Page 19 of Darkest Deeds
That was the day I learned blood is thicker than loyalty, and sins of omission are deadlier than any blade. Which is exactly why I have no regrets over accepting Arthur’s offer.
Payback’s a bitter bitch.
* * *
Seven’s so crowdedtonight that if another asshole bumps into my chair, I might be tempted to rip out his throat. And I just finished burying one body, thanks.
I scrub my hands over my face, exhausted and groggy. Less than twenty-four hours after walking out of this place, I’m back in the same chair, facing the same stage, watching the same girls. In fact, I’ve been here for well over an hour now. However, patience is a virtue, and after eight years, I’ve become one virtuous motherfucker.
Lifting my glass, I take a generous drink, almost downing the damn thing in one mouthful. I have no doubt it’s bootleg Beluga vodka. Probably shipped straight from Siberia in unmarked crates and unloaded on a deserted shipping dock in the middle of the night. The kind that goes down like water and sneaks up on you like a fucking ninja.
Like her.
She’s on stage again. I don’t want to react to her. I’m doing everything I can to look anywhere else, but she’s not making it easy on me. In fact, she’s making it hard.
I glance down and wince.
Very hard.
It’s not even her sultry moves or tiny G-string that has my body in an uproar. It’s the hatred. It’s buried in the wavy red hair tumbling down her back. It’s coating those full lips with bright red lipstick. It’s magnetic in the way her eyes gravitate toward mine the minute she walks on stage. I don’t believe in all that paranormal bullshit, but if ghosts walked the earth, we both just found one.
She’s not happy about it either.
Like last night, that woman senses me, or maybe it’s the threat of death igniting her fight or flight instinct. Either way, she’s already trapped. See, me and death? We’re different sides of the same coin.
A throat clears behind me. “Nikolai Garetovsky.”
Hearing my given name makes my eye twitch, and I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. Contrary to what most Americans think, not all Russian accents sound the same. Even the slightly watered down ones. They’re as distinct as birthmarks, and this one’s as pleasant as nails on a chalkboard.
“Dmitry,” I say, taking another drink.
Normally, when someone barely acknowledges your presence, it’s a good indication they want to be left alone. There’s no hidden meaning there. In fact, it’s pretty fucking cut and dry if you ask me.
Except no one asked me. Especially Sergei’s right-hand man, who drops an empty glass and a full bottle of vodka on the table before sitting next to me. “You are not welcome here, you know.”
I tighten my hold on my glass. “No, please, join me. I insist.”
“I have not seen you for many years,” he notes, pouring himself a drink while kicking his feet up on the chair in front of him. “What brings you back to Miami?”
I don’t do small talk. But, seeing as how I’ve got some time to kill, and Dmitry’s always been a stupid son of a bitch, maybe I can use both to my advantage.
“I missed your smiling face.”
He runs his tongue across his top teeth. “She does not want to see you.”
“What makes you think I care?”
Dmitry smiles. “Because you were here last night as well.”
I hold up my drink. “Beluga. It keeps a man coming back for more.” Downing what’s left, I slam the glass on the table and shift my gaze toward the stage. She’s on her knees now, straddling the pole while dipped into a gravity defying back bend. The minute she turns her eyes my way, I hold them without an ounce of mercy.
Even from ten feet away I can see her gasp, and the fear flashing across her face.
She found my gift.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t land a hit straight to my dick.
A condescending laugh diverts my attention, and I turn toward the source. Dmitry is leaning back in his chair with his thick arms crossed over his chest, and a smirk planted in the middle of his scarred face. “Stick to the vodka, Nikolai.”