Page 42 of Bratva Queen

But surely, she must have known this would affect me?

I sighed, swallowing my damn sensitivity and bracing myself for heartbreak, then looked right at her. The answer was in her eyes: they were piercing my soul, pleading for some kind of authentic emotion. She wasn’t trying to torture me, she was lost in the chaotic planning of a wedding that should be the most romantic time in her life, but of course, it wasn’t. I was sure that she was excited about the whole event, but maybe needed to feel truly seen, truly loved, even if only for a minute.

I let my eyes drop down and caress her. The dress truly was without any frills, and it emanated class and sophistication. It was long sleeved with the bottom spreading out around the platform at her feet. The soft, silky material draped across her chest and fell over her shoulders, curving low at the bottom of her back. The dress hugged her body naturally, sitting lightly against her skin.

It was perfect. Not sexualized, yet stunningly sexily. Not boring, but rather enticing and alluring. Oh, God, the jealousy was eating me from the inside.

If she hadn’t already stolen my heart, she would have right then. She looked gorgeous—yes—fucking exquisite and sexy as hell; but what really got to me was the fact that the dress was white. It held so much more meaning than any sexy red or black dress ever could. The white dress, trailing across the floor behind her meant she was giving herself away, and it wouldn’t be to me.

It should have been to me. She should have been mine, in another world, one where Stepan didn’t exist, where my brother didn’t fuck up, where I found Isabel and gave her the kind of life she deserved. Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to buy her a dress quite like this one, but she would have looked equally stunning to me. Because she would have been mine to hold, to touch, to kiss.

I didn’t quite know what to say without giving my true feelings away. She knew what I felt for her, but I didn’t want her to know just how much this was affecting me.

“Um… Yes,” I nodded, trying my best to speak platonically, though I was sure my eyes were giving me away. “The simplicity works for you… Because of the contrast of your dark hair and eyes… they kind of steal the show, you know?” I chuckled. “So the dress doesn’t need much… embellishment.”

I hoped I used the right words and looked straight into her eyes to make sure she understood the gist of what I was saying. I figured she did because suddenly she was blushing, the rosiness of her cheeks obvious against that creamy skin of hers. She quickly pulled her eyes away from mine—giving me some satisfaction that she, too, struggled to handle this particular moment—and nodded, looking down to touch the material again.

“Thank you, Alek…”

“Sure,” I said, then quickly got the hell out of there.

* * *

I hadthe evening off that night, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. I couldn’t take much more. Seeing her, seeing Stepan, seeing them plan their wedding and pretending not to care, I couldn’t take much more of any of it.

That whole wedding dress situation was the limit of my control.

I approached a strip club, one known as Koslov territory. Stepan had had the intelligence to stay away since announcing his engagement and upcoming wedding, but he was a frequent visitor before we went to Belarus. Needless to say, they knew me there.

My suit jacket and tie were discarded on the back seat of the car and my white sleeves rolled up my arms. I had the first few buttons of my shirt popped open. Truly, I was just trying to let loose, but I knew it allowed my chest tattoos to peek out, and the girls liked that.

I was welcomed with a smile and pat on the back from the usually grumpy-as-fuck bouncer, whose face melted right back to intolerance when someone from the line complained about my quick entrance.

Inside, the lights were dim and the music slow, but the bass was booming through my chest. I walked in and stopped to scope the place—a bodyguard reflex—but also to decide how I was going to spend my night. In front of me was the stage, with two wings spreading out into the club, a pole at each end. Dancers were sliding down the poles, some spreading out across the stage with their legs in the air. Their movements were slow, the music enticing, and the room filled with smoke. It all screamed sex.

I scanned the room, the bar to the left was busy with customers, a boisterous bachelor’s party, a few lone men and a woman who I noticed was watching me over her shoulder. She was blonde, and leaning over the bar counter so her ass was pushed out naturally. In a more corporate type of outfit, she seemed to be a customer, though still interested in spending time with me.

I looked away. There was no appeal.

To the left was the VIP section, behind a wall—what I knew to be a darker, more salacious room than this one. I walked toward it, once again given a surprised welcome by the doorman.

“Aleksei! It’s been so long, what, more than a year, huh?” He came forward to hug me and pat my back. He wasn’t just an employee, he was an actual bratva soldier posted here to make sure only Koslov bratva men and associates entered this room.

“Nikolai,” I said warmly. The two of us had spent time together as Stepan’s personal guard a few years ago. “It’s good to see you.”

“I don’t see Stepan. Is he on his way?”

“It’s my night off,priyatel’. I’m here to, let’s say, blow off some steam.” I gave him a light smile and winked.

He laughed and grabbed my shoulder, just about pushing me into the room. “Go enjoy yourself, Alek. You deserve it. Most of all of us!” he called out as I walked through the doors and into the room.

That’s better,I thought. The room was quieter, the same slow music booming but without all of the “outsiders.” The bar counter was practically empty, there were dark booths in each corner with only two groups of men clearly talking business and having a good time, more controlled and low-key than the hooligans out there. These women, clad in lingerie, were either sitting with them, chatting sweetly, or dancing very slowly in their laps. No one was losing their minds or staring at them with creepy murderous eyes. Right in the middle of the room was one pole on a platform, with a red-haired dancer in a white-lace bodice, minding her own business as she made slow movements with her hips.

I approached the bar and nodded at the barman. “Vodka, double.”

He mutely obeyed, pouring the ice-cold liquor and setting the glass before me. He waited with the bottle in his hand—he was well trained—because I downed the first double and slid my glass forward for the next.

Just then, right on cue, the club manager approached me. “Aleksei Chernoff!” he said happily, his hands held out. We shared another hug. Like I said, Stepan frequented this place, well,frequently.

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