Deadly (Born Bratva Book 5) (18 page)

Roksana

Being born Bratva gives you almost freakishly accurate intuition, an inner sense of when something isn’t right. You can’t learn it, you just feel it. Any gangster has that instinct, Bratva or not. There’s another instinct that only a woman has and that's knowing when something is going on with her man. Oleg’s sudden top-secret plans for the evening piqued my curiosity and it didn’t take much digging to get his itinerary for the evening.
Strip club, my ass…

I’m a ballsy bitch. I always have been and I always will be. I make no fucking apologies for it either. My family knows I’m crazy. There’s no doubt I’m a hothead but I’m not erratic or unstable. I think my actions through. I’m deliberate. I plan before I attack.

“Roksana, you scare me as much as your father does.”

A sense of pride wells up in me when Anastasia says that. She must sense it because she just shakes her head at me as I apply a final coat of mascara.

“Okay…” I turn around with my hands on my hips. “Black sleeveless muscle shirts, tight jeans, stiletto heels, and denim jackets. We look damn good dressed down, girl. Plus…we look like twins.”

“Yeah, right, with one difference. You’re a hell of a lot hotter than I am with that long, flaming red hair of yours.”

I bat my eyelashes and then pout at her like I’m offended. “Baby, I turned you into a sex kitten when I gave you a makeover.”

“Yeah, the classic hit woman look, right out of the movies.”

“Hey, there’s nothing sexier than a woman who knows how to wield a weapon.” I stick my finger up and blow on it like it’s a smoking gun.

“I agree. What I’m worried about is
you
wielding a weapon.”

I roll my eyes. “Hey, I may be a hothead but I’m always in control.”

“My mind is so much more at ease, knowing that,” she says with an eye roll.

“You should be glad I’m not pissed off that the boys didn’t invite us along.”

“I’m not convinced that you aren’t.”

“Yeah, me either” I laugh. “How pissed I get will depend on what I see when I get where I’m going.”

“Well, I hope you know I’ve got your back…even if you do something stupid.”

“I don’t do stupid. I do crazy like a fox.”

Oleg

Even though we know the guy working the door doesn’t make a habit of patting down the customers, my mind isn’t completely at ease. It just means everybody in here is packing heat. We claim a back corner table hidden in shadows and cigarette smoke.

I look around and take stock of our surroundings. It’s early yet but already busy, there aren’t many empty tables. The main stage features a voluptuous Latina stripper. She’s already mid-way through her routine, based on the amount of bare ass I can see from where we’re sitting. She approaches the edge of the stage, swinging her hips and arching her back as she teases the front row of tables with a little side-boob. After several coy false starts, she finally puts them out of their misery and whips her bikini top off, revealing a set of nice but obviously artificially enhanced DD’s, complete with pasties. Whoops and whistles are followed by cash that flutters onto the stage like confetti. The woman collects her loot and scampers off stage, high-fiving the next stripper as she struts onto the stage. And so it goes.

The main stage is flanked by two narrow extensions that resemble the catwalks you’d see at a fashion show. These, however, are for pole dancing, the up close and personal kind. As the evening goes on, I get a sense of how the business is run in terms of patrons’ expectations. The club operates in accordance with Louisville’s stripper laws, which have reduced the local stripper clubs to the equivalent of bikini bars. The club owners do what they can to comply and still give their customers a decent show, some going so far as to have the strippers wear flesh-toned body paint if they go topless, as a way to still have the tits legally covered.

There’s no way this bar is on the up-and-up, not if it’s an underworld hangout. But they would have to be careful to not attract the attention of law enforcement. Not everyone has the local cops in their pocket like Glazov does, so Dmitriy and are waiting it out. He flashes cash and charms the waitress, flirting convincingly with the strippers who drop by to chat. He drops enough hints that eventually, the hostess approaches with our Golden Ticket, so to speak.

“Gentleman, are you enjoying your visit this evening?”

At Dmitriy’s nod and suggestive smile, she blushes and offers to show us to their back room where there are other performances that we might enjoy more.
Bingo…

The back room is smaller but is furnished much the same as the one out front. Completely different scenery, though – lots of tits and ass in plain view, and obviously no concern about Kentucky’s strip club laws that keep the nipples and pussies covered and keep the strippers at least six feet away from their customers. Obviously, this is the real club and not for public – or law enforcement -- consumption. We’re immediately offered lap dances, which we politely decline with vague suggestions of ‘maybe later’.

"
Dos Coronas con cal
,” Dmitriy tells the server effortlessly, and we sit back and wait for our two Coronas with lime.

I’m a little pleased to hear Dmitriy order in Spanish. He obviously shares my belief that roots are important.

The main stage features a series of the club’s A-list dancers and high-rollers making it rain. The room’s two poles are currently being worked by two sultry and exceptionally limber strippers. Tips are encouraged and well received, of course, and usually end up with frugal patrons getting an eyeful of the dancer’s goods at the end of her routine as she spreads ‘em and bends over with straight knees to pick up their singles. The more generous patrons can expect to get a fully nude, full-friction experience, right there at the edge of the stage or at their table.

