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Two of the ladies I came in with tonight steal glances at the card table as they gossip. Their eyes linger on a blond-haired man sitting with his back towards me. The ladies swap a few words between each other with expressions on their faces that appear to be a mix of skepticism and intrigue as they size up the blond stranger playing a hand of cards with the Mikhailov Bratva. My eyes narrow as I realize he must be the one claiming to be Viktor Mikhailov. He’s the reason for all the fuss tonight and why Arkady stormed into my father’s cafe a few hours ago demanding I be here tonight to confirm whether the rumor is true or not.
One of the ladies standing by the card table is wearing a burgundy corset, the cheap kind with plastic boning that bends easily. She sweeps the strands of her dark purple wig aside and lowers the cup of her corset, exposing her breast to the blond stranger playing cards as she blows him a kiss. When he ignores her advance, she sucks her teeth and scoffs before returning to gossiping with the lady next to her.
The man with the Kalashnikov rifle tattooed on his chest walks to the ladies standing against the wall. He yanks the cup of the burgundy corset back down, grabbing at the breast that was just offered to the stranger, yelling out, “Hey Yankee! We took you hostage; we didn’t fucking neuter you!” He takes deep sucks at the woman’s nipple as she throws her head back and lets out a moan.
Arkady told me the rumor on my way to tonight’s mission. A man claiming to be Viktor was taken as a hostage by the Mikhailov Bratva. I guess that part of the rumor is true. My lips purse together as I strain to listen and determine how much more I can confirm, recalling other details Arkady shared with me. He said there was a shootout between the Bratva and some mafia group in America. When the Bratva had the American group surrounded and were ready to kill them, the stranger present tonight claimed he’s the son of Konstantin Mikhailov. The Bratva took him hostage and brought him back to Russia to confirm his identity as their code dictates. And it always ends the same way. The man claiming to be Viktor Mikhailov is revealed to be lying and is murdered.
Some men manipulate the rules, claiming to be Viktor Mikhailov the moment before their certain death, thinking it can help them escape. But it always ends the same - another man dead for pretending to be the son of Konstantin Mikhailov.
“Enjoy yourself tonight, Viktor,” a raven-haired soldier yells. “If you need to fuck a woman, then do it. We might be ordered to kill you tomorrow!”
My face is buried in the chest of the Bratva soldier I’m dancing with, but I hear the poker table erupt with laughter. The man claiming to be Viktor Mikhailov doesn’t flinch at the Bratva soldier’s threat. He sits with his back to the dance floor, his head of sandy blond hair lowered and aimed at his hand of cards. He and another opponent are the only two remaining with their cards up. The man claiming to be Viktor tosses his cards face up and reclines in his chair as a weak applause rises from the table.
No one wants to cheer on the winner: a stranger who could be killed at any moment.
My dance with the Bratva soldier slips further out of rhythm. If there was any food in my stomach, I’d have probably thrown it up by now with all the spins and dips I’ve had to endure. I turn and see a dull glow in the eyes of the soldier I’m dancing with as he reaches his hand up my skirt. My cheeks burn in embarrassment as I slap his hand away. The soldier’s face glows in anger, but he swallows it back for a second, thinking he can still convince me into what I’m sure will lead to a night of him thrashing his drunken body into mine.
“Be nice,malishka…” he croaks into my ear. The smell of alcohol on his breath burns the lining of my nostrils. “I know you came here for me tonight.”
His hand dives under my skirt and crams itself in between my thighs. Color drains from me when I feel him trying to rip my skirt off. Before I realize what’s happening, my hand swipes across his face.
“Fuck off!” I scream.
A few men turn and laugh, only making the Bratva soldier angrier. I feel my heart climbing into my throat, knowing he will answer my slap. Just at that moment, a blond head of hair appears from behind the soldier’s tattooed scalp. The face of the stranger comes into view and my heart nearly stops when our eyes connect.
It’s him. Viktor Mikhailov. The man I never thought I’d see again.
Viktor’s gaze is tethered to mine as he walks closer. The glacial blue eyes I remember form our childhood are staring directly into mine. Viktor grew into every bit of the Bratva Pakhan he was born to become. Waves of blond hair catch the light from above as he walks towards us. The more I see of Viktor’s body, the wider my mouth hangs open in shock. His shoulders span a width I’ve only seen on professional swimmers. The fabric of his suit jacket pulls at his chest and follows his long torso as it tapers to a solid core. Thick hands peek through the ends of each jacket sleeve. They’re the hands of a man who has had to claw his way through the Russian underworld.
I want to look away, or at least not look like I’ve just seen a ghost so I don’t raise suspicion, but I can’t stop. An unexpected feeling floats through me.
How is it possible that I’m turned on right now?
My back curls as I lower to hide from Viktor, only to realize I’m hiding behind the angry, murderous criminal I’d just slapped across the face a second ago. He glares daggers at me as he yanks my arm back towards him.
“You little slut!” he shouts at me.
I lose my breath and struggle to inhale. This is all too much for me right now. The blaring noise of the party, the Bratva soldier outraged with me, but most of all, Viktor Mikhailov. My body trembles as a single coherent thought echoes in my mind.
Run. Run away.
I rip my arm out of the soldier’s grasp and slip around his thick torso, cutting my way through narrow gaps opening in the crowd as people sway back and forth to the thumping music. Their movement obscures me from my pursuer who is hellbent on either killing me, fucking me, or both. I lean down and keep ducking between pairs of dancers, using the height and wide muscular bodies of the soldiers to my advantage.
Times like these make me grateful I’m short.
A clearing in the crowd appears, leading to a hall. I bolt towards it, hoping I’m not spotted by the drunken soldier I slapped, or by Viktor. I try to run down the hall as fast as I can, but my heels slip on the cement.
“Get back here, you little bitch!” the Bratva soldier roars behind me. His voice booms over the techno music, echoing towards me and making it sound that much more threatening.
I tear the flimsy heels off my feet and break out into a run, reaching for the phone tucked into my bra as my bare feet slap against frigid concrete.
“Call Arkady!” I yell into it and the phone rings. The shouts of the drunken soldier fade behind me, but I know I’m not safe yet.
“Da-”
“Get me out of here!” I squeal into the phone.
“Is it him? Viktor?”
