Chapter Four
Leonid
I leave my Mercedes in the parking lot, treating its door like it’s made of silk.
Not just because I like that car a lot, but also because I don’t like to make noise. My eyes scan the street up ahead, searching for anything suspicious. After fifteen years in the Bratva, I’ve learned that a man can never be too careful. Being caught off guard can get you killed.
For the person in charge of Viktor’s northern territory operations, this level of caution is necessary. I know of a few men who would chop off their arm to have my job. To run things for my Pakhan and enjoy the perks of the life. This is what I have to watch out for, some crazy bastard with enough firepower to think he can earn some respect by taking me out. Still, despite the danger, I’m not going to regret the power and the rewards of this life. Never have—never will.
There’s just one thing that might lead me to doubt this.
Running into Clare Jensen.
I cross the street and reach up to loosen the knot on my tie. My mind has been spinning in about a hundred different directions since I found those kidnapped women. Thinking that someone could have carried out this sort of shitty business right under my nose makes my blood boil in my veins. This is why Viktor gave me the job of managing this area. To make sure that I snuffed out whoever wanted to make money by treating women like cattle.
I failed him. I fucked up. Big time.
And as if that wasn’t enough, there’s something else that’s been bugging me.
I promised to protect those kidnapped women. To make sure they got back home in one piece. Instead, all I can think of is the one woman who was shivering so much that I had to give her my jacket. The girl with the dark-green eyes: Clare Jensen.
What the fuck?
Calling this weird wouldn’t do it justice. No. This is not just weird. More like crazy. Unlike me. A rookie’s mistake. Or even a boy’s fuckup.
I’ve been in the Bratva for far too long to be acting like this. I’ve been known to keep my shit together and my focus where it should be: on business. My ambition is too high for me to be held back by a woman. Every time I need to get laid, all I have to do is reach out. It’s easy for a man in my position to find a lady friend for the night. Easy and free. So, why the hell am I still thinking about this Clare girl?
My ringing phone yanks me out of my thoughts. I glance down at the screen and shake my head, the caller ID reminding me of the business end of the night. It reads “Dmitri,” the name of a scout.
“Yeah?”
“Captain Kovalev, you wanted me to report anything out of the ordinary near that warehouse, no matter the hour.”
“That’s right. Go ahead.”
“About ten minutes ago, a bunch of Escalades full of Armenian muscle showed,” he claims, keeping his voice down. “I saw Levon Terzian’s bodyguard in one of those Escalades. They pulled up where we found those women. After a quick sweep, they started questioning homeless men who live near the warehouse.”
I purse my lips, my jaw tightening before I reach for the gun on my waist. “Are they still there?”
“Yes. They’re still searching for any information about...”—he pauses—“their missing shipment.”
I give an angry snort. Missing shipment. I’m sure those Armenians used those very words to describe six women who were about to be sold, as if they were fucking livestock. I take a deep breath and swallow my anger. This isn’t the time for me to start cursing, whether they deserve it or not. I hold the phone closer to my ear and address my scout in a steady voice.
“Good job, Dmitri. No need to engage them, but I want eyes on those Armenians round the clock from here on out.”
“Yes, Captain Kovalev. And, sir,” he goes on, some cheer in his tone, “you’ll be pleased to hear this. Rumor has it people on the street liked how we destroyed that human trafficking ring. Looks like we scored some points with the locals, because they hate to hear about forced trafficking.”
The news brings a small smile to my face. We’re not angels—we never said we were, but it helps to have the locals’ approval. It’s not like we need it or anything, but it can come in handy. More than that, our people out there seem to be very good at picking up rumors.
“Thanks for letting me know. Now, find cover and then head to the safe house when you finish your shift. It’s not safe for you out there tonight.”
I hang up and let out a long exhale, a feeling of pride coming over me. I had been suspecting this; now I have confirmation. We screwed up the Armenians’ trafficking scheme. By taking away those women, we put a dent in the whole thing.
I know it’s not going to stop them. It’s not going to put them off, but it’s a good first step. This is a message to the Armenians. Taking it or not is up to them. In any case, Viktor needs to know about this. If we go to war against a rival crew, reasons behind it won’t matter. Putting an end to it won’t be a piece of cake.
I slide my phone into my jacket pocket, lifting my gaze up as I step onto the sidewalk. A familiar glowing sign broadens my smile.
The Blue Dolphin Lounge
This is my favorite place in all of Miami. It’s nice, cozy and hands down our most lucrative asset in the northern part of the city.
The building is awash with blue neon lights. Spotlights and smaller lights on the ceiling bathe customers in brighter and dimmer shades of blue. This fancy fa?ade looks appealing to people passing by. This is just another nightclub with much better lighting than most in the area, right?
Wrong.
A lot of shit goes down in the background. Arms deals, money laundering, payoffs, bribes and even extortion. Everything happens in plain sight, but no one bats an eye. Whether people get paid off on the dance floor or at the bar, doesn’t really matter. No one gives a fuck—they’re just there to dance and drink.
I’d be lying if I said this stuff doesn’t excite me. Hell, I love watching men take bribes or pay top dollar for a gun. I enjoy it over a glass of my favorite vodka and relax after a long week.
Just not tonight.
I’m not in the mood. There’s also the Armenian thing; Viktor will demand my full attention on that. I can’t afford to fuck around. I need to find out who had the nerve to kidnap those women.