One of the pole dancers has just twirled upside down for a dramatic dismount. I expect her to pick up a few bills and strut off stage, but instead she rolls around in front of a particular patron, then shimmies up to the edge of the stage and twerks right in his face while he tucks what appear to be large bills between her ample cheeks.

“Damn,” Dmitriy mutters. “Baby got back.”

“And then some,” I agree. “Man, you cannot make that shit up.”

“Yep,” Dmitriy replies as we tap Coronas and tip our bottles to the stage in silent salute.

It shouldn’t be difficult to blend in, but Dmitriy knew exactly what he was doing by wearing that leather belt with the big ass buckle. His Culiaca’n Tomateros baseball cap is one of many in the room.

“I see you’re in touch with both sides of your heritage.”

He answers low with his head hanging down even though there’s no chance of anyone hearing him over the loud Latin music. “The boss insisted—I complied.”

It doesn’t take long for two women to slink over to our table. Oddly enough, this is exactly what I don’t want to deal with. I slip my hand in my pocket and slide on the wedding ring that I’m using as a prop until I get the real thing.

Dmitriy notices what I’ve done. He seems to sense my discomfort and takes over, smiling easily as he gestures for them to join us. “Ladies, have a seat and let me buy you a bottle of champagne.”

The longer I spend with this guy, the more I see that he doesn’t just have book smarts -- he’s got street smarts too. Spending money on the women will accomplish two things: deflect attention away from us and keep the men who are probably working these women from becoming suspicious.

They are a match set, two bleach blondes with lots of attitude and what appear to be matching breast implants. Dmitriy could have his hands full, quite literally, if he were so inclined. But tonight is all about business, so he’s keeping the conversation light to buy us some time to get a feel for what we’re dealing with when it comes to these guys.

He keeps the women busy with flirtatious chit-chat while I case the room and find the alphas. It doesn’t take long to see that there is no leader in this mess. Maybe Roksana’s right, maybe they’re scrambling now that their leader’s six feet under.

“You’re the strong silent type, aren’t you, baby?”

I cringe when Blondie #1’s hand snakes underneath the table and lands on my upper thigh, caressing me as her nails lightly scratch over the fabric of my pants. I lift the offending hand and place it back where it belongs—off my body.

I pin her with my eyes as I hold up my left hand. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m married—quite happily. I’m here for the view. I get that you’re here to make money. If you want to keep making it, leave me the fuck alone. You’ll keep your distance or the champagne stops flowing.”

That’s enough to divert her attention away from me. I don’t like to be touched. Roksana is the only woman I have ever allowed to put her hands on me. Before her, I fucked hard and often, but only to satisfy a physical need. No emotions, no strings. Just sex. The women were not allowed to touch me, ever. Anyone who wouldn’t abide by that rule got her arms tied behind her back until I was done. From the first time I laid eyes on Roksana, she’s been the only woman for me. Every other woman pales in comparison.

A couple of beers later, Dmitriy announces we’re leaving and the girls scatter, in search of more promising prospects at the bar. We all know they’re here to make a living. We shoulder our way through the crowd and out to the main room. Dmitriy stops at the hostess stand and quietly thanks our benefactor for a very entertaining evening. He slips her a generous tip and ignores the blatant invitation in her eyes as we head out the door.

“Damn, somebody’s pissed.”

I look up to see what he’s talking about and see a tricked-out orange truck. It looks like someone took a baseball bat to it. Black spray paint is scrawled across it and
Pinche Puta
has been painted on the side.

I step up my pace and get into my SUV. I take one last look over my shoulder and I can see the girl who had been sitting next to me getting her ass chewed by her old man. He’s frantically waving his hands in the direction of the truck. She’s giving as good as she’s getting, waving her hands and screaming at the top of her lungs. Even though I can’t hear what’s being said, it’s obvious that’s his truck with the new paint job -- and that she isn’t taking the ass chewing without defending herself.

I wait until I’ve turned the corner to speak. “Hey, what does
Pinche
Puta
mean?”

“It’s Spanish for
fucking whore
.”

I groan and scrub my hand over my face. “No…what it is, is a sure sign that Roksana followed us.”

“Nah. That was just some Latina chick mad at that guy. He’s probably seeing another woman.”

I shoot him a skeptical glance and shake my head. I know exactly what that was. “I don’t think so, my man. You’re making an assumption because the spray painted love note was in Spanish. Think about it -- my woman speaks Russian, English, and Spanish—fluently. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she popped off with some French one day. In fact,” I say absently, more to myself than to him, “that would make a fine addition to her repertoire. Anyway, I can assure you that was Roksana’s work.”

“Well, if you’re right, then you’ve got your hands full,” he laughs.

“You have no idea…”