3. ANDREY

Chapter 3

ANDREY

"What the fuck do you mean the container hasn't arrived?" I'm seething. "You have twenty-four hours to find it and get it to the harbor. The Velvet Voyager leaves tomorrow night, and that container better be on that ship."

As I hang up, I stifle the urge to throw my phone across the busy room of the Velvet Lounge, an establishment I've been in charge of for the past year.

It has not been a good day all around today. My parents told me that I would be getting married soon to the woman they hand-picked from the cream of bratva society's crop.

I'm apparently going to be marrying a woman I've met once in my life, and that was when I was fifteen. From what I can remember, she looked like the female version of Huckleberry Finn, with tufts of dark hair sticking up in all directions from her unruly ponytail.

She was about ten, and when she'd come inside, it was clear she'd been climbing trees or crawling through bushes as she had twigs stuck in her tufty hair with dirt smeared all over her hands and face.

The little tomboy had hardly given me a glance when we were introduced before bolting back outside with the biggest fucking dog I'd ever seen.

Turns out she didn't give a shit that she'd been called inside to meet their guests. Huckleberry Finnette had only come back inside to get her half-horse, half-devil dog creature from hell who didn't need the name Titan to strike fear in a person's heart.

The sheer size of the creature was enough to make any grown man weary, not to mention its luminous red eyes. What fucking dog had red eyes, except maybe a hellhound!

I always wondered why I was dragged to my father's friend's house that day and had to dress in my Sunday best! Now I know I was getting a sneak peek at my future bride, the queen of the damned.

I don't even remember her first name, only that she's the Andreev Bratva princess. My family has been after a marriage between the Andreevs and Belovs for two generations and made sure they cemented that alliance with mine for two reasons, which my father made clear to me today.

The first was that this alliance meant that the Belov Bratva's territory would expand into Canada and Alaska once the little Andreev princess claimed her rightful title. The Andreevs controlled that entire territory.

To add the cherry to my fathers's power-hungry cake is the fact that the little tomboy is also the only heir to a very powerful mafia family that controls the territory from Boston through to the border of Canada.

My father's Belov Bratva kingdom would span from Washington, D.C., through New York State, Boston, and the entirety of New England, Canada, and Alaska. Making my family one of the most powerful and formidable bratva families.

My grandfather would be pleased. But I also know there is a third unspoken reason to this alliance—it's so my father can finally settle an outstanding debt through sacrificing his only living son and heir.

Whoopee fucking doo! While my father becomes king of the world, I have to try and get it up for the fucking tomboy enough times to plant my seed in her to produce an heir or heirs, as my mother put it.

Because you know we are bratva after all, and it always helps to have a spare heir about. My hand tightens on my phone, and my heart squeezes as I think of Lev. But my thoughts are distracted when I glance toward the bar.

Helen is working tonight. She is stunning with large breasts, a tiny waist, legs that go on for miles, and a smoky voice that caresses a person's skin.

Her hair is not as long as I like, but there's most certainly enough of the sandy blonde stuff to grip in the throes of passion. Helen's lips are plump, and I can imagine how they'd feel wrapped around my dick with that soft little pink tongue that darts out ever so often to wet them.

My dick starts to harden. Down boy. We don't fuck the staff, no matter how fuckable they are. And apparently, Helen is quite the wild ride if what Wolfgang, one of the bouncers at my lounge, tells me is true. Okay, enough thinking about what riding Helen would be like. I don't fuck my staff.

But I do need a drink to take the edge off this shitty day. As I stroll toward the bar, all I can say is thank fuck my father gave me the Velvet Lounge to run.

At least when I am married to the Queen of hell, I can get my pleasure in The Dark Velvet Lounge. I think of it as the Velvet Lounges slutty twin sister. I glance toward the door at the back of the club-marked VIP Only. It's cordoned off with a red velvet rope strung between two gold poles. Heavy red velvet drapes obscure the view into the room.

The doormen posted outside the room are mountainous bouncers trained to kill in the most gruesome of ways. Their steely looks and chest girth may as well be ‘beware of the tiger' signs as, other than one troublesome young patron; no one has yet dared to take them on. I take a seat at the bar.

Helen immediately saunters over to me. The fleshy top mounds of her tits jiggle slightly in her low-cut black vest that shows off her well-toned arms and skin art. Her small waist rounds into curvy hips, hugged by tight torn jeans cinched with a black leather belt and silver buckle.

God, what I wouldn't give just to get lost in those mounds as I pound into her with those long legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper into her wet warmth.

I feel my dick harden, reminding me that I haven't had sex in two weeks as I've been so busy with the load of work that's been dumped on me.

