Chapter Two
Lindsey
If I thought I was nervous the last time we came to the Dungeon, this time I can barely stand still as I wait for the same dark-haired bouncer to look at my ID and compare it to my face. He stamps the same red devil onto the back of my hand, and just like that night, I’m intensely relieved to make it past his scrutiny and through the club door, where I can escape the frigid Chicago breeze.
I check my coat before following Mirabelle and Annie down the hall of twinkling stars that reflect back at me from the floor. I can’t stop thinking about what Claire said that night—how the Dungeon has ties to the Russian mob. Chicago’s ‘Bratva’ is what she called it, though I’m unfamiliar with the term. I thought the mafia was from Italy, but what do I know? When I think of Maks, though—I can’t help thinking Claire might have been trying to pull my leg. He does give off powerful-businessman vibes, and I could go so far as to believe he owns the club, but being involved with the Bratva? I just think he seems a bit charming for that.
My stomach trembles as we step into the club, and it might be because I’m hoping to run into my sexy older Russian again—just so I can see if I believe the rumors are true. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. It’s not because I can’t stop thinking about Maks since our brief exchange last weekend. At the time, running from a bad decision seemed like the smart thing to do, but I would be lying if I said I haven’t pictured Maks while using my vibrator since then. My curiosity over what it would be like to sleep with an older man—who knows his way around a woman’s body—has continued to grow since that night.
It’s easier to find a table tonight, with just the three of us and no boys to complicate the question. A table full of college frat bros stop us almost as soon as we enter the club, inviting us to join them, and it would seem they’ve paid for table service because a server appears for a drink order within minutes of us sitting.
We order cocktails, me settling for a paloma after recalling the sickly sweet neon drink John got us last week. As we wait for them to arrive, I study the frat boy sitting next to Mirabelle and across from me. His eyes are already nearing glazed with inebriation, and he keeps them focused on the dancers behind me. His fascination with them is even more blatant than mine last week, and maybe it’s hypocritical of me, but the way he ogles them makes my nose wrinkle with disgust. Where I snuck peeks of the erotic display, embarrassed by my interest in their sensual moves, this khaki and polo-wearing college boy is openly riveted and practically drooling over the entertainers. From the look on Mirabelle’s face, she’s not thrilled to be sitting next to him either.
“You girls look like you came to have some fun!” the blond frat bro next to me shouts in my ear just as our drinks arrive.
As I take my first sip of tequila and grapefruit, he slings his arm over the back of the booth so his fingers brush across my shoulder. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, my mind automatically comparing him to the last man who hit on me at this club, and the frat boy doesn’t stand a chance. In a mint-green button-down with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he reeks of Old Spice as he unleashes his dimples on me like he thinks he’s halfway into my panties already. He’s clean shaven, but I can tell from the hint of reddish stubble that he’s still working on growing a full beard—not at all like Maks’s dark, gray-flecked five o’clock shadow. A vivid recollection of his intelligent sky-blue eyes makes this frat boy’s flat brown ones look dull and emotionless as they scan down my body.
“Yeah, we like to dance,” I agree, pulling my gray-and-tan tweed mini skirt a little farther down my thighs. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t pick my outfit tonight in the hopes of earning a second chance at that invitation my sexy older Russian extended to me last week. My white sweetheart neckline crop top with cap sleeves shows off just a bit more of my cleavage and midriff, too, my high-waist zip-front skirt a little flirtier, but sitting next to this overly-fragrant frat boy, I’m starting to regret my choice. I scan the VIP section once again, searching for the man I can’t seem to get off my mind.
“You looking for your boyfriend?” Annie teases, smiling wickedly before she leans forward to take a sip of her drink.
“You have a boyfriend?” Disappointment tinges the frat boy’s voice as he grudgingly starts to withdraw his hand from my shoulder.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” I narrow my eyes at Annie, then realize I maybe should have gone with it, even if that meant she gave me a hard time, because the scent of Old Spice immediately assaults my nose as the blond frat boy leans closer again.
“Oh good.” Turning to face me more fully, the frat boy taps the corner of my glasses, knocking them against the bridge of my nose. “Because I’m digging your sexy librarian vibe.”
Ew, if this is him trying to flirt, he really needs a lesson or two from Maks. Grabbing my paloma, I skip the straw and take a healthy gulp to remind myself the girls didn’t invite me out tonight so I could flirt with my sexy older Russian— no, not mine, I have to remind myself. But the alcohol does little to soften the edge of the frat boy’s overbearing presence. “You girls wanna dance?” I suggest, glancing between Annie and Mirabelle.
Annie seems oblivious to the bad choice in seating companions, but Mirabelle looks just as ready to abandon ship as I am.
