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“Do you have vodka?” Alex asks, joining the conversation for the first time.
“Yes,” Luca replies, looking at me.
I stand, not bothering to hide the gun I’ve been holding as I tuck it into my hip holster. “After you.”
I know where we’re headed. Bianchi owns a gentlemen’s club one street over. On paper, it’s a legal entity, but I have no doubt there’s plenty of dirty money funneled through.
Three of Bianchi’s men join us at the door. I’m unsurprised he’s called in reinforcements, but it still makes me uncomfortable to see the numbers more than evened. Alex is tense by my side.
Walking into the club doesn’t help. It’s dark inside, muted, flashing lights reflecting off the shiny bar top and exposed skin.
Alex lets out a low whistle as we walk farther inside. The atmosphere is sultry and dim. The scent of smoke tinges the air along with sex and sin.
Bianchi leads the way into a private back room. It has its own bar and its own stage.
All but one of his men disappear. His attempt to tell me an ambush isn’t imminent, I guess.
And then the women appear. All scantily dressed, showing off endless stretches of smooth skin. Big tits spill out of tops, and high heels show off long legs. I’m basically sitting front row for a lingerie show, and my dick doesn’t even twitch.
Bianchi beckons a redhead over. “Bring over a bottle of Stolichnaya Elit for my Russian friends.”
She complies immediately, returning quickly with three glasses and a brand-new bottle of the expensive vodka. Luca’s attention is on the show taking place onstage, but I watch closely as each glass gets filled with a couple of inches of clear liquid and then distributed.
Luca raises his glass and tips it toward me. “To keeping secrets.”
I’m not sure which secret he’s referring to—the bullet or my son.
Leo isn’t much of a secret. I’ve done nothing to hide our relationship, opting to protect him with association instead of attempting anonymity, like I’m ashamed or indifferent. My son is what I’m most proud of. The title ofPakhanwas handed to me because of nothing but the family I was born into and unfortunate circumstances. At least when it comes to Leo’s existence, I played a small role.
Bianchi laughs when I tap his glass. He watches while I down it, then gestures toward the group of women like a game show host displaying prizes. “Take your pick.”
My jaw works. I’ve been waiting for this moment ever since we arrived. “I’m good.”
Luca sips his drink and leans back. As if on cue, the redhead returns to his side. All she’s wearing is a seductive smile and a G-string.
Bianchi is paying no attention to the naked woman who is now gyrating on his lap. His gaze is focused straight on me, intense and unwavering. “It’s rude to refuse a gift.”
I lean back as well, adopting a relaxed posture even though I’m anything but. “Rudeness is one of my more redeemable character traits. Trust me.”
“Along with performance anxiety?”
“Women come to me willingly. They’re not fucking for a paycheck.”
Luca’s lip curls as he studies me over the rim of his glass. “You’re not even married to the American bitch, Nikolaj. Yet you’re loyal.”
“Loyalty is an interesting ideal to be lectured on by a man who has a wife and three kids waiting at home,” I muse.
Bianchi slides a palm up the redhead’s bare thigh. There’s nothing tender or even eager about it. It’s a purposeful movement, and it tells me a lot I already know about the Italian seated across from me.
It’s one thing to keep family separate from business. I work with plenty of associates who act cold and indifferent. Never mention their children, if they have any. I respect that approach, especially since becoming a parent myself. But it’s another thing to flout a disregard for it, to revel in acting superior.
Luca is putting on a show to test if I’m willing to do so, and he isn’t happy with the answer. In his mind, I failed.
He thought I came here to preserve our uneasy understanding. He considered Lyla and Leo easy weaknesses to bring up because I have few of them.
I pour more vodka into my empty glass, hoping it will keep some of Luca’s fickle favor. He doesn’t care if I fuck one of his women or not. He’s playing with me, trying to assess what our previous limited interactions haven’t revealed. The meeting with him after seeing Lyla was short, centered around weapon exports. He’ll brag about this interaction—me drinking in a Bianchi establishment—to every Italian who will listen.
I drain my glass again and hold a hand out. “We have a deal.”
