Chapter 9
Konstantin
Leaving her was a struggle. If I didn’t go the moment after she backtalked me, neither of us would be in clothes or able to separate from one another.
A tremble shook throughout my hand.
No. No. It can’t happen.
Control. I need control.
Why? Why are you holding back?
Ugh, Dya, why would you do such a thing?
Like I said before, I like her. I want her. I’m going to have her. Simple as that.
We went over this already. It cannot happen. We cannot happen.
I never agreed to anything. You’re in denial. I still want my kotyonok.
You're what? First of all, I gave her the name kotyonok, so I own that. Secondly, if she were to be ours, she would have to know the extent of our problems. That includes you, buddy. Even then she would have to accept the life we live.
So you agree you want her in our life.
How the hell did you get that out of everything I said?
Well, I blacked out for the most part, so I drew my own conclusions.
Motherfucker.
Hey, don’t talk about my mother like that.
We don’t know our mother, you senile eedot.
Still, you don’t need to be offensive. What if she were an angel? Our poor mother had to deal with you. Can you imagine that? No wonder we ended up in the orphanage, you—
“Shut up!” I snapped, irritated by his stupidity, as a pair of nonnas wearing those classic pastel granny knee-length dresses looked up from their big chunky glasses and threw me a weary look. Whispering something about me being on drugs as they went back inside their small villas.
Damn, you’re making us look crazy. You should really stop talking to yourself.
The amount of disdain that revved my system was inexplicable. Technically you could call it self-hate— tomato, tomahto— but the fucker really made me want to kill myself at times.
Well, more like slam myself against a wall.
Shutting him out, placing him in his corner, and allowing myself to have space to breathe in my own being, I treaded stealthily down the street and around the corner, where one lamppost lit the dark streets.
Soon enough the words Le Noire came into my vision.
It was illuminated in neon purple as it was plastered on the top of the building.
Along with words like girls, peep show, and naughty or nice glowing in pink, orange, and red, signs were displayed on the windows and were blacked out to prevent any scandals.
The long line grew as people waited impatiently.
While I was on the line, many beautiful women approached me, asking for my number, feeling me up, and catcalling me with all names of sorts.
Any attempt to distract myself with other women, flashes of Blair’s smile, or her hazel eyes burned in the back of my mind, and I found myself revolted by the interaction.
Dya got further pissed with me as I cut the conversation short and dismissed them.
When I got to the bouncer — a built twenty-something-year-old 6’2” boy— well, he was a bearded man, but I felt odd as shit, so any little dipshit younger was a child.
“What do you want, vecchio?” he asked with a bothered attitude.
That’s why a novice like him would never get anywhere in life. Preferring to avoid an argument or even an exchange of words, I took the piece of paper out of my pocket and handed it over to him.
With narrow eyes, he took and unfolded the paper, reading the message. His gaze turned frantic as he immediately stepped aside and let me through. “Please, Mr. Volkov, go to the VIP section. You’ll be attended to soon.” He politely added, handing the paper back.
There you go, zasranets.
A grunt fled my lips as I placed a hand on his shoulder, giving a parting message. “Piece of advice. If you want to last around here, don’t ever disrespect anyone because you might not know the power they can hold over you.”
He frantically nodded. "Sì, signore.” Yes, sir.
Good.
Striding and entering the club, immediately the scent of sex, lust, and booze permeated the air.
The lights were dimmed, and the room burned in a red shade—making it intimate and more of a private show.
The disco changed over and over, and it seemed more chaotic here than outside, as the dance floor was packed with people grinding on one another.
Passing the bar filled with patrons, the bartender winked at the woman, and she sent him an air kiss.
My eyes lingered on the separate corner of the room where there were doms and subs in the middle of play or demonstration.
One man in particular flogged a woman with her ass high up in the air in front of a crowd.
Fuck, I didn’t know it was a sex club.
Right? I would have brought koytonok then.
I paused in mid-stride, my jaw tightening as the image of Blair kneeling on the floor, between my legs, bare naked— no, actually, I’d love to see her with her wet nun garment as the water dripped down her breast and over every curve as I’d rip it off bit by bit— her hair unveiled, running wild as I’d indulge in wrapping my fist into it.
