Chapter 2
Alyona
“Does it turn you on?”
Devin’s blunt question makes me groan. She’s standing next to me in the stock room, hand on her popped-out hip and lips cherry red as I grab more simple syrup.
“The old man’s obsession, I mean.”
“I know what you meant Dev—”
“Oh, so you’re finally admitting that he’s obsessed with you?” She cuts me off.
“No,” I huff out, juggling the cool bottles against my bare skin. “He’s not obsessed with me. And he’s not even that old, he’s like… in his forties. He’s probably just doing my dad a favor.”
“Mmm. Your dad wants his hot boss staring you down like he wants to fuck you on the bar, right in front of every other dangerous man in Savannah?”
“No!” An image of her suggestion runs through my mind, and makes my face heat. “I mean, you know how my dad feels about me working here. He probably just wants someone to keep an eye on me. He’s always talking about danger being too close to the business.”
I snort; it’s a ridiculous thought. Since the moment I set foot in America, I’ve tried to avoid my father as much as possible.
Devin takes some of the bottles, propping the door open with her hip.
We disappear up the spiral staircase that leads to the second floor.
More salacious things happen up here, and Jak tends to turn his head and let the girls do what they want.
Often offering alternative services that aren’t on the menu.
Devin and I head straight to the smaller bar, ignoring everyone.
Neither of us are willing to go that far, no matter how badly we need the money.
“Okay, but even if you’re right, I doubt the leader of the Bratva himself would take on that job. Surely, he has, like, minions or something? You know, to do his dirty work.”
“Boyeviks,” I correct her automatically, already knowing that Devin is giving me a confused look. “Warriors. They’re led by a captain, kind of.”
When I look up from arranging the cabinet and checking that everything is fully stocked, Devin has that other look on her face. “I always forget you were basically raised by the Bratva.”
“I wasn’t,” I insist, taking a second to lean into a darkened corner of the room and give my heels a rest. They’re already aching, and I’m only halfway through my shift. “My mom raised me, remember? And my grandparents. I’ve only been here for seven years.”
“Still. That’s seven years of getting to know that mob. And seven years of Mr. Baranov watching you, right?”
Her smirk is teasing, and I scoff, but the thought makes my heart thud. That can’t be true, I came here when I was eighteen after Mom died in a car accident.
“He’s only been watching me for the nine months I’ve worked here, Dev.”
“Ohhhh so you’re admitting it now!”
The clack-clack of heels makes us both roll our eyes, and Devin’s twin sister Cinnamon appears. We often joke that she was a diversity hire for Jak. Slighter than the other bartenders, waitresses, and dancers, Cinn only has one thing in common with the rest of us—C tits or larger.
She’s paler than Devin, more fragile looking, and her nose is always so upturned that I swear she must have neck problems.
“What are you two doing? It’s getting busy downstairs.”
“How would you know?” Devin quips back, barely glancing at her sister. “You spend so much time up here. On your knees.”
Cinn ignores the dig, but I can’t help snorting, noticing that her knees are in fact red.
She crosses her arms, pushing her tits up.
“Jak might notice and give your Saturday spot away. And Aly…” She sneers, looking me up and down.
“Maybe try not to snort. It’s a little too piggish, don’t you think? ”
Devin whirls around, but I push past the two of them, not wanting Cinnamon to see my face and how much her words actually bother me.
“It’s fine, Dev, let’s go,” I call back airily, blinking rapidly to get rid of tears. “Wouldn’t want to catch something up here!”
Devin laughs, hurrying to catch up, but she stays quiet as we make our way back down the staircase.
Cinn takes digs at me wherever she can, and I know Devin tries to defend me, but it’s futile at this point.
I work here because the money is good; better than anywhere else in Savannah.
The more I earn and the faster I earn it, the quicker I can get my aesthetician license and move on.
Then, I’ll never have to look at Cinn again.
At the bottom of the stairs, I glance up reflectively and there he is: Kazimir Baranov, watching me like he really is obsessed. My heart twists sourly at the thought. I’m all too aware just why Cinn’s comments hit hard…to some extent, they’re true.
Behind the bar, sure, I can pull off sultry and tempting. But the second I step out and the men see how much of a handful I am; their interest dies.
Kazimir Baranov would never want a woman like me.
Plus, he’s at least fifteen years older.
No, as much as Devin likes to tease me, there’s no chance in hell that the Bratva boss is here for me. Not really.
He’s just doing your dad a favor, that voice in my head whispers.
Devin, reading the room, leaves me alone to get back to work. I pull two beers, chat with a female lawyer who comes here to unwind (and, I think, has a thing for one of the dancers) and glance up now and then to see if Baranov needs a refill.
He’ll stay almost to the end.
That much I know. Kazimir Baranov doesn’t go home until almost two in the morning.
It’s approaching 1:30 a.m., and my least favorite crowd is here—startup bros. They’re trouble, but Jak turns his head when the coke comes out or the girls are grabbed a little too roughly.
Cinn makes a brief appearance, drawing a victim upstairs and into spending more money. Reflexively, I look to Mr. Baranov to see if he notices her—the way her pale skin seems to glow under the dim lights, the little teddy she has on that’s so narrow in the crotch it’s barely there.
He’s still watching me. I think. It’s hard to tell with the way his strong chin dips down, shadows darkening his brow. My eyes track the dark lines of tattoos that appear on the back of his hands, like the night climbing out of his suit and devouring him.
How far do those tattoos go?
How much of his body do they map?
“Mmm. Old men aren’t usually my thing, but he looks expensive, doesn’t he?”
Cinn’s comment startles me when she wiggles by, dipping her finger into the cherry jar and sucking on it with a smirk.
I glance up into the shadows again. Her insults are ridiculous, because no one with half a brain—or eyes—would call Kazimir Baranov an old man.
He’s practically a tower of muscle, and despite the silver in his hair, his beard is still dark brown and full.
“I wonder if he’ll let me sit in his lap.”
She’s played this game before—noticed Kazimir’s attention and tried to pull it away from me. I watch as she steps seductively up to his table. Pulls her hair over her shoulder, exposing her thin neck, the swell of her tits.
But his eyes don’t move from mine. Not until he lifts his chin in a flash of caramel, licks his lips as his eyes trace the pasties barely clinging to my nipples. A shiver wracks down my spine.
“Hey, sugartits.”
A tech bro blocks my view.
He’s maybe in his early twenties, and clearly too far gone. White powder coats one nostril and he tilts, catching himself against a barstool. His face is vaguely familiar. I squint, trying for a polite smile and opening my mouth to offer him a drink.
Instead he reels forward, up-and-downs my body when he can finally see it, and comments: “I don’t usually fuck fat girls, but I don’t think I’ll remember tonight anyway. And a warm hole is a warm hole, right?”
With a smirk, he reaches out and gropes me.
Behind him, Kazimir Baranov, leader of the Savannah Bratva, pushes his chair back with a screech.