Page 13 of Ruthless Daddies

She bites her lip, and for a brief, charged moment, I think she might say something equally daring, something that would give me the excuse I need to pull her even closer. But before she can respond, movement catches my eye, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Ivan.

He’s standing a short distance away, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on us, and even from here, I can see the faint crease in his brow, a look of unmistakable irritation.

I straighten, clearing my throat and stepping back just enough to put a more respectable distance between Alice and me. The last thing I need is for Ivan to get the wrong idea.

“Well, I’d hate to keep you from your work,” I say, handing over Mila to her.

She just manages to nod as my fingers brush against her, shooting thrills down my spine. Something tells me she isn’t as unaffected by me as she tries to show.

As she heads back toward the house, I let out a slow breath, and the heat from just that brief moment lingers.

I glance back to where Ivan is still standing, watching me with a look that’s anything but friendly.

6

DMITRI

Istep into the low-lit haze of our Manhattan club, Nebula, and the familiar wave of music hits me first—a deep, bass-heavy beat that reverberates through the floors and straight into my chest. The crowd pulses along with it, bodies moving in sync, a sea of dark silhouettes illuminated by flashes of blue and purple lights cutting through the smoke. It’s loud, packed, and reeks of everything I despise—sweat, cheap cologne, and the faint, underlying stench of desperation.

The place is one of our most profitable ventures, a constant stream of cash flowing in from the city’s elite who come here looking for an escape. From the outside, Nebula looks like any other exclusive nightclub in Manhattan—neon lights, velvet ropes, a line of people begging to get inside. But behind the curtains, it’s more than just a place to dance and drink. It’s a hub of information, a meeting point for those who operate in the shadows, and a place where deals are made under the guise of hedonism.

I nod at the bouncers as I make my way through the VIP section, ignoring the clinking of glasses and flirtatious laughter that fillsthe air. Waitresses in sleek black dresses weave through the tables, carrying trays laden with bottles of champagne, vodka, and every other poison that keeps the patrons here spending more than they intend.

Alcohol has never interested me. I’ve watched it dull too many minds, seen too many men lose their edge and spill secrets they shouldn’t. I prefer to keep my wits about me, especially in a place like this. It’s all too easy to let your guard down, to get swept up in the haze of alcohol and sex and forget that every corner of this room has ears.

I settle into a corner booth, giving myself a good view of the room. The music is a steady, pounding rhythm, and the floor is packed with people—writhing bodies, faces tipped back in laughter, lost in their own little worlds. It’s a carefully curated chaos, and it’s profitable as hell. Nikolai’s influence, mostly. He’s the one who knows how to draw people in, keep them entertained, keep them coming back for more.

But tonight, I’m not here to enjoy the ambiance. I’m here to observe.

My eyes scan the room, picking up on the familiar faces—the regulars who pay for their VIP access and the ones who slip in quietly, looking for a private corner where they can discuss business under the cover of darkness.

My contacts have told me there’s been an unusual amount of interest in our operations lately. Someone’s watching us, making moves where they shouldn’t be. And that’s why I’m here tonight—to see who’s stupid enough to try something on our turf.

A waitress approaches, smiling at me with a practiced, sultry look. She leans closer, her perfume strong and sweet, the neckline of her dress dipping low. “Drink, Mr. Morozov?”

I give her a polite smile but wave her off. “No, thank you.”

She pouts, clearly disappointed, but moves away when she realizes she won’t be getting a big tip tonight. I watch her go, noticing how she stops to chat with a man near the bar, whispering something in his ear before glancing back at me.

Interesting.

The man she’s speaking to is new, someone I don’t recognize. He’s dressed like he belongs here—expensive suit, hair slicked back—but there’s something off about him. He’s not relaxed like the others. He’s watching the room, just like I am.

I lean back, feigning disinterest, but keep him in the corner of my eye. He’s either here for business, or he’s the kind of fool who thinks he can play games on our turf. Either way, he’ll find out soon enough that this isn’t a place for amateurs.

The music shifts, the beat slowing down slightly, a heavier rhythm taking over as the lights dim further. The crowd presses closer together on the dance floor, couples swaying, hands roaming. It’s the kind of scene that would have Nikolai grinning, slipping into the crowd with that easy charm of his. But it’s lost on me. I’ve never had the patience for it.

As the man by the bar glances in my direction again, I feel the familiar, quiet surge of adrenaline. It’s a subtle thing, the awareness that something’s off, that I’m being watched. I give nothing away, though, keeping my expression neutral, letting him think he’s going unnoticed.

Amateurs.

I glance over my shoulder, catching the eye of one of our security guys, Sergei’s protégé. I give him a quick, subtle nod, and he melts into the crowd, heading toward the bar to deal with our new friend.

The game is simple—find out who he is, what he wants, and make sure he leaves with a message. You don’t come into our place and make moves without us knowing. It’s a lesson too many people seem to forget.

I settle back into the booth, ignoring the flashing lights and pounding music, my eyes still scanning the room. The man at the bar shifts, stiffening as our security approaches him. He glances at me one last time before turning away, realizing too late that he’s made a mistake.

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