Page 10 of Brutal Promise

The waitress is scantily clad in fishnet stockings and lingerie, becoming a high-class hooker and befitting the club's name. I don’t pay for sex, but I’ve seen men with their mistresses, and there’s a close resemblance between the waitresses and prostitutes. I assume that’s the point of the attire.

Knowing this is a mob-owned club, there must be rooms in the back for sexual pleasure and God knows what else. We tend to use our London clubs to move drugs and launder money. It’s the perfect environment to sell drugs under the guise of entertainment, and there are large crowds filled with millionaires and billionaires who don’t care what they spend to escape their boring lives. I like working for my family and don’t care to impress those who had everything handed to them.

Scanning the bar, my eyes return to the two stunning girls. One has blond hair and is flirting with the bartender. The other waits patiently while observing the dance floor. Something beyond her obvious beauty gets my attention. She’s dressed the part of a socialite, but I don’t believe she’s a part of that crowd.

A man approaches from her left. He’s clearly out of his league but continues just the same. He makes contact, and I see his lips moving. He is undeterred by her politely avoiding eye contact with him. The blonde is unaware some unscrupulous dude is hitting on her girlfriend and continues to suggestively nibble cherries off a toothpick.

Meanwhile, the dude looking at her friend has the posture of intimidation. His feet are planted on the floor next to her, and he inhales deeply as that is the only way he can puff out his chest. It’s like the mating season, with him showing off his dominance to impress her. Instinct tells me he’s not there to impress. He’s here to take. He wears gaudy gold rings on his right hand, and I imagine he reeks of too much cologne. She’s avoided him thus far, but she can’t any longer. As predicted, he grabs her wrist. I leap out of my chair, nearly dumping our table, and jog through the club to reach her.

“What the fuck?” Kirill says as he follows blindly one step behind me.

I reach the bar and clamp my right hand on the Russian’s arm. “Remove it or die.”

“Fuck off, kid,” he says.

Now that I’m closer, I can see his salt-and-pepper hair and unkempt beard. I cannot know who he could be without a playbook of who’s who. I doubt he’s a brigadier or a capo. My gut tells me he’s a creep with too much money. If this is a bratva club, it’s for the elite. He doesn’t fit in with the scenery.

He sticks his chin out and meets my gaze, his eyes looking like cue balls. “You got a problem?”

“I do,” I say without blinking. The first to look away admits defeat. The same rule applies to dogs. This stray dog needs to be leashed, and I’m the man to do it.

“Please,” the woman implores the man to let her go.

When he doesn’t do what the lady asks, I pull a knife out of my back pocket.

“She asked nicely. Now we do it my way,” I state in a deep calm voice before stabbing the knife into the back of the hand he’s carelessly placed on the bar.

The man now has a knife sticking out of the back of his hand. He yells again with excruciating pain as I clean my knife with a tiny napkin sitting on the bar. He relinquishes his grip on her arm, and I pull her to me as she slides off the barstool and into my arms.

Immediately, we’re surrounded by men in suits and club members.

Kirill takes his place beside me, putting distance between me and the goon. I observe other men moving our way. I’m not sure if they are with us or against us.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the head of security demands as three more security guards draw up behind him. We’re outnumbered.

“She’s mine,” I proclaim without hesitation. I feel the girl’s body stiffen against mine at the declaration. “She’s not on the market. He didn’t take the hint.”

There’s something about this beautiful stranger that makes me want to protect and possess her.

“Stand down.” Kirill gives the order, and the man in control of the club’s security nods his head once in our direction before he turns and gives commands in Russian to his henchmen to escort the man out. He’s escorted to the closest exit, and the tense situation passes.

“Thank you, you didn’t have to do that,” comes the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard, and it’s directed at me. “I would have made him leave,” she states in a tone more suited for soothing crying babies than scaring off predators.

I am impressed with her courage, and she doesn’t fear me is a plus.

Goons like the guy I just schooled prowl the streets at night, roughing up men who owe money to the bratva. By roughing up, I mean they break ribs and noses. It’s only the first step of the process, putting someone in the hospital for months or worse.

“Right, like you’re a match for a two hundred and fifty-pound Russian.” This is my dumbass retort.

I’m captivated by her pale bluish-gray eyes and the level of vulnerability in them. I’m so tall, she has to crane her neck to meet my gaze.

“Oh, my God, Dad won’t be happy if I’m involved,” her blonde friend murmurs, standing beside Kirill. “What the fuck did he want?” she asks her friend.

“I don’t know. He kind of grabbed my arm,” she replies.

“No bullets were fired. It’s no big deal,” Kirill informs her. “I’m sure he was drunk.”

“Probably,” the woman, I assume her name is Alena, states. The blonde takes her friend’s hand in hers. “Are you okay, Izzy?” She peers into her friend’s face to make sure she’s not in shock. I reluctantly relinquish my tight hold on her body, which is still pressed against mine.

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