Mafia Prince’s Secret Baby (New York Bratva)

20. Igor

20

IGOR

“ I t looks closed, sir,” the Uber driver remarks as he pulls up to the curb in front ofThe Velvet Echo.

“The nightclub is closed during the day,” I reply, keeping my tone casual. “But the strip club is open 24/7.”

The driver—short, round, and sporting hair so black it looks like it’s been dipped in tar—chuckles, a low, knowing sound. I toss a few bills onto the seat beside him and step out, the air outside sharp and laced with the faint smell of the city’s grit.

I haven’t been to a place like this in years. Not since Damien. Back then, strip clubs were in regular rotation—business and pleasure blending in seamless, sinful chaos. But the second Damien came into my life, something shifted. That doesn’t mean I don’t still notice the allure.

I approach the entrance, where a familiar face stands at his post. Tall, built like a tank, with skin the color of polished onyx, the security guard eyes me with a flicker of recognition.

“Igor Sokolov,” I say evenly, my voice clipped but polite. “Boris is expecting me.”

He nods once, knocking on the thick, steel-reinforced door. Another guard opens it, his posture stiff, his face impassive. The pat-down comes next—standard practice, and one I don’t bother protesting. Let them search. I don’t need a gun to kill someone. My hands are more than enough.

Once cleared, I step inside. The air changes immediately—warmer, thicker, humming with the low thrum of bass and faint laughter. A final guard pulls back the velvet curtain, and suddenly, the backstage area stretches out before me in a wash of bright lights and polished black platforms.

The stages are empty except for one, where a set of spotlights dance over a woman who moves like smoke in the air—fluid, effortless, intoxicating. The music pours through the speakers in sultry waves, matching the roll of her hips as she twists herself up the pole like it’s an extension of her body. The pink of her G-string and matching crop top contrasts sharply with the violet of her hair, which spills down her back in long, glossy strands.

For a moment, the scene around me falls away. The tension in my shoulders eases. My focus narrows until there’s only her—the way she owns the space, commanding every inch of it. She tilts her head, and the lights catch in her hair, making it gleam.

Damn.

I miss this. The heat. The pull. The easy, uncomplicated thrill.

Without breaking stride, I move toward the leather chairs near the stage, choosing the seat closest to her. She climbs the pole effortlessly, her body curving and bending in ways that make it hard to look away.

For a split second, I let my mind wander—her body moving against the pole, the sway of her hips, the imagined press of her skin against mine. I could almost feel the brush of her hair dragging over my thighs, her breath hot against my stomach. It’s an indulgent thought, the kind I don’t have time for right now.

I shut my eyes and pull in a deep breath, letting the air cool my head. When I open them, it’s not her I’m looking at anymore.

“Igor Sokolov,” a familiar voice greets me, deep and gravelly with just the right amount of smugness to set my teeth on edge. Boris Olenko looms over me with a grin that’s a little too friendly. “I was expecting your brother. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Boris isn’t the man at the top of the food chain, but he’s hungry—always has been. He’s carved out his little empire in the dirtier corners of the city, running this place like a kingpin even if he’s nothing more than a mid-level pawn. I glance around as half-drunk assholes hoot and holler at the stripper still working the pole. She’s moved on, grinding against another girl perched on a stool like it’s the highlight of her morning. A few men shove cash into their matching pink thongs, some shouting obscene suggestions, others just cheering like animals at a zoo. The girls pay them no mind—they’re pros, giving just enough to keep the wallets open but not the slightest bit more.

“Perhaps we should talk somewhere more private,” I tell him, forcing my focus back to the matter at hand. But not before I steal one last peek at the dancer.

Boris doesn’t miss my glance, and his grin stretches wider, a predator who thinks he’s caught the scent of something he can use. “Nevertheless, it’s a treat to see you here. You always did know where to find true pleasure,” he quips.

