Page 129 of Vicious Games

I climb out of the car, falling into step between my twin and my sister, and say in a low voice, “Remember, we’re here for information. No one breathes a word about Frankie. Not until I know who her parents are. Understood?”

Enzo and Stella nod as we cross the cracked pavement toward the front entrance. The bouncer steps forward before we even reach the door—broad, grim-faced, and exactly the kind of asshole who thinks he owns the sidewalk.

“Leave,” he growls. “Your kind doesn’t belong here.”

“I’m sorry…” Stella tilts her head with a sugary smile. “Did you just sayour kind?”

“Yeah. I can smell the Sicilian stench from here.”

“Oh,” she drawls, letting the word stretch as she shrugs. “You really shouldn’t have said that. I was going to do this the nice way.”

Before he has time to react, she drives her knee straight into his crotch. He grunts and folds forward, just in time for her elbow to crack down on the back of his neck. The guy collapses face-first onto the pavement with a dull thud.

Stella leans down and whispers sweetly in his ear, “Next time, remember your manners, m’kay?” And just for good measure, she kicks him in the jaw with the heel of her boot, knocking him out cold. “Shall we?” she chirps, stepping daintily over his unconscious body.

“Iwantedus to be discreet,” I mutter, chuckling. “But sure, let’s go ahead and make a grand entrance.” Enzo just sighs and follows us in.

The club hits us like a punch. With its dim lights, cigarette smoke, and throbbing bass reverberating the sticky floors, it looks like a scene out of a John Wick movie, right before mayhem ensues. Half-naked girls swing from poles like Olympic gymnasts, though most of the men around them couldn’t care less. Sure, there are a few throwing twenties as if it were confetti, but most of the men here are hunched in booths whispering something in Russian, while keeping their eyes sharp to outside danger.

“Now what?” I ask, scanning the room.

There are too many Bratva soldiers to tell who’s actually running the show.

“Now,” Enzo says, flashing a grin and sliding a hundred-dollar bill into a dancer’s garter, “we find Petrov’s brother and hope he has better manners than his bouncer.”

“I’m not sticking around here all night just to play ‘Where’s Waldo—Bratva Edition,’” Stella mutters, brushing invisible glitter off her sleeve. “This place is where hope comes to die. I swear, if body glitter touches me, I’m burning these clothes.”

“Don’t be so judgmental,” Enzo counters, handing another girl a few more hundreds. “Everyone’s entitled to make a living anyway they can.”

“Where you see a living, I see exploitation,” Stella says, snatching Enzo’s wallet and pulling out the rest of his cash. She beckons one of the dancers closer, a redhead with dead eyes and nonexistent curves. “Mind showing me where the prick who pays you minimum wage is hiding?” The dancer glances discreetly toward the back corner of the club, then nods. “Thanks, doll,” Stella says, handing her the wad of bills and turning on her heel. “Follow me.”

We trail behind her, cutting through groups of hard-faced men who glare at us as if they were already imagining how to bury our bodies.

“We better hurry,” Enzo mutters under his breath. “Before someone picks a fight.”

“Or before Stella does, you mean,” I smirk, dodging a particularly aggressive puff of cigar smoke.

We maneuver through the haze of cigarette smog and the cheap, pungent cologne of men dripping in oversized gold chains and rings that look more like brass knuckles than jewelry. By the time we reach the booth in question, I become skeptical. Sitting there is a guy who looks to be a little older than Marcello, head down, tapping away at his phone as if he’d nothing better to do than scrolling through it just to pass the time. Not exactly someone who conveys the image of a Bratva underboss.

Wait…is he playing Candy Crush?

I glance at Enzo and Stella, about to whisper that maybe the dancer got it wrong, when the guy—still focused on his game—says lazily, “Little past your curfew, isn’t it? Isn’t it a school night?”

Is this guy for real? I mean, I’ve heard stories about Mikhail Petrov. Nightmarish stories. This guy… can’t be his brother. He looks more like the punchline of a bad joke.

“We’re not here to make trouble,” I say cautiously. “We just need to ask you a few questions, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”

He finally sets the phone down, picks up a cigarette, and lights it with a gold Zippo. The flash of the flame catches the jagged scar that slices through his left eyebrow.

Okay…maybe this is the guy.

“Questions, huh?” he smirks, leaning back in the black leather seat of his booth, arms sprawled along the top like a king on his throne. “And what kind of questions would the Romanos possibly have for little old me, I wonder?” He exhales a ribbon of smoke through his nose like a damn dragon.

Yep. Definitely the guy.

I step forward, but he flicks his cigarette at me slightly, halting me in place. “Not you.Her.” He points at Stella.

Without missing a beat, she saunters forward, placing her palms on the table as she leans in, all sharp edges and fire, and asks in annoyance, “How do I know you’re even the man I’m looking for?”

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