Chapter 4
Chapter Four
TWO YEARS LATER
Rodion
Anew cocktail. Nikita, our bar manager, insists it’s huge in the US, and we must have it here. The US is known for having shit taste in alcohol, but here I am, eyeing the drink.
The things I do for business.
I bring my lips to the glass and sniff. My lip curls up in disgust. Smells like it’s loaded with sugar and cheap. With a groan, I suck down the mystery cocktail.
Instant regret.
It’s sour and unoriginal. A bit like Nikita.
I choke the mouthful down and then glower at the colorful display in the glass.
Looks pretty but tastes like shit. “You must be making it wrong,” I bite out, watching her mouth form a perfect O shaped hole for me to fill later.
She may suck at coming up with new drink menu items, but then again, sucking is what she’s truly good at. “Try again, Nik.”
In the meantime, I have some business to deal with.
Mika, our head of security, makes his appearance right on time, dragging with him a blonde woman and her ingrate lover, who thought our establishment is run by fools.
People always underestimate us.
My eyes cut to my brother creeping from the shadows like a force of nature summoned by the newcomers.
He has rules that were broken and need to be put right.
Anyone who doesn’t know him might think he just came from the runway.
His black button-down shirt is tailored to fit his striking form like a second skin, showing off his well-defined body beneath, with his sleeves rolled up just below the elbows which inadvertently shows off his veiny forearms. Tight white jeans, ripped in all the right places, paired with black lace up leather boots complete his attire.
Standing well over six feet, he’s formidable and fucking beautiful.
His eyes flare like blue fire with anticipation.
There was a time he would always wear black contact lenses, making him look more demon than man, but I fucking love those natural, electric blue eyes of his.
It’s not often we have to dirty our hands in our own clubs, but every now and then, it’s good for the soul to let off some steam.
It also doesn’t hurt to leave a recent memory in the minds of anyone who doubts who we are, especially since we’re planning a trip away and all.
People mistake beautiful people for kind, forgiving members of our society. They assume they won’t be ruthless, death handlers. Why would they be when they can have anything and anyone deal with that shit for them?
It’s what makes Zahkar so lethal. You just don’t expect him to find such pleasure in handing out punishment to those who wrong us.
Svolach. Scum.
“I don’t understand what the problem is,” Angelo, aka The Shark, grunts, darting his eyes between the hand Mika has on his shoulder and the gun digging into his ribs by one of Mika’s team.
Z circles him, mocking his fighter name, “The Shark.” He’s not the predator in this room, he’s the prey. And my brother is ravenous for blood.
“Good fight tonight,” I croon.
Angelo flinches slightly. I don’t miss it. Neither does my twin.
“I g-got lucky,” Angelo stammers out, his lie catching on his tongue.
Lucky, my ass.
Coming up behind him, Z swiftly kicks out the back of his leg, causing him to crash to his knees before me.
“Fuck!” he cries out, reaching for his now-injured leg.
His girlfriend gasps and tries to break free of the security guard holding her.
Feisty.
The woman’s blonde locks fall over her face, and the fight in her brings a painful pang of memories of a woman long lost to me—to us. Now, she had the same spunk.
“I warned you,” the woman murmurs in defeat to her now sweating lover.
“Shut up, Brenda,” he growls, shooting her a scathing glare.
I smirk at him, wagging my finger. “Hmmm. That’s no way to speak to the woman who you coerced into putting on your big bet for you.”
He freezes, his eyes wide with terror.
“Here,” I say to the woman, Brenda, thrusting my glass at her. “Taste this and tell me if it’s something you’d order in a club like this.”
Her brown eyes widen at first and then narrow with confusion. “W-What?”
Did I stutter?
“Taste the drink, Brenda,” I urge, handing her the glass. “Tell me what you think.”
With a skinny, shaking hand, she reaches out and takes the glass. Sipping the drink, her face contorts, and she spits the liquid back into the glass.
That’s not very ladylike. Revolting, even.
