches that control the lights. He snaps them all on, destroying the soft red and cutting a painfully bright white across the room, much to the disgust of patrons who cry out.

I slide in front of him, snapping the lights off. “You have a warrant to search, not to end operations.”

Snarling, he reaches by me to undo my work. “Searching requires light, Miss Petrov. No one is stopping you from continuing, but you will not hinder me from doing my job.” He turns to his team. “Spread out and search.”

The police go forth, much to the loud complaints of patrons who begin doing up pants and taking off, and my staff who redress quickly or grab their robes lying nearby, and start to gather together.

I head for the bartender and manager, muttering, “I’ll stick by the chief. Make sure none of them lays a hand on any of the girls. They’ll be swallowing so much legal mumbo-jumbo in the shape of a bullet if they try anything.”

My security grumble as they’re forced to let the police check every corner. They join my bartender by hovering near my girls, fencing them all in to keep them blocked from the police, who start overturning cushions and tearing through the lower cabinets behind the bar.

The chief spins back to me standing in the centre. “We pulled the blueprints of this place and know for a fact there’s a basement. Where is it?”

“If you know there’s one, why not figure that out yourself?”

Warrants don’t require cooperation.

A bushy brow hikes. “Do you want us to tear this place apart?”