Chapter 5
Kirill
“You want to know if I like my job?” a stripper named Chantilly—or something equally ridiculous—asks, completely bewildered.
“That was my question, yes,” I confirm, rolling my neck side to side, uneasy with how she practically shakes in front of me.
What really pisses me off, though, is the way she keeps glancing over her shoulder at the girls lined up behind her, like I’m setting a trap and she’s waiting for one of them to swoop in and save her.
“I… um… yes?” she finally says, her voice lifting at the end as if unsure of the correct response.
“Are you asking me, or telling me?”
When she looks even more confused, I pinch the bridge of my nose, hating the red-haired vixen for manipulating me into thinking I’m a bad boss.
I pay their wages every week on the dot. I don’t take a cut of their tips. I don’t hit them or lay a hand on them like some sleaze. What more could they want from a working environment?
“Let me try it this way,” I say, forcing what I hope passes for a non-intimidating smile. “If you could do any other job, what would it be?”
All I get in return is another blank stare, as if I were speaking a foreign language.
Mne pizdets.
“Okay.” I grind my molars. “How about you think on it and come back to me.” I wave her off and signal the next girl, flipping my Zippo open and shut to temper my annoyance. “You… what’s your name?” I ask, since I’ve never bothered memorizing the names.
It’s not a sexist thing. I don’t know the names of most of my soldiers either. And why would I, save for a few? They’re just pawns in my brother’s Bratva games anyway. Knowing their names would be like pretending I’m even remotely interested in their lives. It would mean I care. And I don’t.
‘You’re the kind of man who only ever thinks about himself. Selfishness and arrogance have a way of staining the soul. And that smudge is all over you.’
That’s what Stella said back at the charity ball.
It didn’t bother me then. The disdain in her voice when she described me like that barely registered.
But yesterday, when she showed up at my club and implied I was bad at my job, yeah, that pissed me off.
Especially when she hinted that loyalty isn’t earned through fear.
My brother might rule with an iron fist back in Moscow, but his men would die for him without question. Can I honestly say the same about mine? Hence this bullshit.
“Can you repeat that?” I ask, realizing I didn’t catch a single word the stripper just said, my thoughts still tangled up in Stella’s last visit.
“It’s Amber-Lynn,” she repeats, this one being brave enough to meet my gaze head-on.
“Do you like your job, Amber-Lynn?”
“Not really, no,” she says, glancing toward the two men flanking me, Lev and Pyotr.
Finally, some honesty.
“And why’s that?”
“Well, for one… some of your men like to cop a feel without paying for it. I don’t mind being touched, but only when I say they can and always when they pay me,” she replies, looking straight at Pyotr.
I look at Lev first. He’s supposed to be my go-to guy, so I didn’t think twice when he vouched for his brother-in-law, Pyotr, and asked me to move him up through the ranks.
Now I’m starting to think he only wanted the man close so he could keep an eye on him.
If Pyotr’s hands can wander over the girls without fear of punishment, they can just as easily wander to my money.
And that would be enough to have them both killed on the spot.
“Pyotr, give me your wallet.”
“You want my wallet, boss?” the fucker parrots back, eyes wide.
“Did I fucking stutter?” He has the good sense, at least, not to argue and quickly hands it over. I flick through the stack of hundreds inside, as if browsing a boring menu. “How much does Pyotr owe you?”
“Are we talking just last night? Or the full tab?” she asks bluntly, placing her hands on her hips.
“Give me a ballpark, Amber-Lynn. I don’t have all day.”
“Two grand should cover it.”
I count through Pyotr’s bills and find he’s more than five hundred short.
“Pyotr, give me that Rolex on your wrist.”
“Boss, but I—”
I turn my head toward him slowly and fix him with a menacing glare. That’s all it takes. The watch practically flies off his wrist and lands on the table in front of me.
“Now, are we good?” I ask Amber-Lynn, who is still counting her dollar bills.
After making sure it’s all there, she pockets the cash and the new watch in the hollow of her cleavage for safekeeping.
“We are now, boss.”
“Good.” I raise my voice. “As for the rest of you, if you want any sort of attention from my girls, make sure the woman in question is willing and properly compensated. If she’s not in the mood, or she doesn’t like your face, HANDS.