I roll up my sleeve and check my watch. It’s almost midnight. By now, the club will be packed with the usual drunks. Right outside, I spot the usual group of hookers. Seven women welcome me with catcalls and whistles, eyeing me from top to bottom. Hats off to those girls. They know how to entice men. Just a sway of their hips is enough to draw male attention. The lust in their eyes may be fake, but their customers are suckers for it. I dismiss them with a nod and a smile, before turning in the direction of the entrance. Artem, the bouncer, steps aside and nods as he unclips the red velvet rope for me.
Flashing strobes fill my gaze, rumbling music reverberating through the atmosphere. Laughter, body heat and cheap perfume come next, my gaze on the dance floor. It’s packed, exclusive balconies on the second floor full of people dancing or just looking down and shaking their hips. I weave through the people on the dance floor, not looking anyone in the eye. I’m not their friend. I’m sure they recognize me, because they all give me some space. Without some intimidation, no one is going to grant me any respect.
I reach the second floor and locate my plush leather seat. It’s well away from the railing; anyone curious enough to look up will not see me. I’d rather keep my rooftop lounge closed for tonight. That one is reserved for more fun nights than this one.
The head of my security turns the corner, light from below washing over his gray suit. Threads of smoke rising behind him, he approaches me at a steady pace.
“Evening, sir,” Malachi says in a rough voice. “What can I do for you?”
The light flashes over the black dragon tattoo along the side of his neck. I reach into my jacket pocket and pull a thick wad of cash out before slamming it into his palm.
“I want your girls to gather information about any new players in the human trafficking business,” I tell him, my tone stiff. “Anyone making big moves, bringing women in from abroad, the works. Are we clear?”
“Yes,” he accepts with a nod and shoves the money into his pocket. “You’ll have some information on your email within the next twenty-four hours. Is that all?”
Some top-shelf vodka.
I’m just about to utter those words, but I throw away the thought in a heartbeat. Some liquor is good company when I do business here. I often stay until early dawn, talking to my people and getting updates from them. Tonight, though, my own slice of heaven won’t taste as good as it usually does. All I want to do is get the hell out of here and be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Away from the violence of my world, with some peace of mind for a change.
“No. Thank you, Malachi.” I dismiss him with a nod of appreciation. I leave my seat and head back out, repeating the same process. No eye contact. No courtesies.
I run into the same girls outside, apart from a redhead. She was probably lucky enough to get a customer. I exhale hard, putting some distance between me and the club. Some tension leaving my neck muscles, I return to the parking lot. At the sight of my Mercedes, an annoying questions pops into my head.
Why does everything feel so goddamn unbearable after all these years?
Coming up with an answer isn’t difficult. That answer even has a name.
Clare Jensen.
She showed me I was still human. Seeing her amongst all those women stirred something within me. Not desire; the hookers I keep running into can ease that itch just fine. It woke up a desire to shield someone. To protect her from harm. She was a stranger to me, and yet, I felt the urge to stash her away so her abusers couldn’t lay a hand on her again.
I reach my house, knowing that she and I are not done yet. I’m going to keep an eye on her. I’m not going to deny my interest in that woman. I want her to be safe. She deserves better than what the Armenians brought.
––––––––
Things don’t change much the next day. To my disappointment, I don’t get an email from Malachi. I contact him, and his excuse is solid. He hasn’t had the time to have a word with all his girls. He’s a busy man; plus, he’s got more than five dozen women working for him in different parts of Miami. Even if he’d spent the entire day driving around to talk to them, it would’ve been hard for him to get that job done so quickly.
I’m on edge, and I’m usually more patient than this.
I’m still in bed when my phone pings with an incoming email. I rub my eyes and sit up, picking it up from my nightstand. It’s a staffing report from The Blue Dolphin. According to the manager, our new hostess failed to show up for work last night. His explanation? She got the jitters over her high-profile clientele. More than that, she had to be taught from scratch how to interact with Bratva soldiers. Not many people have the stomach to work with our organization, that’s for sure. The manager’s last sentence is about an application from someone new, which raises my interest.
But this minor reaction is nothing compared to what hits me when I see the attached resume. At the top of the page is a clear picture of a brunette. Name: Clare Elise Jensen. Damn, I wish I was wrong. I wish this was someone else, and this was someone playing a joke on me. Yet, those sage-green eyes and that smooth skin don’t leave much room for doubt. My fingers loosen, as if someone’s sucked all the energy out of my muscles. My eyes widen, a sharp exhale leaving me.
I swallow hard and read the rest of her profile. Age: Twenty-two. Originally from Oregon, moved to Miami on a volleyball scholarship. Then, she transferred from community college to university for a business degree. Her athletic figure makes sense now. Even under my bulky coat, it was visible.
About a thousand thoughts roar into my head. The most dominant one has nothing to do with my attraction to her and everything to do with her motive. What the fuck kind of game is she playing? Is she trying to get an inside look into the Bratva? If the answer is yes, who is she working for?
That’s a load of crap, Leonid. That’s bullshit, and you know it.
My brain cuts in with some common sense. When I first saw her in that warehouse, her reaction and the fear all over her face were one hundred percent genuine. A Hollywood actress wouldn’t have been able to fake those. She wouldn’t have made me feel her trauma.
I roll out of bed, energy surging through my muscles. I’m fucking desperate for an outlet. I head to my downstairs gym, wanting to pound everything in that room until my knuckles bleed...