Page 12 of Knocked-up Bratva Bride
Knowing Kat, I’d learned that her father owned numerous properties and assets, and likely had an entire workforce across the country. But that was all she was going to offer, fragments, and I didn’t dare prod further.
Whenever she brought him up, she gave details about him in parts while I was left to piece the puzzle together with my imagination, and in my head, the old, graying man was a powerful and angry politician who favored his wealth over his daughter.
I didn’t know him, never met him, but I already detested him for the hurt he’d caused Kat.
The club, however, left a different impression of the kind of man he could be. He had good taste in architectural structures; that much was clear.
The air smelled of rain on hot pavement, cigarette smoke, and the sharp, almost metallic scent of anticipation.
Under the velvet sky,Gipsypulsed like a living thing up ahead. Thin veins of neon light slithered and shifted across the nightclub’s façade—electric blues, deep purples, and violent pinks bleeding into one another like oil on water.
Above the door, the club’s name glowed in elegant, serif letters, fading in and out of visibility as if breathing.
Outside, a long queue of people stretched down the block, their silhouettes flickering under the rhythmic strobe of embedded floor lights.
A heavy bassthudresonated from within, syncing with the excited chatter of the restless crowd. Bouncers in tailored black suits guarded the entrance, their earpieces flashing faintly as they nodded to the selected few.
Our heels clicked against the asphalt as Kat led us past them to another section of the building with more glass walls and muffled sounds.
In the reflection of the glass entryway, the city looked distorted—darker, sharper—as if the club opened into another, stranger world.
“Pavel!” She beckoned to one of the tall men.
He came over, smiled at her, and they exchanged a brief, light-hearted conversation in Russian. He muttered something indistinct, she nodded, and he moved closer to a door I hadn’t noticed before, with a key card in hand.
One swipe, and the heavy door cracked open, unleashing rays of blinding lights and the music, which spilled out in a sudden, overwhelming rush: fractured beats, shimmering synths, and a bassline so dense it felt like it was rearranging my bones.
I was forced to squint to adjust to the lights, and I felt every thump like a physical force pressed against my chest, sliding along my skin.
Beside me, Kat squealed, raising her arms above her head, not at all flustered by the impact.
“Lena?”
“Yeah? I’m right beside you,” I shouted above the noise, and she turned to me, reaching for my hand in glee.
I followed her through the swarm of gyrating bodies as we navigated our steps toward the swamped bar. We gently shoved a few people aside and grabbed two stools.
“Isn’t this amazing?”
“We just got inside.” I laughed at her excitement and watched her lean forward to whisper into the bartender’s ears.
She pulled back and gestured with her hands between us. “Lena, Ace. Ace, Lena. Ace’s going to treat us well tonight, won’t you?”
With the way he beamed and rolled his eyes at something else she added in Russian, their familiarity stood out like a sore thumb.
He nodded toward me and set off to work, leaving me to silently brood over how sweetly cute he was. Not over the top, but attractive enough to get my attention, like Peter Pan did when I was little.
Kat faced me. “And I know we just got here, but don’t be a killjoy. Youknowit feels good to be here. In fact, it feels more than good; it’s liberating.”
The blond bartender, with colorful ink artfully sleeved up one arm, gently slid two shot glasses toward us, each with a lemon slice on the side.
Kat snatched up one and threw her head back to take a swig. I lifted mine, hissing with clenched teeth when it burned my throat.
“Shit. What is this?”
“Tequila.” Kat snickered, signaling for refills and double extra shots. “Where have you been?”
“Living under a rock.” I sucked on a lemon slice and cringed. “Obviously.”