THE. FUCK. OFF. Anyone who breaks the rules from here on out will end up with no hands to speak of. ”
“Yes, boss,” the men answer in unison.
“And that applies to the clientele as well. If you see anyone taking liberties with the girls, set the same example. Is that understood?”
“Yes, boss!” they all shout again.
“Good. Next.”
The next girl steps forward. This one is a little older than the others, and by the stern expression on her face, she’s not going to be satisfied with surface-level promises.
“Name?”
“Paulette, Mr. Petrov,” she says politely, her brown eyes matching the smooth ebony of her skin.
“Good morning, Paulette. Now tell me… do you like your job?”
“I don’t mind it, sir. It’s an honest wage at the end of the day, and I’ve never been manhandled like some of the younger girls. Though I do appreciate that you’re doing something about that now.”
“So what’s the problem then? Judging by the look on your face, I’d say you’ve got one.”
She chews the corner of her bottom lip in hesitation before coming right out and saying what’s on her mind.
“I have a little boy, sir. He just turned five. My Jevon is smart and well-behaved—”
“Why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”
“Well… he has asthma, sir. And sometimes it’s hard to afford his medication on my salary and tips alone.
Without insurance, his inhaler costs over two hundred dollars, and that’s before the allergy meds, maintenance inhalers, or any hospital bills come into play.
I’ve had to take extra jobs on my days off just to keep up, and most of that goes straight to the babysitter anyway,” she explains, both exhausted and angry with her lot in life.
“And all of that would go away if you stopped paying us under the table and put us on the books with health insurance.”
Fuck. Okay… maybe Stella was right. Maybe I am the worst boss ever.
This time, I stand up from my chair and look at the line of girls still waiting to speak to me, their tired, hollow expressions saying more than their words ever could. It’s obvious to me now that most of them are clearly juggling two or three jobs just to survive.
Blyad!
I know firsthand what it’s like to be stretched so thin you can’t afford to keep up with day-to-day bills, let alone pay for proper medication.
My poor babushka lost her sight because we couldn’t cover the cost of her diabetes care and medication.
And here I am, causing the same heartache for other families because of my fucking apathy.
“I’ll talk to my accountant today and get this squared up.
Before the month is through, you all will be in the books with proper health insurance,” I announce.
“I’ll also be raising your hourly wage by twenty dollars.
None of you should have to take extra jobs just to get by.
Now, with that said, is there anything else you need?
Anything you’ve been too afraid to tell me before? ”
At first, there’s nothing but silence in the room. Then slowly, hands begin to rise. Not only from the girls, but from my soldiers too. One by one, they wave their hands up high. Each one holding a grievance. A plea. A reason to be loyal to me.
This is going to be a long-ass morning. And I have Stella Romano to thank for it.
By the time the afternoon crowd filters into my club, I’ve got a to-do list longer than Webster’s Dictionary.
A complete remodel of the stage and seats.
Better wardrobes and accessories. A better DJ.
Better booze. Lighting, security, and a new sound system.
They even want me to change the name of the club and a new sign out front to match.
I’ll admit, I was never a fan of The Velvet Pole, and the alternative the girls came up with actually has a nice ring to it—Obsidian.
The name fits me like a glove—all black, smooth, unyielding.
A little too on the nose, maybe. Still, it’s a hell of an improvement.
Might even class up the joint. By my count, all these changes mean I’m out a few hundred grand a week.
This club was never supposed to be a real business.
It was meant to be a front. A place for my men to meet, unwind, and operate in peace.
But the amount of money I’m suddenly willing to sink into making everyone’s life better?
Yeah. This place better start turning a profit the minute it opens again.
Oh, and that’s the other thing I somehow ended up promising. I have just informed everyone who works for me that I’m going to shut the club down until the end of the year for renovations, while still ensuring that everyone continues to receive their pay.
And the worst part? I’m not even halfway done through my list of demands, the terrorists.
Because I still have my men to think about.
They want more than booze and pussy now.
They want raises, new guns, better cars, and a promise that if they end up in a ditch, their families won’t follow them there.
They want respect. And they want me to give them a reason to believe I’m worth bleeding for. Pizdets.