I slip the burgundy dress over my head and smooth it over my hips before turning to look at myself in the mirrored dressing room wall.
It’s shorter than I usually wear, even for going out, but still flowy and loose around my thighs, and sleeveless, with a deep neckline plunging into my cleavage. My hair’s slightly curled, lips painted, wrists already perfumed.
For a second, my gaze in the mirror slips past my shoulder, through the doorway from the dressing room into the bedroom.
Specifically, to the bed.
My face heats as I suck my bottom lip between my teeth.
Replays of the events of the last thirty-six hours or so spent in that bed slam into me all at once. His mouth, his hands, his cock—holy hell, his cock. My name falling from his lips, being groaned possessively against my skin.
A delicious shiver slides down my spine. Then I shake the thought off, centering myself again and leaning closer to the mirror to touch up my eyeliner.
“What are you doing?”
I flinch, jolting when I see Nico’s stepped into the dressing room too, his muscled frame dressed in black jeans and t-shirt filling the doorway.
What are you doing.
No you look nice. No wow. Not even a where are you going. Just an immediate flag of disapproval, like I’m a situation he didn’t authorize.
“I’m going out,” I say calmly, turning to face him.
His eyes flick over my hair. My makeup. My dress, my heels.
He still doesn’t compliment me.
A hollow, stupid ache rises in my chest, and I instantly hate myself for it.
We’re not a couple. He’s not my boyfriend. I’m not sure what I am to him, actually. Leverage? His fucking plaything?
A hostage with Stockholm syndrome?
When he doesn’t immediately respond, I clear my throat. “Some of the girls are going out dancing at Doomsday and invited me.”
Nico’s jaw ticks. “Some of the girls.”
“Yeah.”
“Just the girls?”
I roll my eyes. “Vaughn may or may not be there.”
I can feel the air shift, and his face darkens.
“Oh come on,” I sigh. “It’s Vaughn. I already told you, he’s like a fucking brother.”
“One that you get changed with,” Nico growls.
“It’s not something I go out of my way to have happen,” I snap. “But, yes, I’m sure at some point, I’ve changed in the same room as him. And, hello? He sleeps with men, so what the hell is the problem?”
“He doesn’t just sleep with men.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, that would be putting the ‘bi’ in bisexual.”
“That would be putting him in the fucking ground if he ever sees you naked again,” Nico snaps.
I cock a brow. “That feels super problematic.”
“What’s problematic,” he growls, stepping closer, “is anyone seeing what belongs to me. I don’t care who he fucks. I care about him, or fucking anyone, seeing what’s mine.”
“It’s a professional environment!” I snap. “We are friends and coworkers! And yes—at times—that job does include getting changed—”
“I don’t share what’s fucking mine,” Nico spits, a dark glint in his eye as he steps toward me.
I shiver when he surges closer, backing me up into the mirror. His clean, masculine scent invades my senses, making my knees weak as he plants a hand on the glass beside me and leans down, his eyes boring into mine.
“In any case, it’s a moot point,” he mutters. “You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He just shrugs.
“What, because of Vaughn? Are you fucking serious?”
“Not because of him,” he mutters. “You’re just not.”
My eyes turn angry. “Is that an order?”
He doesn’t respond.
“So, I’m your prisoner now?” I press.
“It’s not safe, Naomi.”
“Why not?”
His jaw grinds. “It just isn’t.”
“Not good enough.”
“Too fucking bad,” he snaps.
The tension echoes between us like a slammed door.
He exhales slowly and runs his hand down his face, like he’s trying to keep from exploding.
“There are parts of my world you don’t understand,” he finally mutters. “Tonight, I don’t have the patience to explain them.”
Without another word, he turns and walks back to the doorway, pausing to glance back at me.
“I have to deal with something,” he grunts. “You are not going out.”
Then he’s gone.
I hear him walk through the huge apartment, then the sound of the front door opening and closing behind him.
I stay right where I am, seething in the dressing room, trying to figure out what the fuck I am to him.
What I want to be. And why I care.
My fingers tighten at my sides. Then I turn back to the mirror, grab my clutch, and yank out my phone to order an Uber.
Because fuck him.
The second I step out of the car, the bass from inside Doomsday hits me like a punch to the chest.
The club, housed in what was once a factory in the Meatpacking District, has a reputation as a place that can get…pretty wild. It’s also popular with the underworld royalty of New York, and it’s not uncommon to see young mafia and bratva heirs downing shots of vodka and dancing the night away here.
