53. Anastasia
ANASTASIA
May
Lights cast a deep crimson against the club, creating an ambience clients fall victim to.
Personally, they’re not my favourite, but they do the job.
I wander through the intimate space, clinically scanning to count my girls while ignoring the sighs, touches, and whispers in favour of ensuring they’re safe and no customer is going out of bounds.
One of my security guards murmurs a greeting as I pass on my way back to my office, content for now with the status of the place. There are a couple more tasks to complete, then I’ll be headed to another club for a few hours to ensure all is well there too.
I pause on the balcony to complete another sweep. More couples are starting to wander into private back rooms, while some discreetly fuck in the alcoves. Talk is a low hush, everyone bathed within the atmosphere.
My phone rings as I turn away, the name of the bouncer from outside popping up. My heart skips because the last time I received a call from one of my staff while at work, a certain visitor came by.
“Cops are here with a warrant. I have to let them in.”
Blyat. Vanessa made the decision to keep the brothels mostly clean and never use the basements as storage for any product.
Already, sex work establishments are regarded lowly by the law, so we didn’t need to up our chances of being invaded.
Everything here is to code, and nothing will get us in shit other than my secret torture rooms they’ll never find.
The fact they’re here has me bolting down the stairs and speeding through the main floor, down the darkened hallway, and past the check-in desk where my staff is busy explaining rules to two newcomers who may find their evening destroyed in a matter of minutes.
As soon as the door opens, a badge is shoved into my face, followed by a letter into my hand. “Miss Petrov, you’re the owner of this establishment?”
“Manager. Vanessa Volkov owns it.” Close enough. Her name owns everything in the Bratva’s control, but I oversee the brothels, while we have individual managers stationed at each for the day-to-day stuff.
“Good enough.” The large man pushes by and starts lumbering down the hallway, his heavy steps thundering dismay to the guests. “That’s a warrant to search this place.”
The words on the paper blur as I rush after him, mentally cursing but politely asking, “What’s this about? If you feel the need to search, may I request you do so later, after business hours? I have a full room, as you’ll see in a moment.”
Steps trail closely, and a wary glance over my shoulder reveals more of his cop buddies following.
“What’s this about?” I demand again, losing a bit of the girlie tone into something more on the level of don’t fuck with me. “Miss Volkov won’t appreciate this. I’d prefer to speak with your superior.”
The Bratva has plenty of pull throughout the country, but usually from behind closed doors and underhanded deals.
We have insiders on the force—which no one decided a call about this was worthy?
—and contacts at the government level that can be useful when needed.
They understand we’ll remain out of the public’s way if we keep out of theirs, but that isn’t to say we also don’t have the occasional run-in with the law when a cop gets trigger-happy over the possibility of eventually taking down the Bratva.
After all, the deals Ursin once swung, and now Vanessa maintains, aren’t cleared at police level, even the chief. It’s a top-of-the-country thing.
Which is why I grit my teeth and keep up with the man making huge-ass strides.
“We have an anonymous tip you’re illegally selling contraband from this particular business.”
My heart hammers, having little to do with the speed because Vanessa would have mentioned it if she was using the club as a go-between. While I know for a fact they’ll find nothing, it doesn’t unwind the tension knotting my shoulders.
Unfortunately, he reaches the entrance to the main room, causing nearby couples to stop what they’re doing and stare. Servers pause in the centre of the floor, gripping trays as they warily hover, looking past the cop to me for direction.
He scans the room before glancing around to either side of him, spotting the many switches that control the lights. He snaps them all on, destroying the soft red and cutting a painfully bright white across the room, much to the disgust of patrons who cry out.
I slide in front of him, snapping the lights off. “You have a warrant to search, not to end operations.”
Snarling, he reaches by me to undo my work. “Searching requires light, Miss Petrov. No one is stopping you from continuing, but you will not hinder me from doing my job.” He turns to his team. “Spread out and search.”
The police go forth, much to the loud complaints of patrons who begin doing up pants and taking off, and my staff who redress quickly or grab their robes lying nearby, and start to gather together.
I head for the bartender and manager, muttering, “I’ll stick by the chief. Make sure none of them lays a hand on any of the girls. They’ll be swallowing so much legal mumbo-jumbo in the shape of a bullet if they try anything.”
My security grumble as they’re forced to let the police check every corner. They join my bartender by hovering near my girls, fencing them all in to keep them blocked from the police, who start overturning cushions and tearing through the lower cabinets behind the bar.
The chief spins back to me standing in the centre. “We pulled the blueprints of this place and know for a fact there’s a basement. Where is it?”
“If you know there’s one, why not figure that out yourself?”
Warrants don’t require cooperation.
A bushy brow hikes. “Do you want us to tear this place apart?”
Gritting my teeth, I counter, “You break anything, our lawyers will be so far up your ass.”
“Seems like you’re hiding something, Miss Petrov. You wouldn’t want to be found uncooperative...”
The threat is clear, and if playing the game means they’ll fuck off, so be it.
Even if my teeth are about to snap at how hard they’re pressed together.
I lead him between a few of the alcoves to the far side of the room, where the hallway leading to the basement—this one, the legal one designed for storage—is hidden within shadows to deter clients from exploring.
I reach for the black metal handle, turn it, and rudely gesture to the staircase. “You’ll find storage boxes of files, our camera room, and alcohol stock—all of which is legal.”
He sweeps down the stairs with three men following, and while I’d love nothing more than to go down to give the aha expression when their greatest discovery happens to be the paper copies of all the legal documents that make this place function, a basement with four grown men isn’t a situation to handle.
Vanessa will be pissed if I end up receiving assault charges.
There’s a loud curse from below that makes me smile. Feet thunder back up the stairs.
And then my cheek is slammed into the wall, a large body pressing me there. For a moment, my muscles lock, stunned, and I don’t fight back until every other warning signal reminds me to.
“Anastasia Petrov, you’re under arrest for the possession and distribution of illegal arms…”
Cuffs slap around my wrists, and I’m hauled away from the wall, much to the numerous gasps of my staff. I kick my legs, wiggle my arms, and attempt to get free from the unresisting grip. “Nyet, whatever you found down there isn’t mine!”
“Mm-hmm, that’s what they all say. Let’s go.” The cop tightens his hold on my shoulder, pushes a knee into the back of my thighs, and forces me to trip forward to the exit.
One of my security guards, quickly followed by one of my sweet girls who’s never raised her voice a day in her employment here, cuts in front of us. “No, you can’t arrest her!”
I jerk my chin at the guard for him to keep her back before the assholes with badges find greater reason to go on an arrest rampage. He agrees with a click of his jaw.
“Call Vanessa!” I holler behind me right before I’m shoved down the hallway and out of view.