Chapter 4
AbrAM
Istand in front of the bathroom mirror, towel slung low on my hips, the scent of shaving cream lingering sharp and clean in the air. The overhead light reflects off my bare scalp as I run the blade over the last strip of skin, smooth as marble.
Clean lines. No strays. Precision always.
I wipe the remaining foam from my jaw then stare at my reflection.
The salt-and-pepper beard suits me. It doesn’t hide my age—forty-two and unapologetically carved by time.
But it’s also distinctive, and tonight, I need to disappear.
I reach for the temporary black dye, twist the cap off, and begin working it through the coarse hair.
As the grey vanishes, my face transforms into something harder, more anonymous.
Once finished, I lean back and take in my reflection. Chest solid. Abs still defined. Broad shoulders scarred and strong. Not bad for a man who spends most of his time behind a desk signing contracts.
Still, I know the clock’s ticking. Too many nights spent in boardrooms and too few in the weight room and I’ll end up like every other overfed, soft-palmed executive dragging himself across the Strip. I make a mental note—gym session tomorrow. Heavy weights. No excuses.
But tonight? Tonight, I have other appetites to attend to.
I tug on a crisp black dress shirt tailored to my frame. A dark navy blazer follows—structured, subtle. Italian wool. Matching trousers. No tie. Just clean lines and sharp edges.
Before I leave, I open the top drawer of my dresser.
The mask stares at me.
Black leather, smooth and angular, covering half my face with a sharp V that comes down between my brows. A vertical line of silver studs runs from the center of the forehead to the tip of the nose, catching the light like tiny weapons. The eyes are cut narrow, predatory.
I slide it on, watching as I become someone else entirely.
My mouth curves into an insidious grin.
Tonight, I’m not Abram Vasiliev, the Bratva’s velvet-gloved hand.
Tonight, I’m a man with no name.
And I’m going to have some fucking fun.
My car slides smoothly up to the curb outside The 13th Floor. Neon light cascades down sleek black walls like water over polished stone. I can feel the pulse of bass vibrating through the tinted windows.
I’ve been a regular at this club for years, familiar enough that the staff know my preferences without needing reminders. While the papers haven’t been officially signed yet, the deal’s as good as done. Nothing but formalities left to iron out before I can officially call myself the owner.
Soon enough, this club won’t just be my favorite haunt, it will be mine. Another jewel in the crown of Vasiliev Holdings, another indulgence I can control completely.
The building itself radiates exclusivity with minimal signage. It announces its existence with a subtle silver "13" glowing coolly above tall, black double doors. It whispers sin, luxury, and secrets.
Predictably, there's a line snaking around the corner, desperate hopefuls shifting impatiently on stilettos and expensive leather loafers, their anticipation palpable.
There will be no line to wait in for me, though.
The driver pulls discreetly around back, stopping at the private VIP entrance tucked away in shadow. The guard sees me approach, gives a respectful nod, and waves me in without a word.
The moment I step inside, darkness envelops me. Deep crimson lights scatter pools of warmth across smooth black marble floors, the scent of perfume mingling intoxicatingly with hints of leather and liquor.
A central dance floor sprawls at the heart of the club, bodies writhing in rhythm beneath chandeliers that drip like crystal tears. Plush, private alcoves line the perimeter, separated by curtains that hide nothing from wandering eyes.
As I move deeper into the club, I catch glimpses of heated intimacy: a woman pressed breathlessly against the wall, head thrown back as a stranger’s hand slips beneath her skirt; another couple tangled together on a velvet sofa, oblivious to the voyeuristic crowd gathering nearby, savoring their sexy show with drinks in hand.
Here, inhibitions die at the door—this is a sanctuary for the shameless.
A hostess, professional and carefully neutral, guides me to my booth overlooking the dance floor. She brings my whiskey neat without needing instruction. I sip slowly, my gaze sweeping lazily across the sea of writhing flesh and glittering masks.
Women move like goddesses under the pulsing lights, sultry curves showcased in lingerie barely concealed by gossamer dresses and silky wraps. Men watch them like starving wolves, eyes glittering with lust and possession.
It’s decadence. It’s freedom. And yet tonight, strangely, none of it stirs my blood. I’m contemplating this peculiar apathy when a soft, playful voice cuts through the hum of music.
“Well, hello there, handsome.”
Turning my head slightly, I see two women, young and stunningly beautiful.
One’s dressed in deep emerald, her body lush and perfectly sculpted beneath her dress, the neckline plunging dangerously low.
Her mask is emerald satin, edged in delicate gold filigree.
Her companion wears black satin—slender, angular, with the elegance of a runway model and an alluring red mouth that promises pleasure.
Her mask is a sleek, glossy raven’s wing, feathers shimmering beneath the club lights.
“Care for some company?” the emerald beauty purrs as she steps closer. Her fingertips tease along her friend’s waist, drawing my attention to the implied offer.
“We don’t bite,” the raven-haired woman adds mischievously, a teasing smile tugging at her full lips. “Unless you’re into that.”
Under different circumstances, perhaps, I’d already have them both bent over a bed in one of the back rooms, exploring every lush curve. But tonight, something inside me resists. Neither of them moves me nearly enough.
Not the way she does.
She?
I dismiss that thought immediately.
With practiced courtesy, I lift my glass slightly, acknowledging their bold approach. “Tempting offer, ladies. But I’m not looking for company tonight.”
They exchange disappointed glances, pouting slightly. Emerald shrugs gracefully, her fingertips brushing lightly across my shoulder as she turns away. “Another time, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” I echo, though my tone holds no promise.
