“Dimitri Antonov. Enforcer for Evgeni Federov. The Brighton Beach bratva.”
“What the fuck is he doing here?”
Rider barely shrugs. “I’m all paid up on protection.”
“You pay these Russian assholes?”
“I run a fucking sex club in Brooklyn. You bet your ass I pay.”
Kate makes a soft sound, and I realize my fingers are digging into her shoulder hard enough to bruise. I let up on the pressure without adding a sliver of space between our bodies.
Rider says, “What do you want to do? He came through the greenroom. He’s not armed.”
Rider should know that men like Antonov can kill a dozen different ways with their bare hands.
If it were just me, I’d fight instead of giving in. But if Antonov breaks free, he could snap Kate’s neck in a heartbeat. So I ask what she wants. “Kate?”
Before the meeting, she was upset by those women on leashes. If Collins hadn’t just revealed himself to be a Russian pawn, I would have offered to send her back to the car.
But she certainly wasn’t bothered watching Jonathan and his sub play out their scene. I’ve just learned that my wife has an unexpected interest in exhibitionism. And now that Antonov has made this personal, calling her Katie…
She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she turns to Rider. “He’s Federov bratva? Not Tarasov?”
“Brighton Beach, born and bred.”
“Whisper, whisper!” Antonov sneers from the foot of the stage. “Is time to play my game.”
Rider is trapped. If he backs up Kate and me, he’ll bring down the wrath of the New York bratva. They could shut him down faster than the vice squad. Or, at least, with more finality.
“Cole Wolf,” the Russian says again. “Katie Lynch. Game.”
I recognize the fire flaring in Kate’s eyes. It’s the look she gave me weeks ago, when I caught her meeting with my sister behind my back. It’s the rage that boiled over when she discovered I locked her out of the highest levels of my Winter Reckoning game. It’s the madness that overtook her when she was forced into a wedding dress, dragged into a church, and ordered to say she’d be my wife.
She leans in to kiss me. “Let’s take his fucking money,” she whispers against my lips. Then to Antonov, she announces: “Fuck you.”
Shoving the Russian out of the way, she steps onto the stage. I follow close behind, keeping my body between her andthe bratva goon. Antonov grunts as he hauls himself onto the platform.
The room is deadly quiet now. It stinks of sex and sweat and the barely held breath of all the members watching.
The spotlight is blinding; I can’t see beyond the first row of people. That will probably be better for Kate. She won’t be able to see the crowd.
Antonov places one meaty hand on the roulette wheel. His shoulders bunch and his knees dip, and he pulls it hard enough to spin around twice. The pointer clicks over the nails slower and slower, finally coming to rest on a bright red wedge.
Vibrator.
I allow myself a single deep exhale. I can get Kate off with a vibrator in thirty seconds. We can be off this stage, out of this club, and on our way home in less than a minute.
Rider turns his head, saying something to the black-clad staff in the shadows. A woman steps forward with a velvet-lined box. She displays the contents for the entire crowd to see, like she’s turning lighted letters on some televised game show.
Five vibrators nestle in black velvet beds. There’s a massive flesh-colored dildo with batteries in the base, large enough that it looks like Master Jonathan might have been the model. A sculpted turquoise wand resembles something from an art museum gift shop. The cheeky pink vibe with paired rabbit ears is meant to hit a woman’s G-spot and clit at the same time, and the scarlet tube with a fist-size bulb on top is purely intended for external stimulation. A jet-black bullet will barely fill my palm.
I choose the bullet.
Rider’s employee slinks off stage with the rejects as I move behind Kate. I’ll pull her close to my chest, the way I held her while we watched the other Dom play. She won’t even have to take off her clothes. I can palm the bullet, buzz her folds, pinch her clit the way she loves, and we’ll be done.
“Special request,” Antonov demands. “You take off clothes. You show yourpizda. You prove you come.”
I bite back a curse, but Kate is now in full defiance mode. Glaring at the Russian, she toes off her shoes and kicks them across the stage. After shucking her pants like she’s preparing for a medical exam, she steps out of her panties.
