Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (2 page)

F
rom backstage
, I hear Violet and Mackenzie's last song end. That's my cue—I'm up next. The boss here, Igor, doesn't tolerate more than two minute intervals with an empty stage. Empty stages mean empty wallets, he says. And the first lesson the girls learn here is not to make Igor mad.

Around me in the dressing room, four or five other girls lean into the mirrors, batting their eyelashes and dabbing at their faces as they apply makeup. The room smells crusty and stale, the dusty wood flooring covered in colorful splashes of dried nail polish that's sunk in far too deep to ever come out. The room is stagnant, like our lives.

I dig around in my purse and withdraw a small orange pill bottle. I try to be discreet as I open it. No one here blinks twice at drug use, but I'm still embarrassed to be seen popping these. It's shameful, but there's no other way to get through this life. The opiates numb the pain, make everything feel okay. Doctors would call me a functioning addict.

I extract a couple pills and swallow them down with a swig of gin and tonic.

A minute later, Violet and Mackenzie emerge through the stage entrance and I prepare to head out. Mackenzie, who's my only real friend here, gives me a wistful smile as we pass each other. She's got the most beautiful blonde locks, and curves that men would fight a war over. I wish I were as beautiful as her.

Like me, Mackenzie's got a story. She used to be somebody, then she needed money… and the rest is history.

"Have fun out there, babe," she says. "You missed a show."

"You're always magnificent, sugar tits," I say to her with a weak smile.

"Not me, silly," she says with a laugh. "They kicked out a couple meatheads. It was hot."

I muster a giggle. "Stay away from the help," I scold her. "Which one?" I add, trying not to sound too interested.

"Vlady," she says with a giggle.

"Oh, yeah," I say. I feel weird hearing her talk about him that way. "Totally." Havok
is
hot, and all the girls know it. But for Mackenzie and the others, he's just a piece of eye candy.

For me, he's much more. An anchor, a light beacon in the darkness. And that's something I could really use tonight.

I exit the dressing room, push the curtains aside, and step onto the main stage.

When I first started this gig, stepping out onto the stage was a real thrill. The warmth of the stage lights hitting my body, the reactions of the customers, stripping my clothes off for strangers who worshipped my body. It was actually kind of flattering, and I almost felt like a rock star.

Now it's a constant battle just to tolerate the work.

Except for nights like tonight, when the first thing I see is
him
. The man Mackenzie and the others call Vlady, the man I call Havok.

For some crazy reason, all my worries fade when I see him. He's always standing in the exact same spot like a guardian statue, the dark light casting beautiful shadows against his high cheekbones, broad shoulders, and thick messy hair. It's almost unfair how much better-looking he is than all the other men that set foot in this club.

The club is actually crowded tonight, but all the other faces go out of focus. Havok and I briefly lock eyes as I grab onto the pole and swing around it, starting my first song. Then he looks away.

But I know he's still watching. At least, that's what I tell myself, because it makes this all tolerable.

Tonight, I'm going to free my mind from its shackles, and I'm going to dance for him and him alone. I'll take my clothes off, and he can help undress me with his eyes. If he wants.

But after my shift, I'll go home to Brock, and Havok will go home to wherever he goes home to, and nothing will happen.

It's just what we do
, I think as I hoist myself onto the pole and flip upside down. I unclasp the hook on my bra, letting it fall off my body.

I look right into his eyes, and I swear he looks back at me, if just for a moment.

* * *

I
clock out early
, at one-thirty in the morning. We've got plenty of dancers tonight, and I earned well already—about $250, which should be enough to spare me from Brock's next beating. I count my exact earnings backstage. It's what I do after every shift, before changing back into my street clothes and leaving through the club's back exit. I've still got a good buzz going, so for the time being, I'm as content as I ever tend to be these days.

I'm standing at my locker, entering the combination, when someone steps up to the locker beside me.

It's Havok. When I recognize him, my body gets a little melty, and my brain feels even more scrambled than usual.

I lock my neck, staring straight ahead. My skin prickles, my nipples hardening under my lingerie. God, no other man does this to me with his mere presence.

I forget where I was with the combination, and have to start over. Then I mess up
again
, and I'm still fumbling with the lock while Havok's already got his locker wide open.

I must look really flustered, because he turns his head and cocks an eyebrow. "You got the right locker?"

I flush, staring straight ahead at the dial, trying to activate my muscle memory to get the thing open. He probably thinks I'm the one behind the recent string of thefts in the locker room. "Yeah," I say.

He side-eyes me, appearing unconvinced, and then turns back to his own locker, rummaging around inside. What am I supposed to say? 'I'm distracted because I'm standing next to the most handsome man I've ever seen?'

