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CHAPTER1
MIKHAIL
The dark skystretched deep purple over the oasis city of Las Vegas. The moon was as bright as the neon signs on the streets below, a crescent-shaped icon in the sky. The palm trees swayed in the gentle breeze along the boulevard. Music drifted from nearly every open door, one bass beat fading into the next. The air itself thrummed with a sense of possibility. Vegas was a city that insisted on itself. The desert of Nevada was hardly a hospitable location for an extravagant explosion of lights, sights, and fortunes. And yet, there it was: loud and sparkling like a mirage on the horizon. People came to the city with all kinds of fantasies tucked into their pockets, and Las Vegas was all too happy to oblige.
Nothing was off-limits. Nothing was too much.
The stars may have been blotted out by the fuzzy glow of the city lights, but there were plenty of stars on the Strip to keep it shining bright. Celebrities and beautiful people strutted the streets under halogen glow, relaxed in smoky lounges, and sat at blackjack tables. There were endless activities, never a dull moment. Excitement could be found around any corner. Any thrill you could dream of was available… at the right place, for the right price.
Down a side street just off the Strip, under the flashing digital billboards that advertised swanky hotels and casinos, one such place existed. The exterior of the building was covered in a glossy white marble, with two ionic pillars standing guard at the entrance. The doors were darkly tinted glass which obscured the world within, and only a simple, shimmery blue sign with the nameThe Desert Pearlwas emblazoned over the entrance. It was a Saturday night, and there was a line of patrons—mostly young men—waiting eagerly to get inside as a bouncer checked IDs and kept the tipsy shenanigans at bay. Only the thickest wallets and slickest connections could get you in on a night like this, but there were plenty of extras willing to hang around and try anyway.
Once inside, the lucky patron took a short flight of stairs down into a cavernous space. The sexy rhythm of the DJ’s set bumped through the floorboards, and the client was welcomed by the scent of booze, cologne, and perfume. It was dimly lit by false-candle sconces, whose flickering flames sent undulating waves of light across the walls. There were a few ceiling panels installed across the room, too, which emitted blue and pink light. Disco balls hung here and there to further catch the whirling lights of the stage. Clients sat in velvety pink armchairs designed to resemble giant clamshells. A small fountain in the center of the club displayed rivulets of water trickling down the body of a topless stone mermaid. All of these elements came together to produce a pearlescent, under-the-sea kind of atmosphere.
Only the most beautiful, talented women made the cut at the Pearl. The twisting, rolling bodies of the dancers shimmered with sparkly lotion under the glowing lights. They wore designer lingerie, draped in crystals and gems as they writhed on the stage and slid down the gleaming pole. Between the charismatic young women and the trancelike music, the show was nearly hypnotic for its slack-jawed audience. They sat in stunned reverence, sipping the Pearl’s signature cocktail, the Classic Gibson. It was a gin and dry vermouth concoction that featured a pearl onion for garnish, invoking the name of the club.
The clients themselves ranged from blue-collar locals happy to spend their last hard-earned dollar on a pretty face to insanely wealthy out-of-towners who seemed to almost spill cash with every privileged step they took. If you could pay the door fee and blend in with the crowd, you were welcome at the Pearl. Regardless of their background, one thing was certain: the clientele dressed in their best for the event. There were no slouchy sweatpants and pit-stained hoodies to be found. Even the roughest layman would pull a suit from the back of his closet to visit the Desert Pearl. It wasn’t just a sleazy strip club; it was a high-class experience.
Behind the shiny marble bar counter, a stoic-looking young man with a well-groomed mustache was serving up Gibsons and other classic cocktails. Patrons gathered at the bar for their drinks, splitting attention between the bartender’s soft conversation and the women working the stage. The Pearl was bumping tonight with flocks of titillated patrons, but one tall, dark man in particular strode across the club with the swagger of a man who owned the place.
He towered over the average strip club client, at an imposing height of six-foot-three, but he was so powerfully built that he seemed even larger. His muscles were readily apparent even under his black blazer and fitted black shirt. He wore dark gray pants tailored to perfectly complement his body, and high-dollar shoes that set him apart from some of the less wealthy clientele. His ensemble oozed style and class, but it was also an outfit suitable for physical activity. He could run like a bolt of lightning in those fancy shoes, and the comfy clothing gave him a full range of motion. Apart from being physically intimidating, he was also ridiculously, strikingly handsome. He had a full head of thick, jet-black hair softly pushed back from his forehead. His face boasted a chiseled jaw and cheekbones that could cut glass. His eyes were a cold ice blue, with a gaze that subdued men and enchanted women.
The dancers and waitresses of the Pearl were normally immune to any and all attempts by men to garner their attention. They were used to high-rollers and big players. They didn’t bat an eyelash at a five-figure payout or even a good-looking charmer. These women had their eyes on the prize. They were professionals at the top of their industry.
And yet, when the stony-eyed man entered the club, he became their new interest. He carried himself with such unshakable confidence. His body exuded strength and power. One glance from him, and even the most seasoned stripper felt weak in the knees. He had a way of making a girl feel like the only woman on the planet… even as he flippantly chewed up her heart and spat it back out. The man was clearly bad news, but women still couldn’t help coming back for more every time.
He walked through the crowds, parting them without having to say so much as an ‘Excuse me’ to make his presence known. Men moved out of his way, realizing instantly that they were no match for him. The dancers in between stage shifts sauntered up to him, wearing their scanty silvery lingerie and a seductive smile. He felt the eyes of every woman boring into him, and it only made him feel more powerful. He knew the effect he had on them, and it was intoxicating. They were all vying for his time and attention. He dripped wealth, but they wanted his body as much or more than they coveted his cash. A pair of doe-eyed identical twins with blond hair and perky breasts came traipsing over to him. They were holding hands and biting their lips, gazing up at him with the promise of double trouble.
“Hey there, tall-dark-and-handsome,” the first one said.
“You look like you can handle two girls at once,” said her twin.
“Not like these other schmucks hanging around tonight.”
“What do you say we get a private room—”
“—and see where things go?”
The man raised one thick, dark eyebrow at them in bemusement. It would be so easy to take them up on that offer. He could see himself bending and twisting those girls into submission, ravishing them until they were spent. They were right; he could easily handle two women at once. With pleasure.
But not tonight. He was on a mission.
So he gently sidestepped the twin strippers and replied in a husky baritone voice, “Maybe another night, ladies.”
There was a faint Russian accent to his words. The twins pouted as he pushed past them and stepped up to the bar counter. The bartender immediately detached himself from his current patrons to address the charismatic newcomer.
“Good evening, sir,” he greeted.
“Likewise, Stan,” the mysterious man replied with a glance at his nametag. He slid a large bill across the counter and said, “Double vodka, top shelf.”
“Of course, Mr. Sokolov,” the bartender replied as he got to work pouring the drink.
Mr. Sokolov smiled. He hadn’t expected it, but he also wasn’t surprised that the bartender already knew his name.
Stan hurried to explain in a lowered voice, “I would be a shameful member of the brotherhood if I didn’t know whoyouare. Please allow me to offer my services. Anything you need, I can provide.”
He set down the double vodka and Mr. Sokolov took a sip. He leaned in close and, in a gruff whisper, asked, “I understand you’ve been keeping something ‘on ice’ for me.”
Stan nodded. He knew instantly what the man was asking about. With a knowing glance toward the bouncers at the front of the club, Stan stepped out from behind the bar. He spread one arm out and bowed slightly as he offered, “Right this way, sir.”