Honestly, this place—at least its reputation—used to scare me a little. But then a couple of months ago, we came here for Lyra’s impromptu bachelorette party, and Milena and I ended up having a blast.
And now it’s made its way into “the crew’s” rotation for nights out.
“The crew” would be the usual suspects of partners in crime: Lyra, Milena, Brooklyn, Evelina, Bianca, and sometimes, if he’s not off causing mayhem somewhere else, Vaughn.
Tonight, that list is a little pared down. Bianca’s out of the hospital, but she’s still taking it easy at home. Lyra is being super lame and not coming out as often, choosing instead to stay home and do whatever it is she and Carmine do.
…Which, A, seems to keep her in amazing shape, and B, gives her lots of the same kind of bruises I’ve used half a case of concealer to cover tonight.
My phone pings with a message on my group chat just as I get to the door.
Brooklyn
NAOMI!!! Where r u? We’re all inside.
Me
Here! Just getting through security.
Brooklyn
Hurryyyy! Evie’s shitfaced.
I grin. That probably means Evelina has had all of half a cocktail. The girl’s a complete lightweight.
Evelina
Am not!! 😛 😛 😛
Milena
I’m revoking your Russian card. You’re gonna ruin our hard-earned reputation.
Lyra
LOL. Have fun ladies!
Bianca
Booooooo. Bed rest sucks 🙁
Evelina
Naaaoooommii!! Getttt in heeeeeeeeeere!!!!!!!!
I laugh as I show the bouncer my ID and step into the club.
Inside, the place is packed. Neon spills from the ceiling in tangled beams as bodies sway on the dance floor, the smell of liquor, perfume, and sweat thick in the air.
I find the girls in a roped-off VIP booth near the back. Brooklyn’s lounging with a drink in hand, wearing a periwinkle-blue dress, blonde hair piled on top of her head, eyes sweeping the crowd like she’s hunting someone. Milena is perched beside her all in black, perfectly put together as always, legs crossed and eyes passing casual judgment on everyone who walks by.
And Evelina—
I grin.
I swear, the girl is sunshine in human form.
“YAY!” she squeals as I step into the lounge area, springing from her seat and bolting over to hug me.
She’s not in pink for once, instead wearing a champagne-colored slip dress that makes her look like she floated in on a soft breeze from a fairy princess castle somewhere in the clouds.
Brooklyn whistles when she turns to see me. “Well, fuck. Look at you.”
“Damn, lady,” Milena adds, brows arching. “You look hot!”
I groan, rolling my eyes as I plop down next to them. Evelina sits down beside me and reaches for a flute of champagne, which Milena deftly pushes out of her reach.
“Hey!” Evelina pouts. “What the hell?”
“You’ll thank me tomorrow,” Milena smirks. “Somebody needs to pace you.”
Eveline sticks her tongue out and makes a face before she turns back to me. “Okay, seriously, you look incredible. That dress…” She clucks her tongue against her cheeks. “Fabulous. I love it all.”
Brooklyn eyes me, a faint grin on her lips as her gaze slides over my collarbone and neck. I squirm a little, suddenly hoping to God I used enough concealer to hide the evidence of my newly minted non-virgin status at Nico’s hands.
And tongue.
And cock.
Milena smiles curiously as she sips her cocktail and runs her eyes over me. “Hang on. You’re glowing.”
I stiffen. “Am not.”
“You…kind of are.”
I shrug, trying not to smile too hard or make a big deal. “I’ve just been… busy.”
“Right,” Brooklyn says slowly. “Busy.”
“Oh, I was totally going to ask,” Evie blurts. “How’s it been at your place, with that crazy accident up there?”
I blink. “What?”
“That five-car pileup that’s been all over the news,” Milena says, sipping her drink. “It was like a block from your place.”
I force a nod. “Oh. Right. I think I…saw some of that.”
I didn’t. Because I’ve been at Nico’s place.
In his bed.
Writhing and losing all sense of reality as his pliant little fuck toy.
They stare at me, and I swallow the heat on my face awkwardly as I lift my glass. “Anyway! What are we drinking to—”
“That’s a great dress,” Brooklyn remarks.
My brow furrows at the weird tone in her voice.
“Umm…thanks,” I say, trying to suss out why she’s looking at me so strangely. “I really love that blue on—”
“The burgundy goes well with those fucking sex marks all over you,” she cackles.
Well, there goes that grand hope.
Instantly, she, Milena, and Evie are all in my face.
“Oh. My. LORD,” Milena gushes. “She’s right! Girl, you’ve got bruises all over.”