“Under a woman’s body,” I reply evenly, letting my own grin creep in. There’s no point in being stiff with him—it’ll only put him on edge.

“Exactly,” Boris says, pursing his lips as his gaze sweeps the room. “Come. We’ll talk in my office.”

“Lead the way.”

I follow him past a semi-circular table decked out with floral bouquets and half-empty bottles of top-shelf liquor. A sad little setup for a sad morning crowd. Weekdays are slow for strip clubs, and Boris’s is no exception. Unlike most places, his dancers start fully clothed, stripping away layers piece by piece as their performances heat up. It’s all part of the production. A little tease, a little restraint—it keeps the drunks coming back for more.

Boris leads me to a dark, narrow hallway at the back of the club. The noise fades behind us, swallowed by the oppressive quiet of the corridor. At the very end, we stop in front of a white door. Boris pulls a heavy steel key from his pocket, the metal scraping as it turns in the lock. He pushes the door open, stepping inside, and I follow him into the dim, cramped space he calls his office.

I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been here. It’s not a place I enjoy revisiting. Boris has never been one for blood or weapons—those aren’t his vices. Women are. To him, they’re a commodity, a thrill to be consumed and discarded as easily as a cigarette. And while he treats them like employees on paper—ensuring no customer gets too attached or crosses too many lines—he takes liberties of his own. Every new girl on his payroll has to endure his “welcome to the team” ritual. They’re his to sample first, and no one dares say otherwise.

The bastard has three legitimate kids, but everyone knows that’s just the tip of the iceberg. His illegitimate offspring probably outnumber the bottles of booze he keeps stocked behind his desk. And the worst part? He somehow manages to keep it all looking clean. He’s a professional sleaze, orchestrating the kind of sordid debauchery most men only dream of while still finding a way to slap a bow on it and call it business. Hell, he even finds homes for the kids he fathers, like he’s some kind of humanitarian.

It makes my skin crawl just being in the same room as him. The urge to plant his face into the nearest wall simmers under the surface, but I choke it down. The job comes first.

“Take a seat,” Boris says, gesturing toward one of the leather chairs across from his desk.

I lower myself into the chair but don’t relax. My posture is stiff, my hands loose but ready at my sides. Boris might look comfortable, but men like him are always calculating.

“What can I do for you, Igor?” Boris asks as he saunters over to the liquor cabinet.

I follow him with my eyes, taking in his casual air. It’s like he’s hosting a goddamn dinner party instead of entertaining the son of a pakhan .

“We’ve had some issues with a shipment from Colombia,” I say, keeping my tone measured. “I was hoping you could help shed some light on the matter.”

Boris pulls out a bottle of vodka and pours himself a glass, neat. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“The cargo,” I clarify. “It was stolen.”

Boris freezes, glass midair, his eyebrows lifting in what looks like surprise—though with Boris, everything is an act. “Oh, my,” he breathes dramatically, then pours another glass. “In that case, you probably need this more than I do.”

He slides the glass across the desk. I catch it before it spills, the chill seeping into my hand. I take a sip, the sharp bite of the vodka burning down my throat. It’s cheap garbage. The kind of stuff you buy at a gas station for a few bucks. A power play, no doubt—Boris Olenko never serves the good stuff unless there’s something in it for him.

“What’s your involvement in all of this?” Boris asks, leaning back into his chair like we’re just two old friends having a casual chat.

I swallow the vodka, exhaling a long breath before answering. “None. It was my brother who fucked up.”

Boris’s eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise. “Aleksander?”

“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “Mikhail.”

“Ah,” Boris says knowingly, a smile tugging at his lips. “That makes more sense.”

I don’t take the bait.

“But why is the prince himself gracing me with a visit?” Boris continues, his grin widening. “Surely you don’t need me to handle this. Can’t you sort it out on your own?”

“We’re doing everything we can to locate the cargo,” I tell him. “But the Colombians aren’t exactly known for their patience. I was hoping you might help speed things along—offer a hint or two, perhaps.”