What I do next surprises even me. I'd never normally have the courage for it. But for some reason I do it anyway.

I put a hand on his arm.

"Could you… help me with this?" I say. I don't know what I'm doing. I guess I just want to interact with him.

He stops rummaging, and looks down at my hand like it's an alien creature. Then his eyes move up to mine, expressionless.

My stomach sinks a little, and I let my hand awkwardly slide off his arm, feeling like I've violated his personal space. But it's so thick and hard under his jacket, and I can't help wondering what his bare skin would feel like, my fingers running through the hair on his strong, masculine arms.

Yeah, I'm definitely buzzed right now.

He studies me a moment longer, his dark green eyes penetrating me completely. Then he reaches in his pocket, pulls out a keychain, and opens my locker using the key override.

We don't usually get this close, and in fact, I can't remember the last time we came within an arm's length of each other.

"Thanks," I say. We each turn back to our own lockers. He doesn't reply.

Normally, after a shift I just pull my street clothes over my stage lingerie and change when I get home. But today, I don't have that option. I'm wearing a feathered, lacy two-piece. It wasn't cheap, and wearing anything over it would destroy it.

My heart pounding, I reach behind my back and unclasp my bra, freeing my breasts. I hurriedly slide my lace panties off, bending at the knees to try to preserve some modesty. The air feels cold against my naked body, and goosebumps fly over my skin. Even though I strip in front of strangers for a living, being naked next to Havok sends a thrill rolling over my spine, a feeling of excitement I haven't felt since I was a teenager.

I reach into my locker to grab a sports bra and cotton boyshorts. I try not to look at him while I slide my underwear on, but I can't help it. I just can't keep my eyes off his dark, rough, stubbled cheeks. The way his hair rests, swept behind his ears.

And as I slip into my underwear, I swear I see him stealing a glance at my body out of the corner of his eye.

My breathing fast and shallow, I finish dressing. Then I grab my purse, slam my locker closed, and duck out of the back exit into the cold, dark night.

G
oddamn
. My hard cock strains against my pant leg as I watch her slide on her panties out of the corner of my eye. She's bare-naked, an arm's length away from me, and I can smell her perfume. It's like cinnamon and fresh summer flowers. I have to summon all my willpower not to turn my head and ogle that gorgeous, perky body.

There's nothing more I'd love than to lock the door, crush our bodies together, and take her right here and now. I know she wants me. I know how fucking sopping wet her little pink pussy is for me. I'm not stupid.

But she's a good girl. Too good for a killer like me. No matter how rock hard she makes me, I won't let myself touch her. I can't. If I do, she'll end up just like Irina. I fucking know she will, because death is never far behind me.

One time, right after Irina died, I went to a shrink in Moscow. Sounds like a joke now, but I really did it. Thought he might be able to fix my head. He said to me, try to unfuck your brain, son. Figure out all this shit so it doesn't mindfuck you anymore. And come to terms with what happened to your parents, too, because they're not coming back either.

But as it turned out, the more twisted up my brain got, the better a killer I became, so I stopped going. I learned to quash my emotions, to harness the darkness, to make it work for me. I embraced it. And now, my guilt overrides everything. Everything except my lust for Penny.

But I won't put her in danger. I
won't
. That will be my salvation, for as little as it's worth.

So I keep my eyes glued to my locker, my eyes straight ahead. When she comes onto me, I shut her down hard. Women throw themselves at me everywhere I go, and I just laugh in their faces. But with Penny, it takes all my self-discipline to deny her. And by the time she's dressed and out the door, my cock is throbbing and aching with need. The kind of need that manifests as a brutal, urgent craving to fill all the holes in her body.

I try to clear my head as I collect my things and leave the club. There's a Bratva meeting at 2 a.m. sharp, nineteen minutes from now, and it's a mile by foot. They'll have my head on a platter if I'm late.

* * *

T
he chilly West Ark
night air nips my ears as I plod down the sidewalk, and the colorful neon store signs reflect off the dirty rain puddles. I always enjoy late-night walks. No one fucks with me on the street, and it gives me a chance to have some thoughts to myself.

Tonight, I hope the fall night breeze will blow the thoughts of Penny out of my brain. But of course, it doesn't.

I'm still thinking of her at one-fifty-eight when I arrive at my destination, an old run-down Russian restaurant and grocery called the White Bear. Bells jingle on the door as I push it open, and a welcome warmth surrounds me. Inside, the store is brightly lit, with a food counter and shelves stacked high with authentic Russian food, spices, and goods.

