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Viktor winks at me as I let her guide me to a stand, and when she leads me toward a separate room off our party room, he shouts, “You kids have fun!”
A bed occupies one wall with enough variations on how someone might get tied down that it raises my eyebrows. In the far corner is a stripper pole, several chairs surrounding it—a perfect size and shape for a private lap dance if I wanted.
“Where do you want me, big boy?” the girl asks, her voice breathy as she turns to face me. Her hands reach up for the tie holding her see-through lingerie closed between her breasts.
“Don’t,” I command, grasping her wrists and removing her fingers from the fabric before she can expose herself.
I don’t know where Alina and I stand right now, but I’m beyond confident that sleeping with someone else isn’t something I want to do. Not even if Viktor Sakharov himself paid her for the work.
A flicker of anxiety flashes behind her green eyes. Then she shifts her tactic, going from temptress to innocent fuck toy in the blink of an eye. “Don’t you want me?” she asks, her voice hovering on the brink of a pout without crossing that line.
“No,” I state coldly, releasing her wrists and heading toward the wet bar near the door. I need another drink before I lose my mind. I don’t know how this night keeps getting worse, but I’ve never wanted one to be over more badly. “You can keep the money, but I don’t want your services.”
“Please,” she murmurs, her cloying perfume invading my senses as she draws close again. But her tone has shifted to something else entirely now. She sounds anxious, even scared.
I turn, tumbler of whiskey in hand to assess her.
“Please, don’t kick me out. Viktor won’t be happy if I don’t do the job.”
I cock an eyebrow, curious as to why Viktor would give a damn whether I want a whore or not. But I can see the fear in her eyes. She really believes he’ll be mad, and I’m not about to subject her to his wrath.
Sighing, I push the shot of whiskey into her hands and pour another for myself. “We can stay in here until the hour’s up. Viktor won’t learn what we did or didn’t do from me.”
“Thank you,” she breathes, her teeth worrying her lower lip as she looks up at me through thick lashes.
I just nod and turn, heading to one of the chairs in the corner.
She follows me tentatively, the sound of her stilettos muffled now with the plush carpet beneath them.
“What’s your name?” she asks, settling into a chair across from me and sipping at her drink.
“Mishka.”
One side of her lips tips up into a half smile. Like she finds it amusing that I don’t return the polite attempt at conversation. “Well, Mishka, I have to admit, of all the men Viktor’s paid me to satisfy, I’m a bit disappointed that you don’t want me. Most of the men, I sleep with out of obligation, but you, I think I might have actually enjoyed.”
I snort, downing my whiskey in another large gulp. Then I rise to pour myself another.
Maybe this is my punishment for lying to Alina for so long—or failing to avenge my brother. Whatever the case, Viktor’s version of a celebration is almost as much torture as the kind I just finished doling out for Rasputin’s pleasure.
“I’m ready for another club!” Viktor shouts, wired after all the coke and alcohol and girls he’s fucked.
It’s 3 a.m., and Plastique is shutting down—as are the rest of the clubs.
“Man, no one’s going to let us in at this hour,” Kristof says.
He looks about how I feel. Spent. And we both corral Viktor back toward the car, ready for the night to be over. Lenka left with his girl nearly an hour ago, and Malik has the glazed look of someone whiskey drunk and coming down from their high.
Brisk early-morning air cuts through my T-shirt as we exit the club, Malik stumbling slightly before Kristof shoulders him upright. My eyes land on the limo Viktor hired.
A group of stragglers linger outside the club, standing between us and the car. My senses tingle with sudden foreboding as I notice the way their eyes all shift to us.
“Move, speedbump,” Viktor states, coming face to face with the nearest of them. “You’re in my way, and tonight’s not the night you want to be messing with me or my boys.”
“No?” the guy asks, a sneer spreading across his lips as he arches a blond eyebrow. “And why’s that?”
Viktor almost seems to perk up at the note of challenge in the guy’s tone. Like right about now, a fight sounds pretty damn good. And though I genuinely thought the night couldn’t get worse than spending an hour pretending to shack up with one of Viktor’s girls, it looks like there’s more in store.
“Why don’t you move along, friend?” I suggest, stepping up beside Viktor in the hope that my added presence and a less antagonistic tone might get the guy to back down.
