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My fingers twitch. As irritating as he is, his disrespect isn’t worth a reaction. “I am on the list,” I say evenly.
His lips flatten. “Name?”
“Mikhail Drozdov.”
He barely glances down at the black iPad in his hand before flashing an arrogant smirk. “Nope. Don’t see it.”
I don’t care for his tone, but I’m not here to start a fight. Unnecessary confrontation doesn’t serve my purpose.
“I am on the permanent list.”
At least I assume I am. It has been well over a decade. The people who’ve found their way onto Seven’s permanent member list can be counted on two hands. Membership comes with trust, and that trust comes with a price.
“I’ve worked this door for five years, and I’ve never seen your face,” he says, drawing my attention back to his flat glare. I don’t look away because I never fold to inferior assholes. He switches screens and resumes his scrolling, only to still and blow out a defeated breath. “My apologies, Mr. Drozdov,” he clips, stepping aside. “Welcome back to Seven.”
I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. If I wanted my dick sucked, I’d pay one of Ava’s high-priced professionals. “I need to speak with either Niko or Ava, preferably both.”
“The owners aren’t here.”
Damn it. “Where are they?”
He hesitates, his training overpowering his common sense. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who hasn’t shown his face in this club for years, Mr. Drozdov.”
“And you swing your khuy around a lot for someone who could easily be gutted before his next breath.” His smug face pales at my threat. “Now I have grown tired of this conversation. This is a matter of life and death. If you want to have Chernov blood on your hands, be my guest. But I do not think that will end well for you, buddy.”
His jaw tightens because he knows I’m right. “Niko’s out on business.” He emphasizes the word as if I don’t know what the hell business means. Niko and I are contract killers.
Which means he could be anywhere in the world.
“And Ava?”
He shrugs. “Also out on business.” This time he doesn’t bother with verbal air quotes, which tells me the queen of Miami is most likely still in Florida.
“When do you expect her back?”
“Do I look like her fucking secretary?”
I shove him against the wall and press my forearm against his throat. “I do not care if you take her messages or wipe her ass. You will show respect, or I will carve the word into your skin. Are we clear?”
His eyes bulge as he wheezes out, “Very.”
“Good. I will wait.” Pushing past him, I make my way toward an empty table near the stage.
I’m over common courtesy. Every second Zasha walks around with a target on her head is one tick of the clock closer to it exploding by someone else’s bullet.
I settle into the chair, her name spinning circles inside my head. On the flight, I tried searching for her address but came up empty. It’s as if she doesn’t exist. I’m not shocked. There would be measures and countermeasures in place to ensure her safety.
That’s why this hit has me so shaken.
A commotion at the table in front of me drags me out of my thoughts and toward a scene that makes my blood boil. A young man bounces in his chair as a cocktail waitress stands stiffly next to him. Even from a few feet away, I see the constant twitch in his hands. The incessant bounce of his knees under the table. The repeated rubbing of his nose.
He’s high. My money’s on cocaine.
Kehusos. I’ve never understood the desire to destroy one’s own brain. Still, I keep my eye on him. Snorting a line of nose candy will make anyone unpredictable, and I don’t like the way he’s leering at her. On some level, I can’t blame him. She’s extraordinarily beautiful. My eyes draw to the way her round ass strains against that short black skirt, but it isn’t long before they drift upward to the taut breasts spilling out of her low-cut top.
However, it’s not her body that steals the breath from my lungs.
It’s her face.
