4. Chapter 4

4

Dimitri

T he music blasts through the room, but the pig's spit-filled shouting in my ear drowns it out.

"I tell you, man," he slurs, waving his stubby fingers around, "I've got Governor Blackwell's ear . Just last week, we were golfing at Oakmont Country Club with Senator McAllister—you know… the one where even your fancy Bratva money can't buy membership?"

He winks like we're sharing some fucking secret.

Chert, I'm in hell now.

Shooting back the last drop from the bottle of Beluga Noble vodka, I slam the glass down on the table.

The pig's been yapping non-stop, his fat lips flapping like a fish out of water.

For the fifth time, his breath is in my face. Suka , I swear, one more inch, and I'll introduce him to the table with a head-first greeting.

"And let me tell you about the senator's wife," he whispers, leaning in close enough for me to smell his rancid breath. "She's got a thing for… younger men, if you know what I mean." He erupts into wheezing laughter, slapping his knee like he's just told the joke of the fucking century.

Govno , I'd rather take a bullet than listen to another second of this shit.

Can I just off him? Now? It takes me all my might not to.

I see his disgusting mouth open and close, but I'm not registering anything beyond the urge to shove my fist down his throat. His jowls quiver with every name he drops, sweat beading on his forehead under the lights.

My eyes dart impatiently toward the door, silently begging for someone—anyone—to interrupt this torture.

The pig's beady eyes follow my gaze, and a lecherous grin spreads across his face. "Ah, getting anxious for the entertainment, are we?" He chuckles, then glances pointedly at the empty bottle. "Why don't you be a good host and order us some more drinks? And maybe…" he lowers his voice conspiratorially, "arrange for some company?"

Gritting my teeth, I pull out a thick stack of cash from my jacket. The pig's eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning as I toss it on the table.

"There. Knock yourself out," I growl.

As if summoned by the sight of money. A voice purrs from the doorway. "Sorry to have kept you waiting, gentlemen."

I look up to see a woman strutting into the room, all fake tits and caked-on makeup. She looks more like a drag queen than a madam, with her pencil-thin eyebrows and neon-pink lips stretched into a plastic smile.

"We've got the top girls in The Gentleman's Club ready for you tonight," she continues, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Only the best for our VIP guests."

I don't react, my face as cold and hard as the ice in my glass.

But the pig, he's rubbing his hands together with an annoying whistle. Suka , he actually starts clapping, his meaty hands slapping together in a grotesque display of excitement.

"Bring ‘em in, sweetheart," he leers, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Don't keep us waiting any longer."

The madam snaps her fingers, and the first girl slinks into the room. She's a tiny little thing, long legs and perky tits barely contained by a scrap of lace masquerading as a top. She sways her hips as she walks, her eyes locked on the pig like he's the only man in the world.

Slowly, teasingly, she reaches for the tie on her top, pulling it loose with a flourish. The fabric falls away, revealing her rosy nipples, already hard and begging for attention. She runs her hands over her breasts, squeezing and kneading as she bites her lip, her gaze flicking between me and the pig.

I look away, unimpressed. I've seen it all before, the same tired routine, the same fake moans and rehearsed moves. It does nothing for me.

The second and third girls enter together, a blur of tanned skin and glittery thongs. They start to move to the music, their hips rolling and their hands roaming over each other's bodies. But my eyes are drawn to the third girl, the one with the raven hair and the wicked gleam in her eye.

It takes me a moment to place her, to connect the dots between the fierce, blood-soaked woman I met two years ago and the sultry dancer in front of me now.

But when it clicks, it's like a fucking punch to the balls.

Wren Davis.