Maybe I'll take a turn in the Dark Velvet Lounge later tonight and see if a few of my regular lovers are around to help me blow off some steam and make me forget my upcoming fated wedding to the Queen of the Damned.

"What will it be tonight, Andrey? Your usual, or do you want something else? " There's no mistaking the open invitation to her body in her question.

As sexy as she is and as horny as I am, I keep my resolve about not fucking around with the staff. No matter how alluring they might be!

"I'll have the usual."

"One double Beluga Gold over ice coming up." Helen's eyes flash with disappointment when she walks off to get my drink.

My phone rings; it's Urie. I'm hoping he has some good news about the missing container that needs to be on one of our ships by tomorrow evening.

"Urie, please tell me that the container has been located," I say as soon as I answer the phone.

"Yeah, it's arrived," Urie tells me. "But it's not what you think. We were lied to."

"What is it?" I ask. The hair at the back of my neck starts to rise.

"Turns out it's not the kind of art we were thinking about," Urie tells me.

"Get to the point, Urie. I'm having a terrible day, and I'd hate to end a twenty-five-year-old friendship because I've lost my patience with you," I threaten, although I know my threats are water off a duck's back with Urie. He is the only person I'd trust in this world to have my back. Especially since my older brother was murdered last year. "What kind of art is it?"

"Human art," Urie tells me, and I go cold.

"Painted ladies?" I splutter, feeling the instant fury spark like a bushfire inside of me. "Who the hell would dare to try to smuggle people on one of our ships?"

"My father and I were just wondering the same thing," Urie's voice lowered. "He's called your father down here."

"Fuck!" I look up as Helen places my drink in front of me. I nod my thanks. "This is all I need." I knock the vodka back in one shot and indicate to Helen I'd like another drink. "You need to make sure the rest of the Velvet Voyager's paperwork is all in order, then get the FBI involved."

"It's already done," Urie assures me. "They're on the way. We already have all the files ready for them. We know the procedure."

"Let me finish up here, and I'll get down there," I say.

My blood is boiling as Helen puts another double vodka in front of me. She leans both hands on the bar in front, knowing how her tits are now pressed together, making the mounds peek just a little more over the top of her shirt.

"Is everything okay?" Helen asks, frowning.

"All's good, thanks, Helen." I watch her nod and walk off, admiring the way her ass sits firm and the denim strains over it.

"Hello?" Urie's voice comes through the phone, snapping my attention back to our conversation. "Was that Helen I heard?" A pause. "Please don't tell me you're thinking of trying her out for a wild dick ride tonight?"

"No, of course not," I assure him. "Helen just poured me Russo-Baltique, and I was admiring the fine liquid."

"Of course, you were." Urie doesn't sound convinced. "You're up to your eyeballs in women and the best vodka in the world while I'm down at the dock trying to help a container load of drugged and painted women while hoping the Feds don't arrest us."

"I told you I just need to take care of a problematic Dark Velvet Lounge member, and I'll get there," I tell Urie, taking another sip of vodka. This time, I savor the taste, enjoying the smooth burn of the alcohol as it tickles the back of my throat.

"My father said you must on not account come down here. Your father is on his way," Urie advises me. "Neither of them has a good feeling about this."

Sergei is Urie's father—my father's most trusted comrade and brigadier. His advice is usually always sound, and like my father has said many times, Sergei's instincts have saved him more than once in their lifetime.

"Your mother is not going to be fucking pleased. Thank God she's in New York!" Urie gives a low whistle. "When your father tracks down the real owners of this container, I think your father should put your mother onto the culprit who's is behind this skin trafficking ring."

Velvet Trucking and Shipping Lines is owned and run by my mother. It's her family's business that her late father left to her, and it's how my parents met.

My mother turns a blind eye to most of the cargo that is transported on her ships or trucks for my father's side of the business, as well as some of his associates. But, there's cargo that my mother will not abide by and even my father will not deal in.

Red-hot anger spurts through me once again at the thought of someone trying to fuck with my mother's business. But Urie is right; my mother would not be kind if she were the one to find out who the trafficker was.

This is the sixth container found in the last six weeks loaded with drugged women painted to resemble various works of art, statues, and expensive jewels. These containers have been showing up at various crime families' ports or trucking depots, ready to be transported to their destinations.

The last one appeared at one of the McDuling Irish Mob's ports, and within minutes of its arrival, the Feds arrived sporting warrants after getting a sound tip-off of what the cargo in the container was. Each container's cargo was made to mimic items previously stolen or taken by the crime families the containers were linked to.

Someone was clearly trying to take down the crime families one shipping container at a time.

"No, my mother is going to be spitting fucking mad." I stand and push the stool back. I see one of my men flag me down and give a thumbs up, letting me know that the problematic customer has been dealt with. "Oslo is calling me. I need to go. Call me with updates."