“It’s disgusting.” She holds the glass out and then releases it before I find purchase, sending it crashing into the hard, wood table below. The glass smashes on impact, spilling the sweet and sour abomination all over the table.
A defiant smirk lifts Brenda’s lips on one corner. Damn, a brave little spitfire she is. I think I might take this one for a ride.
“How is Angelo supposed to try it now?” I say in a mocking tone.
Z meets my gaze, amusement dancing in his fierce eyes. He knows we don’t need new cocktails from the US. We need clubs in the US.
But he enjoys the games we play.
Grabbing Angelo by the scruff of his neck, Zahkar forces him to the table and pushes his head down, scraping his face through the glass.
“Drink up,” my brother purrs.
Ignoring Brenda’s horrified screams, Z doesn’t let up, even when the liquid on the table is now mixed with a heavy amount of Angelo’s blood.
“Zahkar,” I call out, but he doesn’t even flinch. Madness has momentarily stolen him from me. I shout louder at him. “Zahkar!”
Like awakening from a dream, he turns my way and releases Angelo, offering me a shoulder shrug when I raise a brow at his enthusiastic torturing.
It’s been a while since he’s let loose.
“We’ve been in this business since before you were even getting your cock polished for the first time. And we’ve been fighters longer than that,” I tell Angelo bluntly. “I know all the tricks and seen people throw fights before.”
“I didn’t. I swear.” Angelo gurgles on blood dripping into his mouth from his busted lips. The cuts on his face resemble something that’s just been put through a blender.
Running a hand through my unruly hair, I sigh, looking up at the ceiling. I hate people who pull this kind of shit, but it’s made a thousand times worse when they’re caught and still try to lie about it to my motherfucking face. It’s disrespectful.
“You lose three fights to weaker, smaller men, and then manage to easily defeat one of the best fighters we host here?” Zahkar grinds out.
“Just so happens your woman places a large sum of money on you to come out victorious? I hate lying cheats.” With that, Z grabs his sledgehammer and motions for Mika to hold out Angelo’s hand.
“What the fuck, man?” Angelo cries out, whimpering like a fucking baby. “Don’t do this. I’ll pay you back. We can work something—”
Lifting the sledgehammer, Z brings it down hard, crushing Angelo’s muffled attempts to talk his way out of the consequence of his actions.
Bones crunch on impact and it’s oddly soothing.
The table cracks and I make a mental note to order a new one.
Angelo’s screams are noisy but satisfying.
“Your mistake wasn’t the money, Angelo,” I say coolly, interrupting his pained fit. “It was thinking we were fools.” I shake my head in disgust, gesturing for a real drink from Nikita, not the bullshit she gave me earlier.
She rolls her eyes, and I tuck away that knowledge in my brain for later. She will regret that. No orgasms for her tonight.
“He must think we’re weak,” Zahkar snaps as he grabs a handful of napkins off the bar.
Brenda screeches when he shoves them into her mouth.
Once he’s stuffed them past her lips, he strokes his palm down her face and to the hollow of her neck at the base of her throat.
“Shhh, sweetheart. I’m only into your tears when they’re caused by me choking you or you choking on cock.
My brother’s or mine, you get to choose. ”
He’s so fucking magnetic. Sometimes I just stare at him for hours because why the fuck not?
“Do you realize how many fighters come through our doors, begging for the opportunity we gave you?” I ask, forcing my gaze from my brother to the cowering piece of shit on the floor. He cradles his damaged hand to his chest like a newborn.
Fucking pathetic.
Sweat is dripping off him, the fear seeping from his pores to escape the pain. The Shark isn’t powerful, ruthless, or deadly. He’s a fraud. A fucking trickster who thought he could play us for fools in our establishment. Do our names not strike fear in these assholes like it used to?
Well, it will now.
His hand resembles a steak, joints heavily tendered for the grill. It’ll be a long time before he uses it again. I hope Brenda likes wiping asses because he’s going to need help with his.
“He’s trying to say something,” Zahkar mutters with a frown.
“Speak the fuck up, Angelo. Say what you need to say.” I nod for one of our men to help him along if he can’t get his shit together.
