Page 44 of Say My Name

I park my car and cross the lot, holding an umbrella up to shield the chilly rain pouring down on me. When I step inside the club, a girl takes my name.

She leads me past the multitude of people screaming at the cage in the center of the club. Two men kick each other’s asses inside the ring, while the crowd cheers on the bloodshed. A soft lavender glow illuminates the space, and the bartenders move at lightning speed to keep up with the gobs of people spilling over the edge, trying to get a drink.

I follow the blonde up a winding staircase, past a VIP rope, until she stops at a horseshoe-shaped booth with Yuri sitting dead center, all his weight spilling over his belt. Yuri’s a big man, weighing well over three hundred pounds, reeking power behind his evil smile. The top of his balding head reflects the low lighting of the club, and he’s wearing a black suit with a white scarf draped over his shoulders, like some modern-day Marlon Brando.

He’s got two brunettes flanking each side and a few men standing nearby, obviously his bodyguards.

The blonde walks away, and Yuri’s dark eyes meet mine.

“Devereaux, have a seat.” His heavy Russian accent makes it hard to understand on a good day, but the fact he’s piss-ass drunk makes it even harder.

“Thanks, Yuri.” He tells the women to leave, and I slide into the plush white booth.

From this vantage point, you can see the entire club and have front-row seating to the fight happening down below.

“See the man in the yellow trunks?” Yuri slurs, bringing his fat finger to point at the two men in the cage.

I spot the man with dark hair and a mean right hook. “Yeah.”

“I’ve got fifty G’s riding on that motherfucker. If he loses”—he lets out a sickening laugh—“let’s just say he doesn’t win in life either.”

He doesn’t need to spell out that the man in yellow trunks is down there fighting for his life right now.

I nod. “Ah, ok.”

“I saved him from a situation in my country, and the motherfucker owes me.” He glances at one of his guards. “Call the girl over here to get Mr. Huxley a drink.” He turns to face me, leaning in. “Sorry for being so rude.”

I shrug. “It’s fine. I’ll have a Glenfiddich 30.”

A short, black-haired woman hurries over and Yuri relays my drink request. As she leaves, he leers at her ass.

“I think I might take her home tonight,” he says to me.

I deal with men like Yuri a lot. Not all of them mob bosses, but all cut from the same chauvinist-pig cloth.

I switch gears. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

He gives me an apologetic look, his jowls sagging. “I’ve been busy with my empire. I had to go to Russia to oversee a few things.”

My drink arrives, and I take a sip. “See your sons all the time.”

“Ah, are they causing trouble again? I swear, I spoiled them too much when they were little.” He barks out a laugh. “I apologize for them. Let me know how much I owe you.”

“They haven’t caused any damage to anything.”

“Then why are you here?” His saggy face grows serious, like he’s sobered up in the past two seconds.

“Have you seen the news? A few of my Greedy Girls were murdered.”

Understanding dawns on his old features. “And you want to see if I know anything about it?”

“Do you?”

“I wish I could give you something, my friend, but I know nothing.”

I swirl my liquor, letting the ice cubes clink together as I study Yuri, determining if he’s telling the truth. Yuri may be a member at my club, but that doesn’t mean I trust the asshole. “Mm,” I say before I take another swallow. “I don’t have to remind you I can bring down your entire empire with one phone call, right?”

Yuri’s head rears back, like I’ve slapped him across the face. “Devereaux, if I knew anything, I’d tell you.”

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