Chapter Seventeen
Serena
I’m done with my makeup, and tonight, I’m an angel, or at least, I look the part.
I’ve gone soft and sweet with my choices.
My eyes are dressed in warm nude shades with just a touch of glitter to catch the light, and a thin line of eyeliner adds a hint of definition without overwhelming the look.
Highlighter gleams on my cheekbones, catching every angle, while a soft pink blush gives my cheeks that perfect innocent flush.
And my lips? Thank God for my lips. They’re painted in a warm pink lipstick that pulls everything together, the final touch that says, “I’m just a girl.”
But let’s not forget the dress.
My dress, short and tight, is anything but innocent.
It clings to my curves in all the right places, unapologetically highlighting the assets I know men would kill for.
My ass? It’s a showstopper, and tonight, I’m proud of it.
My B-cup breasts, while not overly generous, are perfectly on display, teasing just enough to make them look twice.
I’m a little devil dressed as an angel, and the irony is delicious.
And, of course, the dress is white, pure, pristine, and oh so deceptive.
I leave my hair down, soft curls cascading over my shoulders, their loose, effortless bounce adding to the illusion of innocence. At the back, a delicate ribbon ties it all together, matching my soft pink heels perfectly.
I step out of my penthouse, and my breath catches when I see Sienna.
Oh. My. God.
She looks absolutely stunning, the kind of stunning that turns heads and stops conversations.
Her long caramel hair is tied back in a sleek ponytail that highlights her sharp cheekbones and flawless skin.
Her dress, though a little longer than mine, clings to her curves in a way that feels almost criminal.
And her titties, honestly, the way they’re displayed should be illegal.
The dress is jet black, sleek and sultry, paired perfectly with towering black high heels that give her an edge of dominance. Her bold red lipstick pops against her warm complexion, while her smokey eye makeup adds a layer of mystery that’s almost dangerous.
We look at each other and immediately burst out laughing, realizing just how perfect the contrast is.
The devil and the angel.
That’s us tonight, no question about it. Sienna, with her seductive black dress and bold, fiery makeup, is every inch the devil, confident, unapologetic, and ready to cause chaos. And me? With my soft curls, white dress, and pink ribbon, I’m the angel, the delicate balance to her sinful energy.
We don’t say it out loud, but the way we exchange grins says it all.
“Oh, my God!” Sienna exclaims, her voice loud enough to turn heads if we weren’t alone. “Are you throwing a tantrum or something? You look HOT.”
Before I can respond, she pulls me into a hug so tight I can barely breathe.
“I missed you,” I manage to say, my voice tinged with sadness that even I can’t hide.
This night is supposed to be fun. I’m supposed to be happy, carefree, ready to let loose. But the weight of the last month hangs over me like a storm cloud. I should be relieved. Relieved that I won’t see him anymore.
But then a voice in my head snaps back, sharp and unforgiving: What do you mean you won’t see him anymore? He’s not freaking dead, Serena.
I wince, trying to push the thought away. No, what I meant is I won’t have to deal with him anymore. Right? That’s what I meant.
Freaking hell.
Lost in my spiraling thoughts, I barely notice the silence stretching out between us as we head to the club. Sienna’s soft voice pulls me back.
“Are you okay, babe?” she asks gently, her eyes flicking toward me with a mix of concern and curiosity. “You know you can talk to me.”
The faint hum of “Eyes on You” by Vanna Rainelle plays in the background, wrapping us in a moment that feels almost too fragile.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what I’m feeling. The truth is a tangled mess, one I’m not sure I’m ready to unravel. But we’re ten minutes away from the club, and if I’m going to tell her, if I’m going to say it, now is the time.
I glance at her, hesitating, the words caught somewhere between my chest and my throat.
“I slept with Lorenzo,” I say flatly, my face carefully blank, trying not to betray the whirlwind inside me.
Sienna freezes for a moment, her lips parting slightly as she processes my words. Then, in true Sienna fashion, she breaks into a sly grin.
“Uh, um. Well, I don’t know what to say. Is his dick as big as his ego?” she asks, laughing.
I can’t help but smile, even as a blush creeps across my cheeks. God, I love her. Sienna always knows how to make me feel like the world isn’t falling apart.
“Bigger,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
And there it is. We’re talking about Lorenzo’s dick when I’m supposed to be forgetting about him. Nice. Great work, Serena.
Sienna tilts her head slightly, her laughter fading as she looks at me more seriously.
“Listen, Serena. Are you okay? I mean, I’m guessing you told me this now, five minutes away from the club, because you didn’t want to go too deep into it, but we’ll talk about this later.
I just need to know: are you okay? He didn’t do anything nasty, didn’t he? ”
“No,” I reply quickly, shaking my head. “He didn’t. I wanted it. I lied to him, and then he… well, insert himself.”
Sienna raises an eyebrow but says nothing, waiting for me to explain.
“I lied on purpose,” I continue, my words tumbling out faster now. “I didn’t want to tell him that I wanted him. I—” I pause, biting my lip. “I wanted to hate him, so I wanted him to do it anyway. But he didn’t. He gave me a choice.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her sharp eyes watching me closely, her expression unreadable.
“Okay,” she finally says, her tone soft but firm. “We’ll talk about it later. You know I’ll always listen. But for now.” She glances out the window as the car slows to a stop. “We’re here.”
