Page 25 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

He presses on the accelerator and the enhanced engine of the Range Rover takes us roaring down the streets.

It doesn’t take long before the High Tail is looming before us. “Go around there,” I point to an alley. “Park in the shadows.”

He puts it where I instruct, then we get out and make our way to a subtle little side entrance.

The bouncer watching the door is what you’d expect—big and slow in every direction, and not so agile between the ears, either.

“Oi,” he grunts as we approach, “front door’s that—”

I whip out my gun and press it under his throat with one hand. With the other, I withdraw a stack of hundred-dollar bills from my jacket pocket and press them into his sweaty paw.

“You have two choices here, my friend,” I breathe in his face. His piggy eyes tremble in their sockets. “You can either take this money, open the door, and forget you ever saw me. Or I can let my trigger finger slip and we’ll see what the inside of your thick skull looks like.”

He may be stupid, but he’s not stupid enough to make the wrong choice. He leaps off his stool, wrenches open the door, and bows to look at the ground.

“Smart man.”

The club is crowded well beyond capacity—on the gen pop level, at least. Up on the VIP terrace, there is space to breathe. The moment we clear the main dance floor, the smell of sweat and heat gives way to expensive alcohol and excessive perfume.

I catch sight of Connor at the same time he sees us. He jerks his chin subtly to the rounded table in the center of the terrace, then melts into the crowd.

It’s surrounded on all sides by red leather sofas and wing-backed chairs. The surface is crowded with drinks and ashtrays. A handful of bottle girls circle like vultures on the perimeter, though they’re keeping their distance while the business meeting is still in progress.

It takes me one quick scan to find Hargrove. He’s in the king’s position, all eyes on him.

“Hell of a suit,” Demyan mutters when he notices Hargrove’s gaudy, bright blue jacket. His wing-tipped shoes catch the passing strobe lights. “Fucker dresses well, I’ll give him that.”

“Tell you what,” I drawl. “Once we kill him, you can steal the outfit.”

I inch closer, finding a seat in a shadowy alcove off to the left of Hargrove’s meeting. Demyan sits down opposite me. Connor sidles up to us a moment later.

“He brought a full security detail with him, but they’re in plainclothes,” Connor informs me.

“Not surprised,” I say. “He doesn’t want to look scared, but he’s terrified. Go do a lap and see what else there is to see. Report back in half an hour.”

“Got it, boss,” he says, before vaulting over the VIP barriers and wading into the thick of the crowd.

“Hey, boys,” a flirty voice asks, breaking my focus on the back of Hargrove’s head. “What can I get you?”

The VIP section doesn’t just have a better selection of booze; it has a better selection of women, too. The girls dancing in cages down below for the civilians embody the idea of cheap thrills. Their skirts are hitched up so high you can see their sequined thongs, their bras cut so low that they barely cover the nipple. Dye jobs and plastic surgery abound, each set of tits looking faker than the ones before.

But the girls up here are a different breed.

Like the curvy brunette standing between Demyan and me. She’s wearing a black bodysuit with a deep V neckline that highlights her ample cleavage without giving too much away. Her skirt is short enough to tantalize with the promise of more.

I bet men would die for a single taste of her.

She puckers her ruby red lips at me. “I can get you a menu,” she suggests when neither of us answers her question.

Demyan brightens with the smile he uses when he’s ready to play. “A menu, hm? Are you on it?”

The girl’s lashes flutter low. “If you know where to look,” she murmurs, tracing a hand over Demyan’s collar. “I’m expensive, though. Top shelf.”

He smirks. “I have the money.”

“But not the time,” I interrupt.

Demyan gives me a glare, but then he sighs and relents. “Maybe later in the night, doll,” he says. “Until then, bring us a bottle of whiskey.”

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