My face heats instantly. “I do not have—”
“Oh, come on!” she laughs. “Your neck, your arms…” I yelp as she yanks my dress up an inch, showcase more purple marks on my thighs.
“Like you guys don’t get banged up at rehearsal?”
Brooklyn snorts. “Banged up? Yeah. Walking around all bow-legged like I got my insides rearranged? Not so much.”
She and Milena crack up as I curl in on myself in a ball of pure mortification.
“So?” Milena beams at me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
“So…what?”
“Details!” she giggles. “What? How? When? Where? Most importantly—”
“Who?!” Brooklyn finishes for her, loudly.
“None of your business!” I blurt.
Milena grins from ear to ear. “Which part?
“Any and all of it,” I groan.
“Here—I think you need this more than me,” Evelina says, passing me the flute of champagne she’s somehow managed to steal back from Milena. Her brows furrow in concern as her eyes sweep over me. Then she looks at our friends. “Guys, stop it. This isn’t funny.”
Brooklyn smirks. “No, no, false. This is very funny. And very intriguing.”
Evelina’s brow worries. “No, I mean…” She glances furtively at me, then looks back at the other two. “Like, abuse isn’t a joke.”
I frown. “Hold on, what?”
Eveline shifts a worried look to my thigh, pointing to the bruise from Nico’s thumb visible as my dress rides up a little. “Naomi, is someone hurting you?”
Oh. My. God.
For a second, there’s stunned silence. Then Brooklyn loses it, snorting a laugh and cackling as she falls backward across the booth seat.
“Oh, sweet, sweet Evie,” Milena sighs, a sympathetic grin on her face as she turns and lays a hand on Evelina’s shoulder. “Honey, when a boy and a girl have funny feelings for each other, and they want to express those feelings physically—”
“Sometimes a girl just wants her hair yanked and her ass spanked!” Brooklyn crows.
My face turns bright red. Poor Evelina’s might be even worse. Her jaw drops, her eyes bulging wide as she turns to stare at me. “Oh,” she croaks, her mouth snapping shut. “Oh, okay…” she mumbles. “Yeah, I… I get it now.”
“Love ya, Evie,” Milena giggles, hugging our shocked friend.
“No one is hurting me,” I murmur quietly, leaning in close to her. “But thank you for the concern. Really.”
“Okay, but now you really have to tell us who the hell you’re banging,” Milena declares..
“Woah, Naomi is fucking someone?!”
God. Fucking. Dammit.
Of course, this is exactly the moment Vaughn chooses to make his grand entrance, bearing a tray of shots with a few of his crew in tow.
“No, she is not,” I mumble as the guys crash our table while Vaughn hands out the shots.
I know most of Vaughn’s male friends—James and Miguel dance with us at the Zakharova, of course, Tate was once his roommate maybe, and Zion is a former-slash-current-slash-who-even-knows fuck buddy. Emphasis on “buddy”. But also emphasis on “fuck”.
“Cheers!”
Everyone clinks their shots together before downing them. I wince at the vodka burn but get it down before we all slam the glasses back onto the table.
“WOO!”
Milena groans as we glance over at Evie.
“Dude…” She gives Vaughn a dark look. “Did you seriously just feed her a shot of vodka? That’s like giving a four-year-old a Snickers bar right before bedtime.”
Vaughn chuckles. “Nah, she’s good…right, Evie-cakes?”
“I wanna daaaance!”
He grins widely as he turns back to Milena. “See? She’s great!”
Milena sighs but then gets sucked into a conversation with Miguel and James. Tate, who shamelessly hits on Brooklyn every time they cross paths, gets right to it. Brooklyn has no interest whatsoever: Tate is nice enough, but he’s also a total trust-fund douchebag who doesn’t work and just sort of…exists.
Just as I’m about to dive in to try and save her, I hear a throat being pointedly cleared beside me.
I turn to see Vaughn eying me with a hound-dog grin on his face.
“What?”
“Don’t fucking what me,” he snorts. “So?”
I shrug. “So….what?”
He rolls his eyes. “Finally went out and got some dick?”
I make a face. “Gross. Don’t put it like that.”
He chuckles. “But you did?”
I suck my lip between my teeth and take a quick sip of my drink. “Maybe,” I mumble.
He laughs, wrapping an arm over my shoulder. “Was it good?”
My face simmers. “No comment.”
His grin widens. “Yeah that’s a yes.” His brow arches. “And I can assume this dick belonged to the dickhead I got into that dust-up with behind the theater the other day?”
“Definitely no comment,” I groan.
Vaughn is gracious enough to let that one slide.
“Was he an asshole?”
