Library

4. Ivan

4

IVAN

I f any of my brothers ever saw where I live, they’d be horrified.

Not that there’s anything wrong with it, as far as I’m concerned. The house I purchased a few years ago is nice enough, a Midwestern two-story that blends in with the rest of the neighborhood, with a basement large enough that I could fully kit it out with everything I need to operate. I bought it with cash—the less of a paper trail, the better—and registered everything that needed to be done publicly under a fake name. If my family dug hard enough, they could probably figure out who owns it, but I’ve covered my tracks as well as I’m able. Which is pretty fucking well.

Like I said, I’m a rat that’s hard to trap.

The upper levels of my house look like any average home in the Chicago suburbs. Clean, neat, decently well-furnished. By my brothers’ standards, I might as well live in a hovel, but it suits me just fine. I have a fancier apartment in the city where I take women, if I want to bring someone ‘home’ for the night. But this—this place is just for me. No one else comes here. No one else knows where it is. My own private lair.

The upstairs might look like a nice, normal home, but the basement looks like something out of The Matrix . Wall-to-wall computer screens and various tech, blinking neon in the dark. I sink down in my leather gaming chair, leaning my head back against it as I roll up to one of the screens and log on with an alias.

All of my various Internet personas are heavily encoded, layered under so much security that it would take someone as good as I am to hack into it and uncover my real identity. And very few hackers are as good as I am.

I’m good at three things. Violence, technology, and sex. The first two frequently interact with each other. The second two do sometimes. The first and last—never. That’s the one area of my life where I consider myself a good man. A man with dark and deviant tastes, yes. But not one who would ever hurt a woman.

That’s how I got in this position in the first place.

The screen lights up.

Wyatt8640: Check-in, Viper.

I let out a breath, running one hand through my hair as I start to type with the other.

Viper69: A mouse was caught. He won’t be squeaking to anyone else.

My username is my own private joke. I know it irritates the feds that I work for that I have something so juvenile attached to it. But I like to remind them that I’m my own man. I’m feeding them information, but I’m not one of their serious, badge-wearing flunkies. I’ll do things my own way.

Wyatt8640: Make sure if they’re squeaking, you’re the one who hears it. I’ll be in touch.

The chat logs off, and I blow out a sharp breath.

I’m well aware of the position I’ve put myself in. I could end up in custody myself, if I step wrong. There’s plenty the feds could pin on me, if they wanted to. I could probably negotiate a damn good deal, considering how much I’ve fed them, but that might not keep me from going behind bars. And if that happens, there are only two ways that ends.

One is with me in gen pop, where I’d die in a matter of days. As soon as my father discovered my betrayal, he’d have men on the inside after me, ready to spill my guts onto the floor.

The other is with me in permanent solitary, to keep exactly that from happening. And even then, my father would pay a guard to murder me. Prison means death, for me, if what I’m doing gets out. If I piss off the feds enough at any point to make it so that they don’t protect me any longer.

But frankly, I’d rather die anyway than be behind bars.

I grit my teeth, running both hands through my hair. It infuriates me that I’m mixed up in this at all. That my father is so goddamn greedy that he couldn’t be satisfied with the billions he already has, that arms dealing and drugs aren’t enough. That he had to dip his toe into human trafficking, and make me feel the fucking moral compunction to stop him.

Now I’m here, playing a more dangerous game than I ever wanted to be a part of.

I shove myself up from the chair, heading for the stairs. I blink as I emerge onto the first floor, the light almost painfully bright after hours of sitting in the dark, with only the neon screens. I rub the heels of my hands over my eyes, hard, and head for the kitchen, where I know I have some good liquor stashed away.

I need a fucking drink.

There’s a bottle of Belvedere in the nearest cabinet, and I pull it out, grabbing the first mug I see, and pour a healthy slug of it. Normally, I’d be a little more classy about it, even in my own home—get out a proper glass, pour a drink, and sit and sip it. But after the day I’ve had, I don’t fucking care. I gulp it like water, pour a second slug, and gulp that too. And then I drop the mug into the sink hard enough to chip it, and stride upstairs to the bathroom for a second hot shower. I’m still finding blood in the crevices of my fingers, exactly as I knew I would. Some of it is probably from that man a week ago—some of it is from yet another man I was asked to take apart earlier today. Nothing to do with my own sins, this time. Just someone else who crossed my father, and had to pay.

There was a time when the violence felt like an outlet. Now, it feels exhausting. Pointless. And at barely thirty, I know I’m too young to feel such a bone-deep exhaustion with the cruelties of life.

I stand under the hot spray for a long time, hands braced against the tile, letting it run through my hair and down my back, over my muscles that are still wound tighter than a spring. Even the heat and steam can’t help me unwind after the day I’ve had. I need something better. But it’s too late in the evening to go out into the city to find a better distraction, and I want my bed. I’m fucking exhausted.

I turn off the shower, getting out and roughly drying myself off, walking naked into the dark bedroom and flopping down onto the bed. I close my eyes, feeling the pull of sleep already overtaking me, holding off just long enough for me to fumble for a blanket before I’m out like a light.

But sleep, for me, is rarely peaceful. And tonight is no different.

