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Easing my way down the stairs, I avoid the one that creaks, staying low to the ground to make my movements as inconspicuous as possible. All the while, I keep my eye on the frosted glass, hoping he doesn’t decide to step inside unexpectedly.
As soon as my feet hit the marble floor of the entry, I round the banister, staying close to the wall as I head toward the back of the house. The garage holds two of my father’s favorite cars—a cherry-red Lamborghini and his black Audi R8 Spyder.
Seeing as my goal is to be sneaky, I take the Audi—though neither is particularly inconspicuous. As I grasp the fine leather steering wheel, I release a deep breath to ease my nerves.
Then I press the button to the garage door opener and pray no one hears me.
6
MISHKA
Rather than taking the VIP table where Alina and her girlfriends have partied on the last two occasions I came to Plastique, Viktor takes me, Malik, Kristof, Lenka, and several other of his guys around our age to a private room at the back of the club.
Rasputin, Viktor explained on the ride over, doesn’t enjoy fun like a normal person. His celebration is the act of victory itself. Watching the light leave those men’s eyes tonight gave him more pleasure than the party Sergio’s heir has planned for us now.
I’d almost rather Viktor think I’m in the same boat as Rasputin than to be here right now. But I know I can’t say that. Not when this club is where I set the stage to meet Viktor in the first place.
“Man, relax!” Viktor insists, sprawling across the pristine white leather of the private room’s couch. “Have a line, take a shot. At least sit the fuck down.”
Two blondes with double-Ds busting out of their form-fitting mini-dresses and lips that can’t be real sit on either side of him, one licking playfully at his neck while the other nibbles his ear. Their hands are all over him, and Viktor shamelessly spreads his legs, inviting them to grope wherever they please.
Malik, Kristof, and Lenka are already two lines deep in cocaine and dancing with the girls who are supposed to be doing a striptease for us. From the way Lenka’s tongue is halfway down one girl’s throat, I don’t doubt they’ll be doing more than dancing with each other tonight.
Meanwhile, I fidget with my whiskey on the rocks. Leaning against the wall, I watch the scene unfold, my muscles refusing to unknot when all I can think about is Alina sleeping soundly in her bed without me.
At least I hope she is.
The alternative would be much worse—that she’s awake and either debating how she’s going to tell her father about me or is currently in the process of sealing my fate.
“If you don’t chill out and take a seat, I’ll make you, Orlov,” Viktor drawls. “You’re starting to stress me out, and this is supposed to be a party.”
“Sorry,” I grumble, slumping into a chair and downing my whiskey in one large gulp.
“What’s got you all wound up?” he presses, then he leans forward, unwinding his arms from around the girls’ shoulders to snort a line from the glass coffee table in front of us.
“Nothing. Just… beat, I guess,” I say lamely.
“You need some stress relief,” Viktor observes, a wicked grin spreading slowly across his face. Clapping his palms decisively on his knees, he comes to a stand.
The girls protest quietly, their simpering whines matching the pouty lips that make them look like ducks. God, they make me miss Alina, her natural beauty and the fierce independence that would never let her act like them. It’s that same outspoken character of hers that’s likely going to be the death of me. And still, I love her for it.
“Why do I get the feeling I’m not gonna like where you’re going?” I ask suspiciously, watching him with narrowed eyes.
“I promise you, you’ll love it. You’re a goddamn asset, Orlov, so let me show some appreciation, yeah? Consider it a gift for being so loyal to my Family.”
Ironic. I can’t help the way my gut twists with guilt. And that makes me feel like an even bigger piece of crap. Why does tonight seem to be the night when my loyalty has to be the topic of discussion?
Leaving me with a very vague sense of foreboding, Viktor sticks his head around the door to speak to the guards stationed outside our private room. Then he returns a moment later, a smirk curling his proud lips as he flops back onto the couch and looks at me.
The girls resume their unspoken duties, one slowly working open the buttons of Viktor’s dress shirt as she kneels provocatively beside him, her full hips pressing out suggestively.
A minute later, another girl slips through the door. Raven hair falls halfway down her back, and green eyes find me after the briefest glance in Viktor’s direction. She’s dressed in skimpy lingerie—not even the skanky outfit of a club girl to mask her purpose.
“She’s all yours, brother,” Viktor says. “You get her for an hour.”
The girl walks toward me, her hips swaying provocatively, and my jaw clenches. She’s young and beautiful—certainly an appealing gift, if I were into fucking whores. But her charms do nothing for me. It takes every ounce of self-control not to shake her off as soon as she takes my hand.
“Come on, handsome. Let’s find somewhere a little more… private,” she suggests.