I shake my head.
“And you had a good time?”
I bite down hard on my lip as I start to smile.
“Any regrets?”
I quickly and subtly shake my head side to side again.
Vaughn hugs me a little tighter. “Well then, a cheers is in order! You got laid, it was good, you don’t regret it.” He taps his beer to my champagne flute. “That’s what we call a fucking win, baby girl. And all’s well in the universe.”
We’re a few more rounds in and officially tipsy when Evelina’s face suddenly falls.
“Oh, great,” she mutters, ducking her head and trying to look invisible.
“What?” I ask, leaning in.
“My brother just got here.”
I follow her gaze to where Roman Nikitin is cutting through the crowd. He’s dressed in a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up halfway, black slacks, and his dark hair is slightly messed up in an “I have money” style.
There’s an energy in the way he moves through the club, his eyes sweeping the place, like he’s a storm that’s already made peace with the idea that it’s about to destroy something.
“What’s so bad about your brother?” Miguel asks, frowning as he leans in.
“He just likes to ruin my night,” Evelina grumbles, crossing her arms. “He probably heard I was out and decided I need a babysitter.”
“You do need a babysitter,” Brooklyn says with a smirk as I bite back a laugh.
Roman makes his way toward the velvet-roped VIP area we’re sitting in, flanked by several men. One of them, all lean muscle and sharp cheekbones, lifts a hand in greeting to one of the bouncers standing by the entrance. I don’t know-know the guy, but I recognize him as Bane Antonov, whose father Nikolai runs the Antonov Bratva, which sits at the Iron Table with Evie and Roman’s father, Pavel.
Beside him, arms covered in Bratva ink and an unlit cigarette in his way too perfect lips, is Laz Kislev, whose father runs the Kislev Bratva, which answers to Bane’s father. Also with them is Mikhail Javanović, blue eyes glinting even in the low light of the club, his dark hair messed up in this devilishly perfect way that almost makes it look like he’s got horns like a bull curling out of his tangles.
Wow, I really have been friends with Evelina and Milena for a while if I can place all the guys who enter with Roman.
There’s two major power blocs in the Bratva world: the Iron Table, which includes Evelina and Roman’s dad as well as Bane’s father, and the Bratva High Council, which Milena’s father Marko sits on with Anastasia Javanović. From what I hear, she’s one of the very few female Bratva heads out there. She’s also Mikhail’s aunt.
I’ve never actually figured out if the two Bratva power blocs get along or not. But their kids seem to get along just fine, at least in social situations.
I also spot Korol Duvnitsky, second-in-command in the Reznikov-Tsarenko Bratva, which also sits at the Bratva High Council.
I’d mention that Korol has hit on me relentlessly on the one or maybe two times we’ve crossed paths, but I’m also pretty sure Korol hits on anything that moves.
But it’s the last guy that steps past the velvet ropes into the VIP area, a glass of whiskey in his tattooed hand, that makes me tense up: Nero De Luca, relatively new head of the De Luca Italian mafia family.
We’ve also crossed paths briefly before, and he’s always got this feral, volatile sort of dark energy to him, like he does right now. Constantly pacing and moving, or cracking his tattooed knuckles, or absently tapping and tracing a finger down one of the scars on his tattooed, muscled arms.
Honestly, the man seems to breathe violence and malice. But that’s not what has me stiffening when he walks toward us.
…It’s the fact that I know he’s friends with the Barone brothers.
My stomach twists.
And if he’s here…
My eyes sweep the floor, the booths, the shadows, bracing myself to spot Nico lurking there, glaring at me for having dared defy him.
But I see nothing, and a shiver of relief slides down my spine.
“I need to dance,” Evelina says, grabbing my hand. “Before my brother decides I’ve had enough fun for one night.”
“Excellent idea,” I blurt, lurching to my feet. Brooklyn and Milena join us as we spill onto the dance floor, whooping it up as the crowd thickens around us—thumping music, bodies swaying, hands raised.
I let it wash over me, dulling the edges of my thoughts. My skin hums, nerves on fire, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
But then we get separated, and suddenly I’m not with my friends anymore. I can’t even see them. I’m not panicked or anything, but I turn, trying to push my way through the crowd to find them again.
Someone brushes against my hip as the crowd of surging dancers sways around me. I freeze when a hand glides up my arm, sending a shiver down my spine.
It’s the scent that hits me first—leather and smoke. Clean and masculine.
Heat floods my body.
Panic. Thrill. Shame.
Want.
My breath stutters as Nico’s lips brush against my ear.
“I told you to stay put.”