I’m back in the warehouse, the metal structure hot and stinking, but this time, it’s me hanging from the chains, me with those hot iron manacles wrapped around my wrists, my bare toes barely brushing the concrete underneath me. My skin bared to the blade in Lev—my brother’s hand, his smile wicked as he approaches me, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

He’s wanted this. Waited for me to fuck up. Thought about the day when he could do to me what he’s always wanted to. What my other brothers want to do.

The tip of the knife digs in. “It’s going to be slow,” he murmurs. “I’m as good at this as you are, Ivan. I just never wanted you to know ? —”

The pain deepens in the dream, sharp and hot, and I wake with a jolt, sitting upright in bed. My palms are throbbing, and I realize where the bite of pain came from, that my hands were clenched so hard that even my short nails had dug deeply into my palms. I shake them out, dragging in a deep, shaky breath as I sit there in the dark, trying to regain my composure.

Cold sweat is prickling over my skin. I need a diversion. I need to take the edge off. Something better than just picking up a girl in a bar.

I reach for my phone on impulse, hitting the last text I sent, to one of my close friends. Leo is a good friend who has no direct ties to the mafia or Bratva or any other underworld group that I know of—he’s just wealthy as shit, through a combination of being born lucky and making good investments after he came into his trust fund. I hang out with him fairly often, along with a couple other friends, and he’s always good to get into trouble with.

Especially the kind of trouble I’m in the mood for right now.

Ivan: Let’s go out tomorrow night. Masquerade. I need to blow off some steam.

I toss the phone onto the bed next to me, laying back against the pillows. My heart rate and breathing have returned to normal, but I’m a long way from getting back to sleep. That nightmare is far too close to being a real possibility, and fear churns in my gut, reminding me of what a precarious position I’ve put myself in.

The kind of things I’ve done, things like what I did to that man today, will pale in comparison to what my family will do to me if I get caught.

My phone buzzes, and I reach for it, squinting as I hold it up.

Leo: Masquerade? Hell yeah. I’m in. I’ll text Jonas and Brad, see if they want to go, too.

I text back a quick sounds great , and then toss my phone down again, closing my eyes. I only got a couple hours of sleep before the nightmare woke me up. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if I manage a couple more. And I need to be better rested than that.

If I’m going to survive this, I need to be on top of my game.

I get to Masquerade, one of the best-kept secrets in Chicago, at ten p.m. the next night. I drove myself, glad for a chance to get my Mustang out of the garage, and I pull it up to the valet, giving the man standing there a pointed look as I hand him the keys. He’s really more of a boy, probably nineteen at the most, and he’s looking at the sleek black car with an expression close to worship.

“Don’t fucking scratch it,” I tell him, and go to join Leo and the other guys.

Leo is on his phone, talking rapidly to someone. Jonas is leaning up against the wall smoking a cigarette, and Brad looks impatient to get inside. I don’t blame him. The kind of pleasures that Masquerade offers are enticing, and I’m looking forward to the night, too.

“Ready, boys?” I ask with a grin, and Jonas stubs out his cigarette as Leo holds up a finger, letting me know that he needs another minute on the call. We wait impatiently as he finishes up, turning his cell phone off. We’ll have to surrender our electronics as soon as we get inside—one of the many rules of the club.

I turn to the smooth wall, a small steel box next to an almost invisible seam in it. I slip a key out of my pocket, turning it in the keyhole on the front of the box, and it pops open, revealing a number pad. Quickly, I tap out the passcode, and there’s a slight rumbling sound as the wall parts, rolling back to allow us to walk in.

I pay an insane amount of money to be able to hold onto that key, to have the passcode, to be allowed the privilege of bringing guests here—each of which has to pay their own monthly dues to be allowed inside. Masquerade is an exclusive club, one that makes men pay dearly for their memberships. Women are allowed in much more freely, and less expensively, but Masquerade is owned by a woman—the wealthy widow of one of Chicago’s former top mob bosses, if rumor is to be believed—and she ensures that only men who won’t take undue advantages of the club’s privileges are allowed to enter.

There are plenty of men who take issue with that, but I enjoy the exclusivity. I also appreciate the knowledge that every man inside the club is someone who knows how to behave like a gentleman.

Once inside, the door rolls closed behind us, leaving us in the dimly lit, smoky-scented entryway. The floor and walls are dark wood, with a thick wine-red runner leading to the stairs that go down to the door on the far wall. To my right are two wing chairs, a low velvet bench, and a small table for anyone waiting, and to my left is a long wooden desk, similar to the check-in desk at a hotel.

A beautiful woman in a crisp black skirt suit, her blonde hair pulled back in an elegant updo, is standing behind it. She smiles pleasantly at me, her makeup impeccable, her red lipstick perfectly applied.

“Your names, sirs?” She looks at the four of us, and I step forward first, handing her my I.D. She taps my name into the computer and nods as she pulls up my profile, giving me a slim black silicone bracelet to slip onto my wrist.

The bracelets here all mean something. Black means that I’m available for anything involving women, so long as it remains completely anonymous. Any inquiries into my identity, and the night ends.

