“My turn now. Seriously.” Sasha perched on the edge of a chair, closed her eyes, and held out her hands.
“Or we could just bind her to the seat and leave her here for the night,” Maksim uttered.
“I heard that and I’m still hating on you but give me already!” She snapped her fingers.
Jo hesitated. “I really don’t think you want to open this in a room full of men.”
“Give it to her,” Yury ordered. “She will not stop until you do.”
“Fine. You asked for it.” Jo smiled deviously.
Sasha’s eyes flipped open when the other woman placed a box in her hands. She tore through the wrapping in a flurry before exclaiming over the gift. “I love it!”
She held up what could only be called crocheted straps and webbed triangles of absolutely nothing.
“What is that?” Maksim frowned heavily.
“It’s a bikini.” Sasha pressed the barely there bathing suit against her body.
“You are not wearing that in public or anywhere else, Sashenka,” Maksim decreed.
Her eyes flashed. “I am wearing it. And I already told you a million times to stop calling me little Sasha!”
His nostrils flared as his muscles bulked out. “Over my dead body do you prance around with your breasts out.”
“Over your dead body. Sounds like a perfect idea.” Sasha only stopped bickering to send a sweet smile to the new wife. “I adore it. Spasibo.”
“I got one too.” Joanna glanced coyly up at Kirill.
His reaction predictable, he ran an arm around her waist and winked at the rest of us. “We are going back to the apartment now.”
He hustled her out of there before another word could be exchanged, Boris scampering after them.
“I believe I’ll depart too, Papa,” I murmured.
“Da. Go.” Yury waved toward me, opening his new box of cigars again.
Typically, the nightclub was Kirill’s concern, but since he’d presumably gone up to the penthouse to fuck his wife again, I performed one last check on the place.
Only a few customers remained, finishing their drinks while soldiers stood like imposing sentinels around the main floor.
One of the last patrons held a glass in her hand as her eyes lingered on me.
The slight tilt of her head was an unmistakable invitation to approach her, talk to her, fuck her. Especially when one long lean leg parted the high slit in her skirt.
Glamorous and beautiful, she had everything going for her except I’d be willing to bet she had no idea how to keep up with the sexual appetites of a man like me.
This female was too prissy by half, and I was too busy by far.
Pivoting away, I left the building alone.
I’d moved out of the apartment I shared with Kirill right after he and Jo decided to become more than the captor and the captive. I had no wish to listen to the two of them screwing themselves blind and me deaf.
The six weeks I’d spent at the Zolotov mansion had proven to be suffocating as well. Too much security. Too much scrutiny. Not enough privacy no matter how large the house was.
I needed the room and tools to dominate a woman even if it was just for one night. Such a thing took time, which I rarely had, and space I’d finally purchased. In fact, the boleadoras Kirill and Jo had given me made creative ideas for its uses spring to mind.
The townhouse I’d renovated was only a ten-minute walk away from the Bratva compound that was secured by fences, guard towers, monitoring systems. I set out on foot instead of in an armored vehicle flanked by soldiers. I didn’t require bodyguards or guard dogs, and I’d never met a threat I couldn’t deal with singlehandedly.
With the bolas rolled up and snug in the inside pocket of my suit coat, the lump there was only slightly smaller than the gun holster at my hip. I stepped under a streetlight and stopped to light a cigarette. Even this late at night, I heard the blare of police sirens, the wail of fire engines, the shouts of drunk assholes.
Exhaling a stream of smoke, I stalked on down the side street.
An old woman poked out from a shadowy doorway. She aimed rheumy eyes at me from beneath a grimy beanie hat that was crammed over gray hair.
“Bum a smoke?” she asked in a raspy voice.
“Da.” Halting in my steps, I dragged out the pack.
Through a sleight of hand I’d perfected at a young age when I’d grifted on the streets of Moscow to keep my brothers and myself fed, I slipped a one hundred dollar bill into the box.
This time giving money instead of grabbing it.
“Keep them.” I passed the cigarettes to the woman.
“Thank you.” Her lips parted in a wide smile, and I briefly wondered what hardships had set upon her.
I nodded and carried on, leaving before she found the money and caused a whole big scene.
She reminded me of the old bakery woman in Russia who’d been kind to me, Kirill, and Maksim. Every few mornings she invited us inside the warm, homey smelling shop full of freshly risen bread and fed us as if we were her own children.
She even let us bathe there once a week.
Besides, what was a hundred dollars to me now? I could afford a few Benjamins at this stage of the game.
All in all, the summer had been lucrative. Being the Russian kings of Boston, we continued to dominate the weapons trade. The Cat and the Sickle thrived as a profitable revenue stream and a front for our illegal operations. We’d even expanded into the cocaine business care of the agreement struck with the O’Sullivans in return for aiding in the death of their father.
I’d just stubbed out the butt of my smoke half a block later when I heard muffled shouts coming from down an alley.
In the black shadows of the narrow passageway, it looked like two rival gangs were going at it.
Common street criminals no longer played a part in my world, not even when I saw the dim glint of a gun muzzle and the shiny flash of a blade.
For once the trouble had nothing to do with me or the Bratva.
As I stepped past the mouth of the alley, a high-pitched shriek grabbed my attention again.
Swinging back, I located a lone woman in the middle of the melee. She wasn’t just caught in the crossfire either.
Two meatheads looked like they were playing a game of tug-of-war with her—each of them grabbing an arm and pulling in different directions. And, even in the dim light, she already appeared to be injured with blood dripping down one side of her face.
“Get off. Get off of me!” she screeched, black hair whipping around her head.
Blyad.
Quickly drawing my gun, I fired a warning shot into the air. Then I raced into the fray but, before I could reach the woman, one of the degenerates yanked her from the other’s grasp and started mauling her breasts.
None of the fuckers scattered at my shot. Just for that, I took deadly aim on the thug manhandling the girl.
The gunfire cracked across the narrow alley, the bullet neatly hitting my target. The handsy asshole’s shout of shock aborted in his throat, and he flipped off his feet with a hole bored directly through the center of his forehead.
All eyes spun to me, and the second gang member who’d been fighting for the woman made another grab at her.
“I wouldn’t if I were you.” The words emerged from my throat in a steely tone.
Despite my threat, a swarm of hoodlums advanced, teeth bared, weapons up.