Her eyes are on the floor again, every inch of her rigid.
She’s terrified.
His expression is relaxed, casual, a slight smile on his lips, like her fear amuses him. No idea what he could be saying. He’s not yelling, but the longer this goes on, the more the woman looks like she might collapse under the weight of his words.
After a moment, Aristov flicks the woman’s cheek so hard she winces, her head tilting up, her eyes meeting his. He says something else, and she nods, before he turns, motioning for the bartender to give him a golden-colored bottle from behind the bar.
Appleton Estates. Jamaica Rum. I can see the label as Aristov approaches, dragging the waitress along with him. He stops beside the table, in my line of sight, his hand shifting from the waitress’s waist to clutch the back of her neck.
“I’m sorry,” she says, forcing a smile, although tears brim her eyes. “I hope you can forgive me. It’ll never happen again. I promise.”
Promises. I hate promises.
People break them all the goddamn time.
I nod, because I’m not sure what to say to that. What I want to say will probably only make everything worse for her, and it seems like she’s having a rough enough time without my help.
“Rum,” Aristov says, holding the bottle out to me. The outside of it is dusty, the bottle still sealed. “I must confess, we do not sell much here. We specialize in vodka, only the best, straight from Russia.”
I take the bottle from him.
Aristov leans over, pressing a kiss to the waitress’s temple before whispering, “Go to my office, suka.”
Her head lowers, and as soon as Aristov lets go of her neck, she scurries through the club, out of sight. Aristov lingers, his eyes on me as I crack open the bottle, bringing it to my lips.
“On the house, everything,” Aristov says. “All of you. Enjoy.”
My guys, they celebrate, but I just sit here, still sipping rum while they scatter, wasting no time now that it’s free. Cheapskates.
“Join me for a drink in my office?” Aristov asks, raising his eyebrows.
I shrug as I stand up. What the hell? “Lead the way.”
His office is toward the back of the club, a small room behind a two-way mirror. He can see out, watching everything, but nobody can see in. The waitress stands inside, in the center of the room, hands clasped together in front of her.
It’s not an office in the traditional sense of the word. It looks more like a typical studio apartment in New York. Leather couches surround a square table, a small private bar opposite the door with liquor bottles on it. Vodka. Above that is a loft, a white ladder leading up to it. I don’t even have to take a guess why there’s a bed in his office.
The lighting is soft, the walls white, with a red Persian rug covering part of the marble floor.
After shutting the office door, Aristov snatches up one of the bottles. He guzzles some of the liquor as he approaches the waitress, eyes meticulously scanning her before looking at me. His free hand grasps the back of her neck again, yanking her by it, turning her my direction. She whimpers, closing her eyes. “She is stupid, this one, but she is pretty, and there is nothing she cannot handle, if you would like to try her.”
“She’s not really my type,” I say.
“Oh? What is your type?”
“The type that doesn’t cower from me in fear.”
Aristov laughs. “Ah, do those type of women exist? Most are afraid of their own shadows.”
I don’t entertain that with an answer.
He drags the waitress over to one of the couches, sitting and tugging her in front of him, shoving her down on her knees. He unbuckles his pants, not saying a word, and grabs her by her hair, pulling her face onto his lap as he pulls his dick out right in front of me.
The woman takes him into her mouth without putting up any sort of fight, and he lets out an exaggerated sigh as he smiles lazily, seeming damn pleased with himself.
Look, I’m not an idiot. This isn’t my first day on the job, if you know what I mean. I know he’s asserting his dominance or spraying his territory or whatever alpha male bullshit move you want to chalk this up to, a figurative pissing contest because I’m a rival lion who entered his den. So I get it, but the thing is, he doesn’t know me. He’s thinking this show will get under my skin, that it’ll make me uncomfortable, that I’ll cower, but that’s not happening.
I told Scarlet he didn’t scare me.
I meant that shit.
I will whip my cock out and measure that son of a bitch, right here, right now, if he pushes me. In the figurative sense, of course. Literally, my cock is staying right where it is.
“You sure you do not want a taste?” he asks, nodding his head toward the waitress blowing him. “You could fuck her. I do not mind. She squeals like a little piggie when you fill her up.”
“I appreciate it, but I’m not fucking any of your women.”
Or, well, hell, I might be.
I don’t know.
I’m still fuzzy on his history with Scarlet.
But regardless, as far as I’m concerned, she’s not his. She’s not Amello’s, either. She doesn’t belong to either of those assholes.
Strolling over to the couch across from him, I sit down, relaxing back, sipping straight from the bottle of rum, not bothering to avert my eyes. Looking away toes a lie of cowering that I’m not even coming close to crossing.
I think he realizes it, that I’m not like the others he deals with. He could slit that woman’s throat and I wouldn’t flinch. I don’t have it in me to flinch. He stops prolonging things, gripping the back of her head and shoving her down, making her gag, as he bucks his hips a few times, fucking her face until he spills down her throat.
As soon as he’s done, he yanks her away. “Get back to work.”
She runs from the room, shutting the door behind her. Aristov tucks himself back away, narrowed eyes fixed on my face. If anything, I think I’m ruffling him.
“Is there a reason you have come here?” he asks. “Since it seems to not be the appeal of my women, it must be the appeal of me, no?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type, either.”
He shrugs, chugging more vodka. “I do not cower.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“You have heard?” He raises his eyebrows. “Earlier this week, you said you did not know me.”
“I didn’t,” I say. “Kinda got curious when you busted into the club, spewing bullets, so I asked around. Led me here.”
“So it was the appeal of me.” He laughs, drinking some more, damn near finishing off the entire bottle in just a few minutes. How the fuck does he still have a functioning liver?
Hell, maybe he doesn’t.
Maybe that’s why he’s after Scarlet.
Maybe he needs a transplant.
Maybe they’re compatible.
I shrug, because in a roundabout way, what he says is true. I came because I had a sneaking suspicion I’d find Scarlet’s problem here. “Like you said, you don’t cower. Most people do. I’ve been in the city for a while, and I keep finding little boys who only talk the talk. So when I encounter someone who walks the walk, well, it gets me interested.”
He sits there, continuing to drink, as he thinks those words through. I can see as the liquor takes hold of him, his posture relaxing, eyelids drooping, and leg lazily moving.
“We used to do business with the Italians,” he says. “The families would come to us when they wanted something done but were too chicken. They had so many silly rules. Do not kill women, do not kill bosses, do not kill officers, but we do not have those rules. We were the loophole that kept their hands clean.”
“I don’t need loopholes,” I say, “nor do I care if my hands are clean.”
“That I have heard,” he says. “You have built a very big reputation in a very small time, Mister Scar.”
Mister Scar.
I can feel my muscles twitch when he says that, my body unconsciously reacting. I’d like to hit him, but I’d also like to walk out of here, and with my guys preoccupied with pussy, well, I’m not sure that would turn out to my advantage.