While Leo, Jonas, and Brad check in and get their bracelets, I slip the leather gloves I brought out of my pocket. I like to be completely anonymous here, which means not even allowing my tattoos to show. I want nothing that would allow any woman I interact with here to recognize me outside of the club, if she saw me in passing. The absolute secrecy of this place is what allows me to relax, to feel free here. To feel that I can do and be whatever and whoever I like, without worrying about what consequences it might have in the real world.

At the far end of the room, near the door, there’s a basket with stacks of masks. There’s every possible style that could be imagined, and I slip a black half-mask out of the basket—one that will cover the top half of my face entirely, down to the tip of my nose, leaving only my mouth and jaw exposed. Other than the top part of my neck, that’s the only exposed flesh.

I’ve found, over the course of my visits to the club, that women find the level of anonymity I insist on extremely erotic. I’ve never had any difficulty finding a partner for the night—sometimes multiple. And no one has ever tried to cross my boundary.

I think they like the idea of being able to meet someone willing to fulfill their every deviant desire, who they’ll never have to encounter anywhere else. Someone who will give them what they want without shame, without questions, without anything other than a matching eagerness to share in an exchange of pleasure.

And then they can go home, their secrets—and mine—safe behind these walls.

That’s what Masquerade is all about, after all.

Leo and the others are less concerned about total anonymity. They wear the masks, of course—those are another requirement, much like the surrender of our cell phones—but they have their sleeves rolled up, top buttons of their shirts open, hands bare. They couldn’t care less if a tattoo is seen, or if someone notices something about their features. For them, the possibility of getting recognized outside of the club is exciting, I think. The chance that someone might look at them across a restaurant or conference room or crowded bar and recognize another deviant, unable to say aloud what they’ve shared. The thing they have in common.

To each their own, I suppose.

We split off once we’re in the club, each going his own way. Jonas and Brad like to share women, but I prefer to be on my own. I go straight for the bar, waiting my turn as the masked bartender comes up to me.

“Vodka, straight. Top shelf. Twist of lime,” I order, and then I turn, surveying the room as I look for who might interest me for the night. My eye catches a slender blonde who is dancing next to another petite brunette on the dance floor to the left of the bar, swaying to the music. I see a yellow bracelet on her wrist—she wants whatever happens to her tonight to happen on the main floor, where everyone can watch. There’s an orange one twisted around it—she’s only open to oral sex. No penetration of any kind.

I glance away from her. She’s beautiful, but I’m in the mood for something private tonight, not a performance. There’s an auburn-haired woman further down the bar, alone, and I notice the black bracelet around her wrist. Only here for other women, then.

I’ve always liked the color-coded system here. No one’s time is wasted, no one is asked for anything they don’t want. It makes women, especially, more comfortable here, and that means a better time for everyone. This is a safe place, where no one is harassed or cajoled for what they don’t want to give up.

This is a place for pleasure, and only that.

I hear the door open just as the bartender pushes my drink towards me, and I look over curiously, to see who’s come in. The moment I do, I freeze with my hand on my glass, my attention instantly laser-focused on who is walking into the room.

The first woman who walks in is gorgeous, tall with inky black hair and bronzed skin, wearing a black bandage dress that’s so short she couldn’t bend over without flashing everyone in the room, her generous cleavage pushed up in the square neckline. She has heels that add four inches to her already statuesque height, and there’s a confidence about her that immediately grabs the attention of everyone in the room who isn’t already otherwise occupied.

But I don’t even notice what color bracelets she’s wearing, because it’s not her that makes me stop and stare. It’s the woman behind her.

She’s just as gorgeous, with thick, dark brown hair spilling over her bare shoulders, and the hint of green eyes behind her black velvet domino mask. She’s wearing a wine-red velvet dress that comes to her knees, surprisingly modest for this place, except for the slits on either side that run up to mid-thigh. The straps look fragile—so fragile that they look like I could break one with the twist of a finger, and that thought jolts straight to my cock, giving me the first swell of arousal that I’ve felt so far tonight.

I can tell that it’s her first time here before I even look at the bracelets on her wrist. Everything about her demeanor, the way she steps into the room, the way she looks around, screams that she’s not only a novice at this but that she’s never done anything like this before.

Normally, that would be a turn-off for me. I like confident women, experienced women, women who know that this is a one-time thing. Women who will give as much pleasure as I give them, who will make the night a mutually beneficial experience for us both, and then walk away without a second thought.

But something about the woman in the red velvet dress grabs my attention, and won’t let go. Her friend is saying something to her in a low voice, and I watch as she bites her lip, worrying it between her teeth. Her lips are painted the same wine-red as her dress, and all I can think about is what they would look like wrapped around my cock. What all of her would look like, wrapped around me . I can’t take my eyes off of her. Even masked, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

She’s mine tonight. And all that’s left is for me to convince her of it.

Comments

0 Comments
Best Newest

Contents
Settings
  • T
  • T
  • T
  • T
Font

Welcome to FullEpub

Create or log into your account to access terrific novels and protect your data

Don’t Have an account?
Click above to create an account.

lf you continue, you are agreeing to the
Terms Of Use and Privacy Policy.