Vanessa
Chapter one
Five years later
My face hurts like a bitch.
I pull down my visor mirror and check the cut above my eyebrow again.
It’s still oozing a little blood, but thankfully it isn’t gushing.
I was worried that Russ had hit me so damn hard I was going to need stitches.
That asshole liked roughing me up a little too much.
He wore a maniacal smile with each punch.
The plan was for him to make me look like I’d been knocked around by my boyfriend, not fucking beat me to shit.
I should have known he’d take it just a touch too far.
Not so much that he couldn’t rein himself back in, but just far enough that he showed me what he could and would do if I went back on our deal.
Russ has been increasingly psychotic over the last year.
I know his boss, Damien Sokolov, has been iced out of the organization since Nikolai Petrov took over the New York Bratva and that Russ slithered away with him.
Since my mother is no longer married to a soldier, I really have no idea what the hell Damien did to get him into hot water, though I have my suspicions.
The fact that he’s a first-class sick bastard could account for a whole host of issues Petrov may have with him now.
Since my stepfather died and we were sent to our little apartment building, I’ve been essentially excommunicated from the organization. I haven’t had much reason to keep up with Bratva politics—not that I did much before.
While my mother was married to Russ’s father, he didn’t necessarily talk freely about business with her or around us, but there were signs when things were getting dicey in his world.
I recall a couple of stab wounds here and there that my mother tended to and a few late-night meetings when my mother would check on me and my sister to make sure we stayed in our rooms. But he never lost control with my mom or us kids.
And he kept his son on a leash, which made him tolerable in my book.
When Lev died, Russ didn’t care that his father wanted us to be a family. That he wanted Russ to take care of us and keep us safe. But Russ has always looked at us like we were trash, and nothing has changed from the moment he shipped us off to live in our shitty apartment.
When his boss disappeared into the void, I was hoping Russ would follow him.
Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, and now I’m here, beat to shit and counting on one of the Black Roses to take pity on me so I can somehow get close enough to find the information Russ is looking for.
Personally, I think he’s overestimating my ability to play the damsel in distress and the idea that I can convince a group of bikers to…
what? Take me in and nurse me back to health?
Granted, I’m not particularly well-versed in biker politics or how they view women who have been hurt, but if my stepbrother is or has ever been involved with this particular club, I can’t imagine they care all that much.
He insists these guys don’t like seeing women in these types of situations, but I have my doubts.
Most men in this life don’t give a shit either way.
Blowing out a breath, I get out of my car and head toward the back entrance of Midnight Rose, the club I started working at a few weeks ago.
Russ wanted me to get a feel for the motorcycle club.
Originally, he thought I could catch the attention of a biker and become an old lady or a side piece, but I’ve yet to see one of the brothers when I’ve been dancing.
Rumor has it most of them are basically wifed up and none of them have been known to stray.
Since Russ’s original plan isn’t getting the results he wants, it was time for plan B—hence the bruised face.
One of the bouncers who started only a little while before I did sees me walking up with a baseball cap obscuring my face from direct view.
“Hey, Van,” Jake says. “I was wondering if you—” I look up from the ground and he inhales a sharp breath. “Fucking hell.”
Jake opens the back door for me, and I step inside the building. Before I have a chance to take another step, he gently takes my arm in his soft grasp.
I turn and look into his worried gaze. “Give me a name, Vanessa. That’s all I need.”
My attempt at a smile is a little more painful than I’d like, considering the cut on my bottom lip. “It’s okay, Jake. I thought I could grab a few things from a friend’s place, but my ex showed up looking for me. Dumb luck, I guess.” I shrug. “I gotta get ready for my shift.”
Jake grimaces. “Van, you can’t go on stage like that.”
My eyes fill with tears. I could try to convince myself they’re fake, but that wouldn’t be the whole truth. Honestly, Jake is a nice guy who is obviously worried about me. That’s not something many men in my life have ever been.
“I don’t have a choice. If I don’t dance, I can’t pay rent.” I rest my hand on his. “Besides, this is nothing a little makeup won’t cover.”
“Sounds like you’re talking from experience.”
I offer him one last sad smile without explaining anything further and turn toward the dressing room. There’s no point. Jake isn’t the one I need to sell this con to.