“And why would I do that?” Boris narrows his eyes, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.

“I’ll level with you,” I say, flashing a tight smile as I down the rest of the vodka. I set the glass back on his desk with a soft clink , the burn of the liquor doing little to ease the irritation bubbling beneath the surface. “Mikhail fucked up the transport, sure. And while we’re willing to pay for the mistake, we both know that won’t be enough to appease the Colombians. They’ll demand blood. Someone’s family is going to pay the price for this.”

“Your family, not mine,” Boris clarifies, his grin widening.

I push the glass toward him, and he obliges, pouring me a little more. Boris Olenko is many things—a manipulator, a lecherous bastard—but he’s not stupid. He knows exactly what’s at stake here. He knows an alliance with our family is worth more than any temporary deal with the Colombians. Out here in the underworld, every day is an election, and Boris is always campaigning for more power.

“Name your price,” I say, watching him carefully.

Boris leans back, swirling the vodka in his glass with the air of a man who knows he’s holding all the cards. “I could ask for anything,” he murmurs, the edges of a devilish grin tugging at his mouth.

“In theory, yes,” I reply, matching his tone. “But let’s not get too greedy. I can easily take this same offer to someone else.”

Boris laughs, a low, strained sound that grates against my nerves. “Fine, fine. I don’t know anything about it,” he says, feigning innocence. “But I’ll have my men ask around discreetly. The girls, too—they hear things. I should have something for you before the week’s over.”

I bring the glass to my lips again, considering his words. He doesn’t seem worried about the possibility of war spilling into our streets, doesn’t care if the Colombians tear us apart. His only concern is how much he can milk this for his own gain.

“Make sure you do,” I say, leaning back in my chair, signaling that our business is done.

I’m halfway to standing when Boris lifts a finger, stopping me in my tracks.

“One more thing, Sokolov,” he says, grinning like the cat that just caught the mouse.

I grit my teeth. Of course there’s more.

“What is it?” I ask, keeping my voice even.

“Do you remember my daughter Galina?”

Of course, I remember her. She went to school with us, a spoiled little brat who used to bat her eyelashes and giggle like a fool every time I walked into the room. She wasn’t shy, either—always asking obnoxious questions about Russian men, usually the kind that ended with smirking and crude gestures. And then there’s the not-so-little matter of my father once discussing an arranged marriage between us back when Boris still had hopes of worming his way further into our family’s business.

“Perhaps,” I hedge, keeping my tone neutral. If my instincts are correct, this is going somewhere unpleasant. “How is she?”

“She wants to become a model,” Boris says proudly, puffing out his chest like he’s just announced she cured cancer.

“It would suit her,” I note dryly.

“She’s got what it takes,” Boris nods proudly. “She’s already done work for GQ Russia and has appeared in music videos. But she has bigger plans. She needs the right kind of attention to truly shine.”

I already know where this is going.

“I can make some calls if you want,” I offer, though my tone is laced with suspicion.

“Oh, no, no,” Boris says, waving a hand. “Galina is far too skilled for that. What she needs is a powerful man by her side to bring her into the spotlight.”

He can’t mean?—

“I want you to take her on a date,” Boris says, too casually for my liking.

I clench my jaw, my teeth grinding as I swallow the urge to lunge across the desk and throttle him. He knew I’d have to say yes. The smug bastard set this up perfectly.

“A date it is,” I finally grit, forcing a smile. “Tell her to doll up.”

“She sure will,” Boris says, grinning like he’s just won the lottery.

Oh, what a waste. It’ll last an hour, tops, and end long before Galina gets any bright ideas.

“Will that be all, Olenko?”

“For now,” Boris replies, his grin widening. “We have an arrangement, Sokolov.”

I leave the office and make my way back through the club, mentally counting down the hours until I’m free of this nonsense.

I hate Boris Olenko with every fiber of my being.