“Yep!” she says, nudging Annie back out of the booth.
Collecting our drinks, we leave the table without so much as a backward glance as we wade onto the dance floor. The club is just as crowded as before, but the music is good, and as the beat sweeps me up, it’s easy to forget about the awkward frat boy encounter.
We dance and drink, unwinding from the stressful work week, and I feel the tension easing from my shoulders as we take our third shot. We just finished a major marketing campaign for a big client, and it feels good to call it a success. My boss even credited me with convincing the older CEO who paid for the campaign that TikTok would be a perfect place to market his newest fragrance. That took a lot of work, and I appreciate the acknowledgment, so tonight feels like the great way to celebrate.
If only I could stop my eyes from wandering up to the VIP section. I haven’t seen Maks there at all—and I definitely haven’t tried sneaking up to order drinks from the bar there after what happened last time. It’s funny. My first time in the club, I couldn’t stop looking at the caged dancers, but this time, I’m incapable of keeping my eyes off his vacant table like it’s as fascinating as the erotic entertainment.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I ask, leaning close to Annie.
“Back that way and to the left,” she says, pointing in the direction of our table from last week.
I nod and stumble through the crowd in my heels. They’re black suede again, though they only come up to my calf this time. The rounded toe and four-inch heels give me confidence when I’m sober. Now, with my feet aching and just enough alcohol in my system to make me sway a little, my ankles feel wobbly. I need to take a minute to sober up if I intend to keep up with Annie and Mirabelle. At least we Ubered here, so I don’t have to worry about driving.
Passing our table from that first night, I can’t help but glance up one more time to see if Maks has appeared. But the table where he sat is completely empty—as if it’s waiting for him to show, just like I am. He’s too old for you anyway. Not to mention, you’re not looking for a relationship, I remind myself. The second part makes me snort. I’m not entirely convinced Maks would be the relationship type even if I were. He wasn’t looking at me like I would be his next girlfriend. He was looking at me like he wanted to consume me, body and soul.
Heat pools in my belly at the memory of his eyes raking possessively down my body, the feel of his finger brushing lightly against my leg to tuck my credit card into my sock. Even that seemingly innocuous touch turned me on. But his eyes told me that was only a taste of what he could make me feel—if I let him. A shiver races up my spine, and not for the first time, I regret keeping my rule that night. No other man has stuck in my mind like Maks.
I tear my eyes from the VIP section, focusing on the hallway to my right in my quest for the bathroom. The music dies down as I enter the empty corridor, my heels rapping sharply against the marble. I hold my breath, my steps slowing as I suddenly feel too loud. Biting my lip, I keep one hand on the wall to balance as I walk on the rubber of my soles, avoiding my stiletto heels as much as I can. I bite my lip to suppress a giggle, feeling silly as I tiptoe down the hallway like I’m a teenager sneaking out of my parents’ house. I’m not entirely sure why it feels like the smart thing to do. But the loud, jarring steps echoing around the empty space gave me the creeps.
One shortcoming of the Dungeon? They could really use better signage. I’m halfway down the hall and still can’t tell which doorway leads to the restroom. The door to my left is open just a crack. Clearly, someone’s gone that way before, and I reach for the handle, then I hear a low male voice on the other side and freeze.
“I’m working on it, but what you’re asking is impossible without starting all-out war,” the man states, his voice as smooth and calm as the surface of a still lake. His accent isn’t the same as Maks’s was, but he definitely has one— Spanish maybe? “He’s impossible to reach behind those high walls. I’d be burying myself right along with him.”
No, definitely Italian. My stomach drops as the meaning behind his words registers a moment later. What does he mean by burying himself along with someone? He can’t mean literally, right? It’s probably just my overactive imagination after all the rumors Claire fed me, but the hair raises on the back of my neck, and I lean closer, my breath catching as I try to make sense of what he’s saying.
“I told you I would support you, that I would provide you with whatever resources you need, and now you’re telling me the job’s impossible? You work for him. You’re seriously saying you can’t find a single vulnerability in his defenses when you’re welcome inside his home?”
My heart skips a beat at the growled accusation, the words turning my blood cold. Whatever kind of meeting I’ve stumbled upon is clearly not something I was meant to hear. I should be backpedaling as quickly as I can before someone finds me here, but I can’t seem to tear myself away. From the sound of it, these men intend to hurt someone—a man who employs one of them.
“It’s not impossible,” the Italian insists. “I just need more time, more information. Taking him out in his home would be a suicide mission, so I want to look for a more public event—somewhere we can fade into the crowd after, or snipe him from a distance.”
A violent shudder racks my body, and I press a hand over my lips to muffle the gasp that escapes me. They’re not just talking about betraying someone. They intend to kill him.
