Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Erin
“ Y ou think you’re too good to spread your legs?”
The words slam into me like a slap to the face, sharp and degrading. My fingers tighten around the edge of the chair, my knuckles white as I fight to keep my composure.
I’m sitting across from Misha Grinkov in his stale, smoke-choked office, the air so thick with the stench of cheap cologne and cigars that I can barely breathe. My stomach churns, but I force myself to keep my face neutral, my spine straight.
He leans back in his oversized chair, the leather groaning under his bulk like it’s about to give out. With his bloated frame and beady eyes, he looks like a toad perched on a throne—a toad with a gold chain tangled in his chest hair and a permanent sneer plastered across his face.
His predatory gaze sweeps over me, lingering in all the wrong places, and I hate it. I hate him .
“I asked you a question,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous, like the rumble of thunder before a storm.
I know he’s serious. I know him too well to think otherwise.
“I’m not doing it,” I say, my voice slicing through the thick, smoky air like a blade.
It’s sharp. Steady.
But inside, my heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it—a frantic, deafening rhythm that screams danger, danger, danger.
He laughs, his belly shaking like a bowl of jelly. For a second, I think the buttons on his shirt might pop off and unleash the chaos within.
He leans forward, his big, hairy hands slapping the edge of the desk. “This is all part of the job. All the girls here know that now and then, they have to go the extra mile. And trust me—it’ll be worth your while. Those customers are big spenders. You give them a nice little show, hell, they’ll send you out of here with a month’s pay stuffed into your little pink panties.”
I want to puke.
Of all the things I hate about Misha, the way he treats women and talks to them has to be number one.
“Not a chance. You hired me to pour drinks, not sell my soul. I’ll stick to the bar, thanks.”
“Come on, it’s just a little private dance. Go back there, shake that gorgeous ass of yours, and then you’re done. Ten minutes of work, fifteen tops. And if they want more… well, let’s just say the pay gets even better.”
I lock my jaw so tight it’s a miracle my teeth don’t crack. My hands curl into fists beneath the table, nails biting into my palms.
“Take care of my patrons,” he says, his voice dripping with false sweetness. “They pay good money for time in the back room. You’ve got the looks and the body—use that to your advantage and make them happy.”
“Not happening.”
His eyes narrow, the vein in his temple throbbing like it’s about to explode. “You think you can say no to me, little girl? After everything I’ve done for you?” He scoffs, pointing a meaty finger at me. “I took a chance on you, Erin. Gave you the best nights of the week. I wanted to see you thrive, I knew you had it in you. And this is how you repay me?”
I want to laugh in his face, but my rage is too hot.
Everything he’s done for me? Please. He’s done nothing but shove me closer to the edge of a line I refuse to cross.
“I’m not for sale, Misha. And that’s all there is to it.”
His sneer twists into something uglier, something darker. “You think you’re better than the other girls? You’re nothing, Erin. Without me, you won’t last a day. Go on, see who else hires a woman like you.”
He’s wrong. At least, I hope to God he is.
But even if he’s not, I’d rather crawl through broken glass than give him what he wants.
Misha narrows his eyes, his voice dropping to a low, venomous growl. “Go back behind the bar. For now.” He leans forward, his bulk casting a shadow over the desk. “But you’ve got one week to change your mind. The next time I ask, you’d better be in a more… compliant frame of mind.”
He pauses, his cold eyes locking onto mine, and his lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Because if you’re not, I’ll make sure you regret it. And trust me, Erin—you don’t want to find out what happens when I lose my patience.”
I open my mouth to tell Misha exactly where he can shove his compliance, but before I can speak, the office door bursts open. One of his enforcers, a hulking brute with a face like a brick wall, strides in.
“Boss,” the man says, his voice gravelly and low. “We’ve got a problem. That guy who skipped out on his tab last week? He’s been spotted downtown, bragging about how he screwed you over.”
Misha’s eyes darken, his jaw tightening like a vice. “Did he think he could run from me?” He leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled, and his voice drops to a chilling whisper. “Take care of it. Permanently. I want his body dumped where no one will find it. And make sure he suffers before he goes. I don’t tolerate disrespect.”
The enforcer nods, his expression blank, and turns to leave. The door slams shut behind him, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the small room. My blood runs cold, my stomach twisting as the reality of what just happened sinks in.
Misha’s gaze shifts back to me, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “You see, Erin? I don’t tolerate disrespect. From anyone.” He leans forward, his eyes boring into mine. “Remember that.”
I force myself to stay still, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. The threat in his words isn’t subtle.
He flicks his chin up, silently dismissing me. “Top my whiskey off on the way out.” He extends his arm, holding out the glass, shaking it like he’s summoning a servant.
“Sure,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. I get up, snatch the glass from his hand, and walk over to his personal bar. My hands tremble as I scan the bottles, finding the Jack Daniels and placing my hand on the neck.
“Jack Daniels?” he asks, his tone dripping with disdain. “That’s for the guests who don’t know better. Give me the good stuff.”
“The good stuff?” I ask, my voice hollow.
He nods slowly, a smug grin spreading across his face. “That’s right. Bottom shelf.”
I crouch down, my back to him, and reach for the bottle on the bottom shelf. The moment I bend over, I hear his low chuckle.
“There you go,” he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. “That’s the good stuff.”