I force Penny out of my brain for now, as best I can. I have to focus.

Grigory, the white-haired senior mafia man in West Ark, sits behind the counter. He used to be a hitman like me in his youth. Now, he calls the shots and runs the store as a way to pass the time, selling snacks and trinkets until he fucking croaks.

Of course, at two o'clock in the morning there aren't any customers in the store. The White Bear is open for a different kind of business right now.

"
Privet
," says Grigory, greeting me.

Tipping my head to him, I walk past the food counter and down a hallway toward the restrooms in the back. But instead of going to the little boys' room, I turn the corner and open a door to a descending stairwell, then go down.

* * *

T
he room is
small and cramped, lit only by a couple bulbs chained to the ceiling. The aroma of vinegar and fermented vegetables wafts through the air, and I see the guys huddled around the table are eating herring and sour cream on rye flatbread. A Russian staple.

Everyone's here: Petrov, the bald, lanky
pakhan
, or boss. He's Grigory's right-hand man. Igor, the manager of this club who I don't fucking trust. And Valentin and Luka. My two loyal brothers-in-crime who I've known since I was a cub.

"Havok," says Petrov. "Sit. We starting." His English is no good.

I take a seat next to Luka, across from Igor and Valentin. Petrov stands at the head of the table. That fucking hard-on that Penny gave me has finally gone down, and good thing, too, or I might have accidentally stabbed Luka in the eye in this goddamn cramped basement. And he's such a burly son of a bitch that I wouldn't have cared to see the outcome of that.

"First order of business, drugs," says Petrov. He doesn't mince words. "Valentin. Has shipment reached Port Bellevue?"

"
Da
," replies Valentin. "This morning. West Ark's about to drown in white powder," he says with a charismatic grin. Valentin is damn near the opposite of Luka. While Luka is big and thick, Valentin is wiry and chiseled with a square jaw, a handsome blonde son of a bitch who runs the fucking drug trade in this town. The man drowns in fucking pussy. Hell, so does Luka, when he can be convinced to take his mind off money for a damn minute.

Petrov smiles, pleased. "Excellent. Luka—the plates?"

"On the boat right now, boss," says Luka, puffing on a cigar. His dark hair is slicked back, his suit perfect, concealing hundreds of pounds of muscle. He runs our money laundering, counterfeiting, and other financial operations, and he looks the part.

This time I grin, recalling the nighttime raid when we stole a batch of hundred dollar plates from the Delaware mint. Luka drowned a couple guards in a fish tank, and saved my ass from being shot in the back. It was really one for the storybooks. Now we're shipping the plates back to Moscow where they'll be put into the hands of the Bratva's expert counterfeiters.

"You were fucking beautiful that night," I say to Luka, reaching out to pinch his cheek. He snorts with laughter and slaps my hand away.

"Touch me again, and I'll saw your balls off," he says, and everyone erupts in laughter.

"Very good," says Petrov, wiping a tear of laughter off his cheek. "And Havok, Mr. Vittorio?"

Vittorio was my last target, that Italian bastard. He was pushing his drug dealers up into our territory, right up until I slit his throat. Just three nights ago, he was enjoying the high life on one of his yachts in the West Ark bay. Now, he's enjoying the bottom of the bay along with the catfish and other sea creatures. Permanently.

I make a slicing motion against my throat with my hand. "Junked," I say. Valentin snorts, stifling a laugh, and Petrov nods. Petrov hated that fucker.

"Outstanding." He motions toward a canvas bag leaning against the wall, and nods his head at me. "Twenty-five grand, no sequential. Yours." My payment for sending Mr. Vittorio on his final voyage.

Shit, I'd do it again for free, just for another chance to see the way the bubbles poured out of his mouth as he sunk to his death. It was like he was trying to single-handedly carbonate the entire bay. Fucker not only stole our profits, he hurt and maimed legions of innocent people. He got exactly what he deserved.

Finally, Petrov turns to Igor. "Last business tonight. The new operation?"

I cock my eyebrow and exchange glances with Luka and Valentin. For the last few months, Grigory and Petrov have had Igor working some kind of mystery operation that we aren't privy to. And something about it sets off alarm bells inside me. I don't fucking like it at all, but what the hell am I supposed to do? In the Bratva, we follow our orders, and we don't bitch.

Still, I fucking hate the bastard being around Penny at all, especially when it involves some kind of mystery job. I can't stand the thought of her in danger, especially after tonight. She's still on my mind, and I can't get her off of it.

Igor smiles, showing his crooked, yellowed teeth. "It's going perfect, boss."