Vicious Reign (Bratva Kings #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

DINARA

The entrance to Velour is understated in the way only truly exclusive places can afford to be. There are no velvet ropes or crowds waiting behind barriers, only a pair of valets in crisp black suits parked off to the side, smoking and chatting while they wait for the next luxury car to pull up.

As I approach, a bouncer looks me over, his expression skeptical. His gaze lingers on my corset, then the tattoo sleeve climbing my right arm, before settling on my face as if trying to figure out if I’m lost or stupid or both.

“Wrong watering hole, sweetheart. The nightclub you’re looking for is two blocks west of here. Can’t miss it. There’ll be a long line of women dressed like you out front.”

Jerk. I pull my shoulders back and notch my chin up. “I’m not lost. Danny invited me to audition tonight.”

“That so?” He exchanges a look with the other bouncer standing by the door, sharing a private joke between them. “Danny sure does a lot of these private auditions.”

Yeah, yeah, Danny’s a creep. I get it. But it happens to work in my favor.

I’ve spent months researching Velour and the people who work here, leaving nothing to chance. I moved from Moscow to New York a few weeks ago with one goal—to get a job here.

After following him for a few days, I engineered a “surprise” meeting with Velour’s manager, Danny Krasnov, at the cafe he goes to every morning for an espresso and cigarette.

I charmed Danny during our “chance” encounter, laughed at his stories, touched his arm at the right moments, made him feel like the most charming man I’d ever met.

Then I mentioned I was looking for work as an exotic dancer, and he practically tripped over himself handing me his business card with a hand scrawled note. I produce it now.

Evelina Panova, Wednesday 9 p.m., audition.

My golden ticket. Or at least, I hope it is.

The bouncer flicks a bored look at the card. “I’ll need to see an ID.”

I fish the license from my purse and present him with the woman known as Evelina Dmitrievna Panova, an identity I built from scratch.

Bank statements, school records, social media accounts, lease agreements. You name it, I faked it.

As the lead hacker for the Belov Syndicate, Moscow’s most powerful bratva, I know a thing or two about forging digital documents, and I’ve built myself a bulletproof fake identity.

He holds my stare, then taps the card against his palm before handing it back. “Head to the main bar. Oksana can help you.”

The knot between my shoulder blades loosens as doors swing open, revealing another world.

Where the exterior is deliberately nondescript, the interior is pure opulence.

Rich burgundy leather booths line the dark wood-paneled walls.

The lighting is soft and atmospheric, the kind that makes everyone look ten years younger.

This floor is a gentlemen’s club only, but upstairs is the VIP section and strip club. It’s also where powerful men come to play.

But eighteen years ago, Velour wasn’t just a high-end club. It was a place where women were bought and sold.

And I’m certain my mother was one of those women.

Heads turn as I cross the floor. I’ve never cared about male approval. I grew up in my father’s boxing gym, surrounded by men who treated me like their little sister. And as a hacker, I spend most of my days in jeans and hoodies, more about comfort than style.

But I’m a realist. I know beauty can open doors skill alone sometimes can’t.

Tonight, it’s yet another asset to deploy, and I’m deploying it damn well wearing a black satin corset with delicate boning that cinches my waist, a slip-style skirt, and three-inch heels, because it's all I can manage to walk in.

My hair falls in soft waves over one shoulder, lips painted a deep red that would make a 1950s starlet proud.

The sleeve of tattoos on my right arm isn't common for this crowd, but I know it works for me. It makes me memorable, and sometimes that’s more valuable than fitting in.

The bartender looks up as I approach, shaking cocktails. This must be Oksana. She’s a pretty brunette with perfect winged eyeliner and an assessing expression. Women don’t wander Velour’s main floor unless they work here or they’ve been specially invited.

“Can I help you?” Her Russian accent is unmistakable, though she’s been in the States long enough to smooth some of the harder edges.

“I’m Evelina Panova. I’m here to see Danny,” I explain, switching into our native tongue. “He asked me to come in tonight to audition.”

I slide Danny’s business card across the bar. Her eyebrows draw together as she picks it up and reads his note.

“I’m sorry, but Danny’s not here.”

My stomach drops. It’s nearly nine, our agreed meeting time. “Really? When do you expect him in? I can wait.”