“Then what is it you want from me?” The second voice sparks a sense of familiarity now that it’s not ragged with anger, but the cold, flatness of the deep baritone makes goosebumps erupt across my flesh.
“A way into his office without being recognized,” the Italian states confidently.
“You think he wouldn’t recognize my men any better than he does yours? He knows I want him dead. Any hint that I’m involved would blow the plan wide open. I would have a better chance of killing the pope.”
“I’m not suggesting you or your men get involved. I was only hoping you might know someone trustworthy outside our opera?—”
“Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing back here, little girl? You’re not where you belong.”
I jolt, my entire body going rigid at the accusatory snarl behind me. I’m intensely aware of the fact that the conversation I was eavesdropping on has gone deathly quiet inside the room. I need to get out of here. I need to run, but if I do, they’ll definitely know I heard something I shouldn’t have. Shit. Should I pretend I just drunkenly stumbled down the hall?
Whirling, I face the owner of the angry voice, but as my eyes land on the giant filling the doorway back to the club, my flight instincts kick into gear. He’s massive, his shaved head well over a foot above mine, his broad shoulders nearly filling the entire width of the hallway. His eyes darken as he glares at me, too suspicious to believe any drunken act I would be capable of pulling off. Muscles trembling, I take several cautious steps backward, and his broad shoulders tense, his thick biceps flexing.
Before I can consider if it’s a smart choice, I turn and run. My legs pump, my steps echoing painfully in my ears as my heels crack sharply against the floor. I’d thought I liked the black marble until now, but the sleek, slippery surface is hindering my escape. I don’t know where I’m going, but the sound of rubber-soled boots drives me forward. He’s closing the distance between us with frightening ease, and my pulse races, my panic rising as I scan wildly for an escape route.
The green emergency exit sign glows like a beacon to my left as I slam, palms first, against the wall at the far end of the hall, my inertia driving me into it before I can stop myself. Shoving away from the hard surface, I launch myself sideways toward the metal door, desperately hoping I can reach it before it’s too late.
My legs are weak with adrenaline, my lungs burning from the effort to run faster than I’ve ever moved before, and relief surges through my chest as cold hard metal meets my palms. The distinct clank of the crash bar follows, and bitter wind swallows me whole as the door flings wide, opening onto a dark alley. The bare skin of my legs and torso prickle in response to the winter chill. I need my coat, but I’m not about to turn back for it. I’ll take my chances against pneumonia over the hulking brute who’s on my heels.
The alley’s dark, and I have to take a moment for my eyes to adjust. My heart hammers, and my head snaps back and forth as I search for the outlet onto the street. Shouts build behind me, intensifying my panic. To my right, heaps of trash have been piled against the side of an overflowing dumpster. The stale scent of rotten food and waste bombard my nose, and instinctively, I turn away from it in search of fresh air and freedom.
Frigid water splashes up onto my calves as I break into a run once more. I can see the lit sidewalk ahead as the street comes into view. The raised tracks of the L line loom above, beyond the high walls of the buildings around me, etching harsh shadows across the ground below. Aching cold pierces my skin like daggers as I near the street, but I don’t care. My survival instincts are in high gear, my sole desire to escape the behemoth who stumbled upon me in the Dungeon’s hallway.
My adrenaline has burned away the healthy buzz I’d accomplished after a few tequila shots. My mind is sharp with fear. My best chance of making it out of this alive is to find help—if I can just get to the road before they reach me. If they catch up to me, I can’t imagine they’ll keep me alive—not after what I heard. That realization is the driving force that keeps me barreling toward the sidewalk despite my impractical footwear. I’m not dressed for this at all.
I make it to the end of the alley, my lips parting to cry for help. Then a tree trunk of an arm snakes around my waist, hoisting me off the ground, and a meaty palm clamps down over my mouth and nose. The loud rattle of an approaching train clatters down the tracks, drowning everything else out. But this is my last hope, so I scream as loud as I can, the sound tearing up my throat as I expend every last ounce of oxygen I possess.
My stomach knots with panic when I can’t inhale past his massive hand. He’s going to suffocate me. I fight for my life, kicking at his shins and clawing at his arms as he hauls me back down the alley and into the club. Several figures in suits loom down the hall, but my glasses have been pushed up too far for me to see their faces.
The coppery flavor of blood coats my tongue, and I’m not sure if it’s mine or the man holding me hostage. Something cold and hard digs into the base of my spine, and my panic intensifies when I realize it’s probably a gun. A low, pained grunt rushes past my ear as my stiletto heel connects with something soft behind me. But the man’s grip doesn’t loosen, and the edges of my vision are slowly turning black.
I’m going to pass out. No, I’m going to die.