3. Nadia #2
“Queens don’t really kneel do they?” I tease, swiping my hand across the fuzzy felt of the table, signaling that I don’t want any more cards.
Sho responds. “They do in front of a King. Wouldn’t you agree, Draco?”
Draco chuckles from his perch at the edge of the table, the sound low and guttural, like gravel grinding beneath a boot. A card slides across the table to Sho, and he sucks his teeth, flipping over his cards to reveal a bust.
“Only if the King teaches her. Queens and peasants alike have a place, no?" Draco says, his voice thick with a Russian accent, slow and smug like he’s trying to enunciate through the accent.
“And where would that place be?” I question flipping over my cards and revealing my twenty while the dealer reveals his nineteen. The chips bet that round all go to me.
I roll my shoulder back, pushing my hair over my shoulder so Draco can get a better look at my face.
“Ah, Privet, Amerikanskaya devochka.” He nods, and I bristle at his greeting.
For those of you who don’t speak Russian he said ‘ hello, American girl.’ My blood boils because it’s not that he just disrespected my title as leader of the Bratva but he just referred to me as an American as if where I was born counteracts my true lineage. “Sorry for the… boy talk.”
I place both hands flat on the table, and hiss.“You know, Draco, I have killed men for less disrespect.”
My eyes finally land on Draco, as if he was ever really that hard to miss—built like a butcher, broad shoulders stretching the seams of his tailored charcoal suit.
The fabric clings to muscle, not vanity.
His face is carved from violence: a long, jagged scar runs from the edge of his left brow, slicing clean across his cheek to the corner of his mouth.
It warps his smile into something grotesque—half sneer, half smirk—and all signs of a Bratva snitch.
“Kill?” Draco chuckles, running a hand full of thick gold and diamond encrusted rings over his close-cut , military-neat shaved head. “Trust me, Amerikanskaya. I have bigger monsters than you.”
Sho whistles low under his breath and leans back in his chair, as he sets up two more chips to bet for the next round as the dealer clears the table. “I would have to disagree, Draco. Nadia is one scary princess.”
Draco’s laughter booms across the table, crude and heavy, shaking the ice in his untouched glass. He leans back, smug and round, brushing a meaty hand over the close-cropped bristle of his head. The diamonds on his knuckles flash like teeth in low light.
“She may have been an assassin,” he wheezes, still catching his breath, “but I bet I could kill her, if I wanted.”
I chuckle smoothly at him, sliding my thumb over the edge of the new cards from the dealer. “You have a large mouth, Gnilaya suka.” Rotten bitch. “Always have.”
“Back in the motherland. I could have your tongue cut out! Huh? Is that what you want, you stupid--”
I don’t wait for his insult to complete.
In one smooth, merciless motion, I rise from my chair and move to his side, dress splitting at the thigh to reveal the black leather holster strapped snug against my skin.
My fingers find the handle of the blade without hesitation and I drive the knife clean through Draco’s massive hand, pinning it to the table with a sickening, wet crunch.
His howl cuts through the room like a gunshot.
Blood pours from his hand, spilling across the green felt in a dark bloom.
The dealer rushes away from us as nearby patrons glance in interest. This is a criminal underground organization after all, so no one truly bats an eye at this grotesque display of power.
I lean in close, my breath warm against the shell of his ear, my voice cold enough to still his heart. “You should be afraid of me, Draco. I’m the monster you forgot to fear.”
His other hand jerks toward the knife, as he grits through his teeth. “I will have you hanged for this.”
“Being so close to home makes you forget yourself.” I snarl , twisting the knife in his hand. “I am more powerful than you are, suka. I could have you amputated, decapitated, on all fours catering to me like the fucking dog you are.”
I jerk back, and his free hand flies to the handle to pull the knife out from his hand, but before he can grip the hilt, I stab again, swift and exact, through the meat of his second palm.
Both of his hands are now skewered to the table like slabs of putrid meat, blood streaming down the carved grooves of the table’s edge.
Draco roars, struggling like a trapped beast, face twisted in rage and agony. “You bitch!”
“Yes, I am that bitch, and you are a dead man Draco, if you keep fixing your lips to speak to me like this.” I hiss in his face, as he roars against the table.
Before I became queen of the Bratva, I was their most deadly assassin: known for my dramatics and cruelty, but even with evidence and rumors of my deeds, men like Draco let a thing like a pussy cloud their judgement.
They think because I am a woman, that I am not strong.
That I am not cruel. That I can’t be deadly.
Sho doesn’t even flinch. He lifts his glass, swirls the amber liquor, and takes a thoughtful sip, before pointing at a struggling Draco.
“I’d stop moving if I were you,” he says lazily, eyes flicking to the blade handles. “She’s got a third one. And she’s always been fond of the throat.”
I straighten, blood slick on my fingers, and meet Draco’s stunned, pain-glazed stare. “You are to report to Brother Sergei Volkov by dawn for your punishment.”
“You stupid bitch. You think--”
I grip the back of his head and slam it into the table with all my force. His head lolls back up with a thick line of blood sliding down the middle of his forehead.
I lean down, the stench of metal and melons wafts off his flesh as I snarl in his ear.
“This is a courtesy of Brother Volkov that I do not kill you myself as he has his own bone to pick with you, but one more rude comment and I will send you to him in pieces. Do you understand your orders, soldat.” Soldier.
“Y-yes,” he groans, hanging his head down between his shoulder blades in shame.
“Good,” I purr, pulling back and making eye contact with an amused Sho. “What?”
He shrugs, leaning back on the high chair and interlocking his fingers over his abdomen. “Nothing.”
My eyes scan the room and the other patrons quickly avoid my gaze.