Heavy pants sputter from Angelo as he pleads with me, finally finding his voice amidst the pain. “I’m s-sorry. I’ll p-pay. I’ll give it back.”
Again with the money. He got knocked in the head a few too many times tonight because he’s dense as fuck.
“That money is pocket change to us,” I bite out, slightly offended that he still thinks it’s the money I’m pissed over. “You’ll pay for your transgressions in a way we decide is sufficient. Are we clear?”
Closing his eyes, his breathing labors and he begins to slump forward in defeat.
“Now, you get a choice,” I say as I look down at my new glass. “The money you fraudulently made or…” I pause because I love when motherfuckers squirm. “Your lover’s life?”
Brenda sucks in a sharp breath and whimpers.
I sip my drink, savoring the familiar burn of our own Rainbow Vodka, unbothered by the fear emanating from her. Now that’s a real drink. Exquisite. Divine. Uniquely ours. We’ll export this to the US because those dimwits need a taste of Moscow, not the other way around.
“Make your choice,” Zahkar hisses.
Real sobs shake Angelo’s broken spirit. It’s so pitiful it makes me sick. “The m-money,” he mumbles.
Brenda begins kicking out and snarling curse words at him from behind the napkin in her mouth.
Zahkar barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “He wasn’t offering this deal to you, Angelo. He was speaking to the woman you just tried to trade for. Unbelievable.”
My feet carry me to the flailing woman who stiffens at my approach.
Licking my lips at her distress, I pluck the napkins from her mouth, enjoying the feel of her thick lips as I do. “You, sweetheart. The question was for you. The money with no strings attached or spare your lover’s life? What’ll it be, hmm?”
Red blotches have sprung up all over her creamy flesh and her eyes dart around frantically with indecision. She’s tempted. Apologies from him are never going to fix them. Whatever they were is as broken as his hand is now.
Who would offer away their partner so easily? She can’t be his soulmate. No money in the world could buy my soulmate from me.
“Him,” she spits out, breathing heavily through her nostrils.
She’s a raging bull and angry at having to make this decision. Under different circumstances, I may have enjoyed her company in other ways.
“Very well.” I motion for the guy holding her to release his grip.
She yanks her arm free as soon as he loosens his hold and tries to aid Angelo to his feet.
“What do you want us to do with them? Dump them in the alleyway?” Mika asks.
Clicking my tongue, I shake my head. “We’re not savages, Mika. Take him to the hospital. Let him be a lesson for others who have forgotten whose house they come to play in.”
“Right, sir.”
Ever since we’ve begun expanding Klub Chernyy to a chain all over Russia, we’re having to spend time away from our home—Moscow.
And the more we’re away, the up and coming generation of fighters lose their manners and inflate their own egos to take chances they shouldn’t.
This kind of unruly behavior will only increase when we spend time overseas.
It’ll do them good to have such a vivid reminder.
Fear is something that everyone should have, especially for my brother and me. Yet it appears they need reminding. So, we will educate them. We’re nothing if not adaptable to the times and willing to show them our hospitality comes with a certain expectation. Manners.
But most of all, respect for the game.
For the Klub Chernyy name.
For the Madmen of fucking Moscow.
“He got his blood on my watch,” Zahkar sneers, wiping at the watch face with a napkin to try and clean it.
I’m amused that he’s not worried about the blood spatters all over his white jeans. Clothes are disposable, but the watches are precious to him.
Grabbing his wrist, I loosen the strap and pull it free. When Nikita brings over our prized Rainbow Vodka, and a glass for Zahkar, I toss the soiled watch on her tray.
“Dispose of that and then bring your ass over to the VIP section,” I order with a grin. “You know how Zahkar gets when he hurts someone.”
Horny.
He gets really fucking horny.
“That was a twenty-five-thousand-dollar watch imported from the US,” Zahkar grumbles, eyebrows pinching, tugging at the beautiful scar that cuts through his brow and down his cheek. “What a waste.”
“So, buy another, Z.”