When I open the door, the room is buzzing with activity.
No one pays me any mind until Chantel, one of the other dancers, glances in my direction.
Her eyes widen, much in the same way Jake’s did.
When she stares at me a beat too long, the girl sitting next to her looks over at what’s caught her attention.
“Shit,” Chantel says and gets up to make her way over to me.
The room goes silent and all the girls are now staring at me.
Chantel gently cups the side of my face, worry and a touch of anger in her gaze as she tilts my head from side to side. “What happened, honey?”
“My ex didn’t like the fact that I won’t return his calls. Decided to make a point.”
A chorus of “That fucking asshole,” “What a piece of shit,” and “I hope you kicked him in the dick” echoes through the space.
“I’ll be fine,” I croak out through the lump in my throat.
It’s not hard to sell how upset I am. I got knocked around, I feel like shit, and I wasn’t really lying to Jake when I said if I didn’t dance, I couldn’t pay the rent for my room at the little motel I’m staying at just outside of town.
I mean, I can, but it’s going to cut into my savings that I’ve been trying to shove as much money as possible into before Russ demands a cut from my tips, which he’s been doing since I started dancing at his club.
You would think since Russ needs me for this job, he would be paying my rent at the motel, or at least not be asking for a cut of my tips while I’m here, but you would be wrong.
And the kicker is, he knows I won’t argue.
Not when my mom and sister are on the line.
I don’t believe for a second that he won’t throw us out if this plan doesn’t work or if the mood simply strikes him.
“Of course you’ll be fine, but you aren’t right now, and that’s okay, too.
Come on.” Chantel takes my hand and leads me over to one of the vanities.
“Diamond, go get me some ice from the bar.” Chantel opens her makeup drawer and pulls out a small first aid kit.
She opens an alcohol wipe packet and dabs it on my eyebrow.
When I hiss at the sting, she looks at me with an apology in her soft gaze. “Did you call the cops?”
I shake my head. “What’s the point? I don’t want to have to deal with that bullshit. He doesn’t know where I am, and I want to keep it that way. If I file a report, he’ll just try to find me and do it all over again.”
Chantel nods. “I get it.”
And I can tell she does. Probably because she’s either been in a similar situation or is close with someone who has.
It’s not an uncommon story, and if I said I didn’t feel like shit for using someone’s past pain to gain sympathy, I’d be lying through my teeth.
But I’d feel even worse if Russ made good on his threat to make my mom’s and sister’s lives a living hell should I decide not to go through with this.
Moments later, Diamond returns with an ice pack.
Before she closes the door, Sylvie, the club manager, walks in.
Sylvie is honestly one of the best managers I’ve ever worked for, and I’ve spent the last nine years dancing in various clubs all owned by the Bratva.
Trust me when I say I’ve worked for some of the worst of the worst. This is my first time at a club that has a woman in charge, and the difference is staggering.
Sylvie doesn’t put up with any bullshit infighting, and she isn’t trying to get private dances in exchange for better shifts.
Her blue eyes meet mine as she tosses her long red hair over her shoulder and comes to stand next to me.
The girl sitting at the vanity next to the one I’m at gets up from the chair, and Sylvie sits down, turning to face me.
Her hand cups my chin as she examines the cut on my lip and above my eyebrow.
“What happened?” she asks.
“My ex found me,” I reply, and she nods.
“Do you think he’s going to cause trouble here?”
“He doesn’t know I work here. Your club is safe.” Maybe I spoke too soon when I thought Sylvie wasn’t like the other managers I’ve worked with.
Sylvie shakes her head. “I just need to know if we need more security. I can talk to Ozzy and get an extra guy or two if you think you’re in danger here.”
I’ve never met Ozzy. I know who he is from Sylvie and my stepbrother.
He’s the president of the Black Roses MC, but he doesn’t come in here often, if ever, unless it’s to talk to Sylvie before we open.
But he never stays to party afterward. At least I’ve never seen it.
Might have something to do with his tough-as-balls lawyer fiancée I’ve heard so much about, but that would honestly surprise me if it were the case.
Most of the customers I had back in New York had a woman waiting at home.