Those unholy thoughts ran my blood to my cock.
Shit. Snapping out of the lust haze, I recalled my surroundings, and now was the worst moment to think of that.
Dya laughed like a maniac in the back. Ah, I love all the ways I get to taunt you, Kon.
I hate you.
The feeling is mutual.
I wasn’t going to argue anymore; besides standing here like some creep, we needed to get down to business.
Scouting the VIP section, I see a man sitting in one of the red velvet lounge chairs with two half-naked women, one on each side, pressing themselves against him.
Although he looked entertained, there was a veil of detachment, like none of those women could ever satisfy what he truly wanted— or whom.
The longer I watched, the more familiar the face became. The flashing disco lights exposed the contour of his face. His face faded in my mind as a man behind a cell who kneeled and prayed every day. Approaching him, I proceed with caution. “Tomaso?”
He appeared to hear me as his sight landed on me. “That’s not my real name.”
“Then what is?”
He sighed deeply, his eyes tracking the edge of the table before he said with a native Italian accent. “Salvatore Ferrari.”
Ferrari? Traces of faint familiarity ate at my mind. “Ferrari, like Casanova Ferrari, the head of the Camorra?” My brows stitched together, asking for clarity.
“The one and only.” Salvatore hummed as he turned to the ladies. “Now, mia bellas, off you go.”
The women whined in protest, but he still shooed them away like the old popular bachelor he appeared to be as we ended up leaving alone.
He perched off his seat, rising to his full height that nearly replicated mine, buttoning his tux, and extended his hand. Out of respect for the elderly, I shook his hand formally.
A strange harboring sensation of nostalgia hit me like the cold pine air of Russian winter— so homey yet distant.
Small flashes of masculine and feminine laughter overlapped one another in a very bright room where the sunlight peeked through the terracotta-colored curtain, echoes of soft violin chords playing in the background as I heard the words, “Do it again, my sweet boy! Do it!”
Harshly, I retrieve my hand from his.
Salvatore’s expression morphed into concern. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” I didn’t quite understand it myself. Whatever the hell it was didn’t involve him. “I just… never mind.”
“Well, glad to see you're doing alright.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Call me Salvatore. I’m not that old.”
Old enough to be my father, but petty comments like that wouldn’t serve anything.
I only inclined my head, glancing at the space around us until the awkwardness settled.
“Please sit.”
Walking up to the platform, I took the seat across from him.
“Drink?” He offered, sitting back down.
“No, thank you.” I turned down, needing to have full sentience and clarity in this situation. Needing to gain information on my new ally or enemy.
My fingers played with the blue bracelet around my wrist, not wanting to waste time and chit-chat while Salvatore seemed to absorb it like he wanted it.
I ran a thumb over my curious brow. “I must admit I don’t understand her approach. Out of everyone in the world, why me? Contrary to the belief, I don’t believe I’m not that special.” The realism in my words was the only thing I knew.
He picked up his cup from his glass table nearby, threw his head back, and took a swig of his drink. Then when he finished, he glanced down at the cup, the liquid rippling. “You and I both know that however Aleksandra believes… otherwise.”
He glanced at me condescendingly.
I was numbed to it. “Then what am I useful for?”
“You found something. Something she wants.”
“What? What could I have that she wants?”
“Well,” His finger tapped against the glass cup in his hand. “What did you find in Dargasus all those years ago with your Pakhan and brotherhood, huh?”
An eerie tense hold crawled down my back, feeling the sense of self-sabotage. The tick moved in my jaw as I did my best to not react. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I grunted.
One cynical chuckle left his mouth. “Sure, you don’t.”
I was really tired of these fucking mind games and quizzical puzzles.
I didn’t need this nor Aleksandra in my life; the only thing I wanted— Blair— might not have felt the same, therefore making everything else null and void.
“You and your master are insane. If you want a toy to play your stupid game, go find someone else.” Rancor ran hot in my blood, refusing to be used anymore than I had been.
I shot up from my seat and began to leave.
“Sergei can testify. Adrian is another story. But your Pakhan… well… is not all that cold in the ground,” he revealed.
“What?”
“Your brothers-in-arms, they were witness to that night, and they can confirm—”
“You mean they're not dead?”
“Oh, you didn’t know?”