She strains the shaken drinks into waiting glasses and slides them onto a tray. A server appears beside me, collecting the tray with a murmured thanks, and disappears back into the crowd.

“He’ll be gone for a while, I’m afraid. A family emergency back home.” She gives a small, apologetic shrug. “If you leave me your contact info, I’ll have him call you when he’s back.”

My fingernails bite into my palm beneath the bar's edge. I can't wait weeks for another shot at an audition. It took me long enough to engineer this one. If I leave it up to fate, it may not happen.

“I’m happy to audition for his replacement.” I give her a pleading look. “Danny said one of the dancers quit and there’s an opening. I don’t want to lose this opportunity.”

A petite blonde server leans across the bar, passing Oksana the next drink order.

Oksana glances at the server, then back at me, something like pity crossing her face.

“Listen, I’m going to be honest with you.

Danny sure likes pretty girls to audition for him, but auditions aren’t how this club works.

You need a reference, or to know someone who can vouch for you.

Most people get hired through connections. ”

I swallow hard. “I get it, but … I came here from Moscow a few weeks ago for school, and I’m broke as shit.

I’ve been living off ramen and peanut butter.

I spent everything I had left on this outfit because Danny promised if I looked the part, he’d give me a chance.

” I pause for dramatic effect. “I know I’m asking a lot.

But if there’s anyone you could talk to, anyone who might give me a shot… ”

I let the sentence trail off, watching her face for any sign of softening.

She sighs and wipes her hands on a bar towel. “So, Evelina. What city are you from? You sound like a Moscow girl.”

“You got me.” I smile and shrug. “What about you?”

“Not far from there. I’m Oksana, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you.” We shake hands across the bar. She’s not unkind, and I can work with that.

“So you said you’re here for school. What are you studying?”

“Cybersecurity stuff at MTI. Super boring.”

Her brows shoot up in surprise. “I mean, it’s not my thing, but hell, that’s impressive.”

It is impressive. Manhattan Tech Institute has one of the best computer science programs in the world. It’s a big deal for most people to get accepted, but this is the kind of work I’ve been doing since I was a kid.

“How long have you worked here?” I ask.

“Two years. It’s the only way I can afford to live in this insanely expensive city, though I also dance in the New York City Ballet’s corps.”

Now it’s my turn to be impressed. That explains her perfect posture and lithe frame.

“So can you help a girl from your hometown out?”

She studies me, resting her forearms on the bar. “You know what kind of establishment this is, right?”

Oh I know. I know everything there is to know about Velour’s dark past. But I’m here playing a part, and that part is of an innocent student new to the city.

I lean forward conspiratorially. “Like, a strip club?”

“Yeah, the exotic dancing is on the second floor. Down here is just the gentlemen’s club. But…” Her voice drops an octave. “The whole joint is bratva-owned. This is their club and territory. And trust me, they don’t fuck around.”

Oh, the irony. I shrug, playing ignorant. “A job is a job, and I’m good at minding my own business.”

Oksana sighs and reaches under the bar for a glass. She fills it with soda and slides it to me.

“I can’t promise anything, but if you stick around, I’ll see if I can track down whoever’s handling these things while Danny’s gone. Might take a bit, though.”

It’s not a guarantee, but it’s something. The tension between my shoulders eases a fraction. “Thank you, seriously. The chance means a lot.”

She holds up a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. It’s a long shot.”

I find a spot at a small table near the wall, close enough to keep Oksana in sight. It also gives me a clear view of the staircase, a dramatic spiral of brushed steel and frosted glass curving upward to the second floor.

That’s where the bratva conducts business, where guards come down and men relax enough to talk freely.

The idea of dancing half-naked for strange men doesn’t thrill me, but if shedding my clothes gets me closer to finding out what happened to my mother, then that’s what I’ll do.

I was six when she disappeared. Old enough to remember her face, her voice, the safety of her tucking me into bed and singing me lullabies. Old enough to know something terrible had happened. Not old enough to understand why.

My father never recovered from losing her. He threw himself into the gym, into training fighters, into anything that kept him too busy to think.

We built our lives around the shape of her absence, never speaking her name, pretending the hole she left behind didn’t exist. But it did. It does.

But now I know she didn’t leave us. She was taken by men in the middle of the night, and brought here. To be auctioned off like cattle.

The auctions have stopped, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t people who know things still here.