Of course, sometimes that shit hits you right in the face anyway, and there was no trying to come out without being scarred.
Because the powerful controlled the powerless.
So the fact that this particular building, which screamed money and had a illicit air to it, not to mention was obviously Russian owned, told me it was probably controlled by the Russian mafia. The Bratva.
I looked down the street to my left, then to my right. A police car slowly drove toward me, and I stepped farther back, the cold stone wall of the building stopping my retreat. I knew enough about law enforcement in cities like this, ones that were corrupt and twisted, where criminals had the final say and money could buy anyone and anything.
So the men, the law—who would be the likely prospect when you needed something or when running or hiding or begging for sanctuary—they weren’t the ones you’d ask for help. They were the type of men who took cash in back alleys and looked the other way. They were the type of men you ran from. Fast and without looking over your shoulder, because they’d be right behind you.
And as the police cruiser slowed to a crawl as it passed me, the driver glancing in my direction, his grin was big, with all white teeth in a shadowy interior.
A shiver worked through me despite the still air. I wrapped my jacket tighter around me and watched the cruiser disappear down the street.
A second later my phone vibrated with an incoming text, and I looked down to see Laura’s message.
Give me a sec. I’ll bring you in.
I tucked my phone back into my jacket pocket, and a moment later I heard footsteps coming from the side. Laura stepped out from the corner of the building and searched around before her gaze settled on me. She smiled and gestured for me to follow her.
Once I was beside her, we headed down a barely lit alley. “Are you sure about this?” I couldn’t help asking as I looked around the dumpster- and trash-filled alley.
“It’s safe. Don’t worry. The crime around here is nonexistent.” She snorted as if she knew why. I certainly knew the answer to why no one fucked with this place. The mafia.
Even criminals knew when they shouldn’t fuck with the big boys.
We only walked a handful of seconds before she stopped in front of a rust-colored metal door. She pounded on it a couple of times before stepping back. It swung open, the metal hinges creaking loudly and echoing off the buildings.
A big, burly guy with not much of a neck and a jagged scar slashed down the side of his face held the door open. I looked at him hesitantly, his expression closed off and slightly dangerous.
I quickly glanced forward and followed Laura inside. When we entered the anteroom, the door closed behind us with a loud bang, loud enough that I jumped slightly. I blamed my frazzled nerves on the foreign terrain I was currently embarking in, but the truth was closer to the fact that this entire situation just didn’t sit well with me.
And that was probably because I knew the person or people who owned this place weren’t good men. And those are the ones I’m trying to stay away from.
“Don’t worry about Boris,” Laura said and looked over her shoulder. “The doorman.” She tipped her chin to the burly, scar-faced guy. “He’s harmless. At least I assume he is. He rarely speaks and just kind of hangs around in the background. Or he does whenever I’ve worked.”
I looked over my shoulder at Boris, a big, hulking shadow behind us. I faced forward quickly, no doubt in my mind that this man was the furthest thing from “not dangerous” as you got.
The anteroom and hallway opened into a larger room, where a handful of girls looked through racks of clothing.
Laura stopped and turned to face me so suddenly that I stumbled back. “What?” I looked around, thinking I’d made some faux pas and hadn’t realized. She didn’t speak right away and started biting her lip. “Laura, just say it.”
“So you have the waitressing job, but the owner of the bar wants to meet you to decide which room to put you in for the night.”
I furrowed my brow. “Which room to put me in for the night?”
“Yeah.” She kept biting her lip. “It’s how it works. The way this bar is set up, there are several rooms, kind of like tiers on where the clientele lands. The higher the tier, the more important the patrons.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay. So if you’re not up to the owner’s physical standard, you’re shit out of luck and get a bottom level?”
At least she had the decency to flush as she nodded. “I know how it seems, but no matter what, the waitresses still bring home good money, even at the lowest level.”
“So we might not even be working in the same room?”
She shook her head and looked apologetic. Not that it mattered if we were in the same room, but I would have preferred a familiar face. Not to mention she’d acted like we would be together because she didn’t want to do it alone.
It seemed a little bit strange to me, but I wasn’t going to complain about how a business was. This made me feel like, if I was given a lower-end room, clearly the owner didn’t like the way I looked. I told myself it really didn’t matter in the long run.
Money was money, and I desperately needed it.
Laura gave me a reassuring smile, then eyed me up and down. “Let’s get you changed first and do your hair and makeup.”
Hair and makeup?
Before I could complain about needing to be dolled up to sling drinks, I told myself getting prettied up would help with tips. Rich old men, especially ones who were drinking copious amounts of booze, tended to throw money at women who caught their eye. Not that I liked it, but it was a fact in the world, and I’d use it to my advantage.
I was just going through the motions as I stood there and let Laura pick out a dress for me. It was white and slinky, covering up the important parts but showing enough that it didn’t leave much to the imagination.
“Seriously?” I asked as she handed it to me. “And white?”
She shrugged but smiled. “Trust me, the whole white-young-and-innocent thing will help with tips. This is old rich men we are talking about.”
I was already regretting this.
Ten minutes later I was dressed, my hair styled in a soft updo, little wisps framing my face, and a light layer of makeup put on. I stared at myself in the mirror, and although I recognized the woman looking back at me, she also seemed like a stranger. This wasn’t who I was. This is for the endgame. Save money and get the hell out of here.
I exhaled and was handed a pair of stilettos, which I grudgingly took and slipped on. I looked down at my feet, praying I could not only walk but carry drinks at the same time.
“Gorgeous,” Laura said, and I glanced at her reflection in the mirror. “Ready?”
I turned to look at her. She was beautiful as well, with a bloodred dress that ended midthigh and had a slit up the side. She was well-endowed in the chest department—unlike me—and the dress accentuated her breasts.
We left the dressing room and walked down a short hallway before she stopped in front of a closed door. I didn’t miss how Boris followed us, an uncomfortable shadow right behind me. After three heavy knocks, a deep voice called out in another language from the other side of the door.
Boris moved in front of Laura and opened the door before stepping aside and letting us in. Laura went in first, me following behind and feeling awfully bare all of a sudden, which had nothing to do with what I wore. The room wasn’t overly large, but it was exquisitely decorated. Black leather, sleek dark woods, and very obvious Russian-themed decor.