“I just thought you were here to kill me,” he mocks. “I am feeling jealous, that’s all.”
“If I wanted to kill you,” I arch a bow, and move closer to him. “You’d be dead.”
He peels back his lips and reveals a blinding smile.
There is something about Sho that truly melds my heart back together.
It is mind boggling how a man this cute, could also be deadlier than me.
I know from how I look, it is unsurprising when I am cruel, but Sho?
He looks like sunshine. He looks like he’d help a grandmother across the street.
Like he would coach little league and kiss his wife chastely on the cheeks.
If it weren’t for the tattoos, you’d think he’d been on the straight and narrow his entire life.
“So what about me, keeps me alive, Hime.” He smirks. His arm stretches across the edge of the table, fingertips grazing against the sleeve of my arm, so gently I hold my breath, silently begging for him to do more. “My smile. My abs. Oh, I know, my winning personality.”
“Your personality is shit,” I smile.
“I can’t tell from the way you’re smiling.” He shrugs, moving in even closer, the smell of smoke wraps around me and I feel drunk.
I lean in, just close enough to blur the lines between threat and want. “Maybe I like watching you squirm.”
Sho’s smile deepens, lashes lowering in that infuriating, devastating way of his. “You like watching me, period.”
He shifts in his seat, arm still lazily stretched across the table, his fingers brushing the crook of my elbow now. It’s such a light touch—barely anything—but it steals the air from my lungs. I can’t stop staring at his mouth.
“I think you keep me alive,” he murmurs, “because you want to see what else I can survive.”
“And if I wanted to test that theory?” I ask, my voice a silky smooth that I have never heard before.
His eyes glitter a shade darker than playfulness. “Then I’d let you.” He lifts my hand, presses his lips to my knuckles—not as a gentleman, but as a man who knows how to break each of my knuckles cleanly. “But you’d have to promise not to stop halfway.”
My mouth opens and I am about to tell him there is nothing half-ass about me when a phlegmy voice cuts through the tension.“That’s enough!”
The world seems to tune back in around us and I can hear the continuous moaning of Draco as his eyes drag up and down the exposed knife. A short, bald Japanese man storms towards the table in an expensive horribly red suit, flanked by two security guards.
The man stops right in front of us, hands on his hips as he narrows his gaze on me. “Miss?”
I reluctantly slide my hand out of Sho’s and present it to the man like a queen addressing a peasant. “Petrov.”
“Ah, Miss Petrov,” he bows, kissing the curl of my wrist with a wide smile as his opposite hand snaps, pointing to Draco’s whimpering body.
One of the guards grunts moving to fumble with the knives impaling Draco to the felt. Draco, the big baby he is, groans and curses in Russian as they finally wrench his hands free, blood dripping onto the floor.
“Miss Petrov, do you know the rules of Yūrei Club?” He questions, grabbing my hand lightly in his as his eyes swipe across the room with flare. In the background, Draco groans as his seat yawns, finally released from the weight of him.
“No weapons? No killing other patrons?” I mock, tilting my head to the side as I tug my hand roughly out of his tightening grip.
“Oh, so you know that you’ve violated the rules of conduct, Miss Petrov,” he barks, the act of casual conversation disappearing behind a snarl. “This establishment does not tolerate acts of violence—no matter the offense, or attraction.”
Attraction? Is he referring to my dress? Does he think I am a sex worker? I mean no work is more honorable, but he must be deranged to believe that this is a proper way to talk to a lady. I rise to full height, chin tilted, ready to snap—but Sho beats me to it.
He sighs, long-suffering and charmingly apologetic, then pulls a gold-edged hotel card from the inner pocket of his blazer. It gleams under the low light like a badge of divine right. His hand rests heavily on the curl of my spine, right above my ass.
“She’s with me,” he says smoothly, flashing the card. “Apologies for the… misunderstanding.”
The man’s face pales as he glances between the card and me multiple times before his posture collapses into a frantic bow. The guards follow suit, heads lowered.
“Forgive me, Sho-sama,” the man stammers. “I didn’t realize. No offense intended. Of course she may stay—or leave—under your discretion.”
Sho waves a hand, all casual dismissal, and his control over the situation intrigues me. “No worries. I’ll be handling her…reeducation in proper conduct myself.”
The man nods so fast I snort at the idea that he might pass out. “Yes, of course. Please.”
Sho turns to me then, still smiling—but now with a gleam that makes my spine arch with heat.
“Shall we, Hime?” he asks, offering his arm.
I curl my lips into a smile of adoration, one I have learned from years of seduction during a mission. I must look gorgeous because Sho’s eyes darken with hunger and my thighs clench at all the nasty things he must be thinking.
I slide my hand through the crook of his arm and turn my smile on the order. “I do apologize for not following the rules of this establishment. I do have much to learn in conduct.”
The man smiles in a way to most that looks like politeness but to me looks like fear. “Mondai nai desu.” There's no problem.
Sho slightly bows his head and guides me towards the golden elevators across the floor. I don’t look back to make sure Draco is gone, but I hope for his sake he goes to Sergei before Sergei finds him. I keep my head up high as all the eyes in this club follow us across the floor.
The elevator doors shine like polished sin, and just before we reach them, Sho leans in again—his voice low, husky, and threaded with heat.
“Move your ass, Hime , before I have to start a war in here just to keep you to myself.”
His lips brush the shell of my ear as he speaks, and I swear the air leaves my lungs in one slow, stunned exhale. I step faster—not away from him, but toward whatever this is unraveling into.
The elevator dings. Sho presses the button with the same hand that still carries blood beneath his fingernails.
And just before the doors slide shut behind us, he murmurs— “Now…how do you want to learn your manners?”