The club is massive, a sprawling testament to excess and exclusivity. It’s no surprise that it’s packed tonight, it’s the grand opening, after all. How Sienna managed to snag tickets to an event this exclusive is beyond me. Especially when it’s rumored to be tied to someone in the mafia.
Not just anyone, though. This is likely for Lev Roman Morozov, a name that carries both reverence and fear. Billionaire, playboy, one of the wealthiest men in New York. At least, that’s the image he wants the world to see.
But everyone who knows anything about power in this city knows the truth. Lev is one of the three rulers of New York’s Bratva, a name that carries weight far beyond the glitz and glamour of his public persona.
The Bratva Mafia is a shadow network, running the city in ways most people can’t imagine. And Lev? He’s one of the faces behind it, the billionaire face, the one who makes it all look effortless. He’s only 27, though it’s unclear if he’s the youngest of the trio.
Then there’s Kirill Alexander Volkov, the oldest of the rulers, a man whose name alone is enough to command fear. He’s the tactician, the one whose whispers make or break empires.
And finally, there’s the third. The mystery. No one knows his real name. No pictures, no public presence. He’s only known by his code name: Ice.
He’s the ghost in their power triangle, the most hidden, the most unpredictable. Why he stays in the shadows, no one knows, but the rumors surrounding him are enough to keep even the boldest at bay.
Everyone in New York knows about the three rulers of the Bratva, their control spanning far and wide. Lev might be the billionaire golden boy, but beneath the surface, he’s as dangerous as the rest.
The club does not disappoint. It’s grand, opulent, and undeniably Russian in its aesthetic. A Russian song blares through the speakers, the kind of beat that makes you move even if you can’t understand a word.
Glamour blonde, I think to myself. That must be me, the way I’m vibing to this song like I actually know what they’re saying.
The place is packed, but it doesn’t feel like a typical nightclub.
The air is heavy with something else, business, power, danger.
Most of the crowd is dressed in sleek black suits, their sharp gazes and quiet conversations giving them away as people who are here for more than just drinks and dancing.
Mafia types, no doubt, probably here to strike deals or intimidate rivals.
But honestly? I don’t care what kind of serial killers or mobsters are lurking in the shadows tonight. I didn’t come here to think about them, or about the man whose name I refuse to even think.
Nope. Tonight is about fun, forgetting, and losing myself in the music and the buzz of alcohol.
Sienna and I make our way to the bar. It’s time to get drunk.
I glance at her, marveling at how confident she is. Sienna doesn’t need liquid courage; she can flirt, dance, and own the floor the second she steps onto it.
Me? Not so much. I need a boost. Or two. Or three, maybe.
I lean against the bar, already planning how to make up for lost time. Tonight, I’m not going to overthink or spiral. Tonight, I’m going to let loose.
Sienna and I take a second shot, and I can already feel the buzz kicking in. Around us, eyes begin to linger. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but we’re hot. The kind of hot that commands attention without even trying.
The sultry beats of “Killshot” by Magdalena pulse through the room, the perfect soundtrack to our rebellion. We take a third shot, and the moment it hits, we head straight to the dance floor, losing ourselves in the music.
I sing along with the lyrics, my body moving in time with the beat. Sienna and I sway our hips in perfect unison, our movements slow and deliberate, hands brushing each other’s as if we’re the room’s entertainment.
We look like a lesbian couple hired to drive everyone wild, and judging by the heat in the room, it’s working. Maybe that’s exactly what I want, to be untouchable, unattainable, to make them all want something they’ll never have.
“Beauty is power,” my mother always said, and tonight, I’m proving her right. I’m going to make them kneel with their mouths open and their hearts in their throats.
I don’t need him.
I can have any man I want. Except him.
But we don’t want him, remember?
The voices in my head, quiet when I’m sober, are louder when I’m drunk. Taunting, questioning, challenging me to believe what I’m telling myself.
I push them aside, focusing on the rhythm of the song, the way my body feels under the lights, the electricity of being watched. For now, that’s all I care about. For now, that’s enough.
The fourth shot hits, and at this point, I DO NOT FREAKING CARE.
We’re on the dance floor, and “Often” by The Weeknd pours through the speakers, wrapping around us like a sinful promise. The beat takes over, and the lyrics, those filthy, teasing lyrics, make my cheeks flush as I move my hips like a woman with no inhibitions.
My body sways, my hands trailing up and down my sides, but no matter how much I try to lose myself in the moment, my mind betrays me.
A certain 6’4” man with thick dark hair and ocean-blue eyes creeps into my thoughts.
I’m not going to think about him. Not about how his tattooed arms felt wrapped around me, or how his hard, muscular body pressed into mine, commanding me like I belonged to him.
But my thighs clench involuntarily, and I curse myself under my breath.
I cannot be wet right now. Not here. Not now.
But the song isn’t helping, the alcohol is coursing through me, and my traitorous mind refuses to cooperate. I push the thoughts down, hard, but they simmer just below the surface, threatening to spill over.
I glance at Sienna. She’s moving with the same reckless energy, but there’s something distant in her eyes, like she’s caught in her own web of thoughts. Whatever she’s thinking about, she’s just as lost in it as I am.
We keep dancing. We dance until time loses meaning, until the lights blur and the music becomes our only reality. For now, that’s all that matters.
For now, we don’t care.