I watch them disappear into the crowd, drawing attention elsewhere. They’ll find their thrills easily enough, without me.
Turning my gaze back to the main floor, I settle deeper into the shadows of my booth, sipping my whiskey slowly, savoring the burn down my throat.
I came here tonight seeking anonymity, distraction, and release. So why does it feel like I’m waiting for something or someone else entirely?
I scan the club judiciously, a habit of ownership. I might’ve come here to unwind, but I’m still responsible for the integrity of this place. Or I will be soon enough.
My gaze catches small details: a bouncer discreetly intervening with a guest who’s gotten overly aggressive; a bartender swiftly pouring top-shelf bourbon for a regular; the subtle repositioning of security guards maintaining order and decorum amid the lustful chaos.
Near the bar, a couple commands an admiring audience.
The woman’s back arches as she grips the countertop, her masked partner moving languidly between her spread thighs, mouth teasingly out of sight beneath her skirt.
Her breathless moans blend perfectly with the rhythm of the music, a decadent melody of pleasure weaving through the room.
My pulse should quicken at such sights but instead, my mind drifts stubbornly back to Jenna. Those defiant eyes, that sensual mouth, the way she boldly recited explicit details about this place without a blush or flinch.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I down the last sip of whiskey, savoring the smooth burn, and motion sharply for another. My irritation rises. I came here to indulge, yet no woman holds my interest tonight. Jenna’s got my head twisted, an unwelcome distraction that's proving damn hard to shake.
Just as my frustration reaches its peak, I spot her.
Standing at the bar is a woman with curves made for sin, wrapped in a skintight black cocktail dress that hugs her voluptuous figure with mouthwatering perfection. Her hair is a cascade of rich auburn, tumbling in soft waves over bare shoulders.
The mask she wears is distinctive—a delicate creation of midnight velvet embroidered with intricate silver filigree, small black gems sparkling around the eyes. Her friend stands beside her in a sleek white dress, a shimmering gold mask accentuating her slender, graceful form.
My eyes linger on the redhead. Her body language tells a clear story with the nervous way she shifts her weight, fingers restlessly tracing the edge of her cocktail glass.
First-timer, I’m certain of it.
A wicked thrill of possessiveness soars within, the blood rushing straight to my cock. Finally, someone who ignites me, someone who pulls at me from across the room.
When she turns slightly, taking a hesitant sip of her drink, I freeze. My eyes narrow sharply behind my mask as I scrutinize her profile—the soft line of her jaw, the lush curve of her lips.
Impossible.
The mask might fool a casual observer, but not me. I’ve spent countless hours studying her face, her body, her every move, whether I want to admit it or not.
Jenna.
The woman who invades my fantasies with maddening regularity, who defies me at every turn, who’s becoming an obsession I can’t seem to break. And now she’s here, in my club, dressed like lust incarnate, eyes wide and unsure behind that elaborate disguise.
An unexpected surge of dark, hungry anticipation fills me. My fingers tighten around my glass, knuckles whitening as I watch her. There’s no escaping this now. Jenna has walked right into my territory, straight into my world.
Tonight just became infinitely more interesting.
Will she recognize me? The question churns in the back of my mind, low and hot. She shouldn’t. The beard dye, the mask, the lighting—I’m practically anonymous. But women like Jenna notice details. She could surprise me.
Would I stop her if she did?
Before I can answer myself, she and her friend slide into a booth.
Two men quickly slip into view, making a beeline for the two ladies.
They’re confident in the way jackals are confident—sharp-eyed and predatory.
One of them moves toward Jenna’s friend, trying too hard to be casual.
The other sets his drink down beside Jenna.
Even from my vantage point I can see her shoulders stiffen when he leans in and says something to her.
Neither woman is interested. I can spot it immediately in their posture, in the polite but cold smiles they offer. But the men don’t move on. If anything, they double down—smirking, gesturing, edging closer.
I narrow my eyes. No single men are allowed here. Club rules. Any man inside these walls is supposed to enter with a partner. It keeps the balance, keeps the wolves from circling too freely.
I raise two fingers. Dmitri, the bouncer stationed nearest my booth, walks over with the efficiency of a man who knows I don’t like repeating myself.
“The men in the booth with the two women,” I say, nodding in their direction. “Do they have women with them?”
He follows my line of sight and nods once. “They each walked in with a woman but split up immediately. One’s already in a private room. The other wandered off. Last I saw, she was with a couple.”
Convenient. I keep my face expressionless.
“Problem?” Dmitri asks, tone carefully neutral.
“Not yet.” I take a slow sip of whiskey, watching Jenna glance at the guy beside her with a look that’s more warning than invitation. “If it becomes one, I’ll handle it.”
Dmitri nods and backs off, but I can feel the weight of his gaze, waiting for my signal.
I hate this. The idea of Jenna being approached, flirted with, hunted, while standing in my club under my protection. It sends a hot, violent streak through my blood. A fierceness I can’t shake.
She doesn’t belong to them.
Those curves are for me.
That smart mouth, the fire in her eyes, the way she moves—it all hits me like a loaded gun, aimed low and hard. I’ve tried to remain professional. I’ve tried not to think about what her moans would sound like or how those hips would feel in my hands.
But now she’s here.
Now other men are looking at what’s mine.
My fingers tighten around the glass. I don’t realize how hard I’m gripping it until the edge digs into my palm.
I watch. I wait. Every second those men linger, my anger builds, heavy and silent, coiled just beneath the surface.
If they touch her—if they so much as brush her skin without invitation—I’ll make them regret ever stepping foot in this place.
It’s not just about sex or territory anymore.
It’s about her.
And I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.