My skin crawls, and I bite down hard on my tongue to keep from screaming. I straighten up, pour his drink with shaking hands, and force myself to walk back to his desk.
“That good, boss?” I hand him the glass, my voice sickly sweet.
He takes it, his fingers brushing mine in a way that makes my stomach turn. He slurps the whiskey greedily, then sets the glass down with a thud. “See you tomorrow, right?” he asks, his tone casual, like he hasn’t just ordered a man’s death.
I nod, my throat too tight to speak, and hurry out of the office. The moment the door closes behind me, I lean against the wall, my legs shaking.
I fucking quit.
I have to get the hell out of here.
I can no longer work at a place where my boss casually orders hits and treats women like property. I may need a job, but I cannot, will not, trade my dignity.
Without a word, I walk straight past the bar, my boots clicking against the floor with a finality that makes my chest ache. I push through the front doors, the cool fall air slapping me in the face like a wake-up call.
The sky’s slate-gray, the pavement slick with rain, and the neon sign above the club buzzes faintly behind me.
The words echo in my head as I step out into the cold night air, the neon glow of Club Scarlet flickering behind me like a dying flame.
But as the adrenaline fades, a chilling thought creeps in: Misha doesn’t take no for an answer.
Walking away from him might have just made me his next target.
Now, I need to find another job.
Start over.
Disappear.
Because if I don’t, he’ll make sure I regret it.
And Misha Grinkov doesn’t make empty threats.
“Something to drink while you wait?”
The voice slices through my thoughts like a blade, yanking me back to the present.
I blink, refocusing on the man behind the bar. He’s in his mid-thirties, with a neatly trimmed beard and sharp eyes that seem to see everything. His nametag reads Ben.
“Just water, please,” I reply, forcing a smile. “I’ve got an interview with the boss.”
Ben nods, his expression unreadable, and grabs a glass. As he fills it, I let my gaze wander. The club is empty, but it hums with quiet opulence. The bar gleams under soft, golden lights, shelves lined with bottles that cost more than my rent. Sleek leather booths and art deco accents scream luxury.
This place is a world away from the grimy nightmare I left behind.
Please let this work out.
The thought claws at my chest, sharp and desperate. I need this. I need a fresh start.
A glass clinks on the counter, and I murmur, “Thanks, Ben.”
“Good luck,” he says, his tone casual but his eyes lingering a beat too long.
I take a sip, the cool water doing little to ease the knot in my stomach.
At the other end of the bar, a kid—barely out of his teens—is butchering a Manhattan. Too much ice, wrong proportions. It’s painful to watch.
My fingers itch to fix it. I glance at Ben, arching an eyebrow. “Mind if I help him out before he poisons someone?”
Ben chuckles. “Go for it. Kid’s new—could use the help.”
Grinning, I slide off the stool and round the bar. The kid looks up, wide-eyed and nervous, his hands trembling around the mixing glass.
“Uh, hi,” he stammers. “I’m, uh, trying to make a Manhattan.”
“I can see that.” I grab a chilled glass. “First rule of a good Manhattan? Balance. Respect the ingredients. Two ounces of rye, a dash of bitters, and vermouth that doesn’t taste like it’s been sitting in the sun.”
He nods, watching intently as I measure the whiskey and vermouth, then add the bitters. “Second rule? Stir, don’t shake. You’re blending, not making a snow globe.”
I slide the spoon into the glass, stirring smooth and steady until the liquid chills to perfection. “Cold, but not diluted. A Manhattan should have bite, not waterlogged regret.”
I strain the mixture into a coupe glass, drop in a cherry, and hand it to him with a flourish. “There. Perfection.”
The kid’s jaw drops. “Wow. That was… badass.”
I wink. “You’ll get there.”
Ben steps over, curiosity in his eyes. He picks up the glass, swirls it, and takes a sip. His eyebrows shoot up.
“Well, holy shit,” he says. “You sure you need an interview? I think we just found our new bartender.”
I shrug. “Thanks, but from what I’ve heard about the boss, I don’t think he’d appreciate someone jumping the line.”
Ben laughs. “You’re not wrong. He’s a stickler for respect.”
I sigh. “Samuel Holt, right?”
Before Ben can answer, the front doors swing open.
The evening light spills in, silhouetting a figure who can only be Samuel Holt.
He strides in like he owns the place—because, well, he does.
Holy hell, he’s hot.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a tailored suit that hugs his powerful frame, he’s the kind of man who commands attention without saying a word.
His dark hair is streaked with silver at the temples, the kind of distinguished look that screams experience and authority.
His beard is perfectly groomed, framing a jawline that could cut glass, and his eyes—sharp, piercing, and dark—lock onto me like a predator sizing up its prey.
My throat goes dry.
My heart races.
And for a split second, I forget how to breathe.
This is my potential boss?
He’s older—easily a decade or more—but age has only sharpened his edges, making him more imposing, more magnetic.
He looks like he could pin me with a glance and shatter me with a touch.
A thrill skates through me, hot and dangerous, pooling low in my belly.
His gaze sweeps the room, landing on me like a physical weight.
There’s no warmth in his expression, just a cool, calculating intensity that makes my skin prickle.
Heat crawls up my neck, and my legs press together instinctively.
This man isn’t just older— he’s a force .
A silver fox with a presence that’s impossible to ignore. And as his eyes linger on me, I can’t help but wonder if he’s already decided my fate.
Things just got a hell of a lot more interesting.