Page 16 of Bratva Baby

I drag my teeth across my bottom lip until his gaze tracks it and let a low laugh shiver out of me. “I haven’t decided yet,” I breathe and let my head tilt, the invitation clear in the slow arch of my neck. “Maybe you should tell me.”

He stares so hard, the rest of the world might as well cease to exist. I hold him there, gaze locked, refusing to drop my eyes.

“Sofiya.” My name unfurls in his voice like silk dragged over the edge of a blade.

It’s dark, hot, sonorous, and it curls around my spine and tightens everything low in my belly.

He reaches up, fingertip gliding across my damp lip, slow enough to feel every ridge of his callus, every ounce of possession contained in that single stroke. “You really should be careful.”

I let my lashes lower just enough to signal that I noticed the warning. “Why?”

His mouth tips into the smallest ghost of a smile. “Because I take more than men with smaller appetites would dare.”

I let the corner of my own smile sharpen. “Then I guess we’re about to find out whether you’re all mouth or muscle.”

The spark hits his eyes like flint, gone before most would catch it. But I see the surprise. I feel it in the sudden clamp of his hand around my jaw as he closes the distance and claims my mouth in a kiss.

My tongue meets his and I moan softly into his mouth.

The growl that rattles his chest when my tongue meets his lets me know exactly what kind of action he intends to back up those words with.

4

ANTON

Business brings me to Prague a few hours before trouble does.

Prague is good for this kind of business.

Rich tourists come to spend, local politicians come to be seen, and men with dirty money come because the city knows how to dress vice up as luxury.

A nightclub can sell champagne, private rooms, event packages, and security on paper, then move cash, favors, and quiet meetings underneath it. That makes it useful.

I’m not here for the city.

I’m here for a club tucked behind a polished frontage on one of the expensive streets where nobody needs to shout for attention.

The owner is Pavel Hruby, and for the last few months he’s been stealing from a Reznikov operation running through his business.

Small cuts at first. Cash shaved from bottle service.

Money siphoned through fake event costs.

Security payments padded and redirected. Enough to look like accounting noise unless someone knows the channel.

We know the channel.

He keeps me waiting six minutes in his upstairs office, which tells me everything his books didn’t.

Men who think they’re safe start playing games with time. Men who remember who made them rich don’t.

Pavel forgot whose money he was touching.

He comes in all smiles, arms spread wide. “Anton,” he says. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He smells of cologne, a woman, and whiskey he left downstairs too fast. He kicks the door shut behind him.

I stay where I am, one shoulder against the sideboard, and let him hear how quiet the room gets around me. “Sit down.”

The smile slips a little.