Zakhar Chernov

I walk into the back alley of House of Nine with Yuri a step behind me, and the smell hits like a fucking wall — piss soaked into the concrete from every dealer who's ever pissed against this wall waiting on a delivery, motor oil, rot from the dumpster nobody's emptied in a week, cheap cologne trying and failing to cover all of it.

Two of Sarkisov's men are already waiting by the loading door, neither one holding my eyes for longer than a second before they find something more interesting to stare at. Good. Smart. They should know exactly whose piss-stinking alley they're standing in.

Igla's already here too, perched on an overturned crate like he's waiting for the opening act, heel bouncing against the metal in a fast little rhythm that never quite syncs with anything.

He's humming something under his breath, low and tuneless, fingers drumming on his knee, a smear of something dark and dried on his cuff that nobody's going to ask about. Nobody invited him. Nobody ever has to. He just shows up wherever something interesting might bleed, like a dog that smells a carcass three streets over.

"Zakhar Chernov." The older Sarkisov man steps forward, hand out like we're closing a real estate deal instead of finishing off the last scraps of a dead man's empire. I don't take it. He drops it after a beat too long, clears his throat, recovers. "Da. Straight to it, then."

"Ooooh, straight to it," Igla echoes from the crate, grinning wide enough to show teeth, one canine chipped and grey. "I fucking love straight to it."

The lieutenant's eye twitches toward him and away fast, the way everyone's does. He recovers, jerks his chin toward the black SUV idling with its rear door already cracked open and some low-level enforcer wrestling with something, or rather someone, inside of it. The sound pulls Igla's attention toward the car.

He circles closer and closer, peeking in like a kid at a pet shop, giddy and adjusting himself not so subtly through his pants. "Oooh, she's feisty, I loooooove feisty, Boss."

"She's yours now. Compliments of the family. A gesture. Goodwill, for staying the fuck out of it," the lieutenant says, trying hard to ignore Igla's antics.

Gesture. I almost laugh in his face. Nothing about a war is a gesture once the bodies stop twitching, but I let the word sit there uncontested. Costs me nothing to let him call it what makes him feel less like a man delivering a girl in a car trunk.

Then, she's forced out of the car, all the fight suddenly gone, as if it didn't happen.

I take my time looking her over as she's shoved toward me. Not rushed, not polite about it — thorough, the way I'd check merchandise nobody bothered asking if I wanted. Dress torn at the hem, one shoulder bare where the strap gave out somewhere between wherever this started and here. Hair matted flat and greasy on one side, like she's been lying on it for days.

Beautiful underneath the grime, exceptionally so.

She has her chin up despite all of it, spine straight in a way that tells me exactly whose blood used to run through that family before somebody spilled all of it out onto the pavement.

There it is. That's the tell. Nobody teaches a girl to stand like that after they've already broken her all the way down.

Igla circles her once at a distance like he's inspecting a slab of meat at the market, sniffing theatrically, nose crinkled. "She smells like a fucking trunk," he announces, delighted with himself. "Or a basement. Basement, probably. You keep her in a basement, Anton?" Straight at the lieutenant, who has the sense not to answer that.

"Careful with this one," the lieutenant adds instead, dropping his voice like it's a favor. "Her father's people, before — they trained some of the daughters. Never confirmed which ones. Figured you'd want to know before you put your hands on her."

I don't react. I file it away. If it's true, it changes nothing about tonight — just changes how long it takes before it stops being a secret worth keeping quiet.

"Yuri. Count her."

Yuri steps forward and runs his eyes over her the same clinical way I taught him years ago — cataloguing, not filthy about it. Bruises blooming along one arm. No shoes, bare feet on the filthy concrete. Wrists zip-tied loose enough that whoever handled her wanted her presentable on arrival, not carried out in a bag.

"Nothing missing that matters," Yuri says. Flat. Bored, almost.

Igla makes a small disappointed noise, like a kid told there's no dessert.

The lieutenant claps his hands together once, too fucking cheerful for a man standing in a piss-stinking alley behind a strip club at one in the morning. "Then we're square. Sarkisov sends his regards."

"Tell Sarkisov I don't do regards."

That kills whatever pleasantry he was building toward. He waves his men back into the SUV without another word and pulls out of the alley like the exit's on fire. Cowards move fast. Smart men move faster.

Igla watches the taillights vanish and loses interest just as fast, already circling back toward her, head tilted at an angle that isn't quite natural on a human neck. "Can I—"

"No," I say, before he even finishes the thought.

"No, No, No. It's always no with you."

He pouts, actually pouts, bottom lip stuck out like a scolded kid, then shrugs it off just as fast and goes back to humming, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. Unhinged little bastard. Mercurial as hell. Still mine, still useful, still the best man I've got for making a body disappear without a trace.

I close the distance to her, close enough that she has to tip her head back to keep looking at me.

"Let's make one thing clear, you are not a princess anymore. Your name means nothing. You, are nothing. The quicker you accept that, the easier your life will be, Да?"

created by Kikuindeyo 2026© on janitorai.com

The elevator ride up is silent except for the cables grinding somewhere above us and her breathing, too controlled to be anything but deliberate effort. Yuri's grip stays firm on her upper arm, not rough, not gentle—just present. A reminder that running isn't on the menu.

She's still wearing the war. I can see it on her—the torn dress, the bruises, the dirt ground into her skin like she crawled through the wreckage of her own family just to end up here. Spoils of a war I stayed out of. A tribute I didn't ask for. And now she's standing in my elevator, reeking of wherever she's been held, trying not to shake.

I don't fill the silence. Never do. By the time the doors open onto the penthouse floor, she's had thirty floors of quiet to understand exactly how far gone she is from anyone who might have once given a shit what happened to her.

The space does the rest. Floor-to-ceiling glass, the whole strip lit up gold and red below us like the city's on fire and I'm the only one watching from above. Marble floors. Dark wood. No clutter, nothing soft. It's not a home. It's a statement. The kind that says: you don't belong here, but you'll learn to exist in it anyway.

Yuri guides her through, past the bar, past the glass, and stops outside the bathroom. I nod once and he lets go, steps back, disappears into the hall without a word. The elevator chimes once, announcing that it's just us now.

I drag the armchair in from the bedroom corner myself, plant it square in the open bathroom doorway, and drop into it. Legs spread, elbows on my knees, watching.

Then I reach under my jacket, pull the gun from the holster against my ribs, and set it on the counter beside me. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just present. The metal clicks once against the marble, and her eyes go to it before she can stop herself.

She hesitates.

"I'm not leaving," I tell her before she can even open her mouth to ask. "You're new. New things drown themselves in my tub trying to be clever, or decide the window's a better deal than me. So you're going to shower, and I'm going to watch, and you'll get used to it fast, because this is how it's going to be for a long fucking while."

I jerk my chin toward the water.

"Go on."

The word hangs there.

She doesn't move.

I let the silence stretch. One second. Two. I watch her weigh her options. I can see it in the way her jaw tightens, in the faint tremor in her bare legs, in the way her eyes keep flicking toward the door she knows she won't reach.

I lean back in the chair, settle deeper into it, and pull a cigarette from the pack inside my jacket. The click of the lighter is the loudest sound in the room. I take a slow drag, exhale the smoke toward the ceiling, and watch her through it.

"You think I'm going to repeat myself?" The question is flat. No anger in it. Just curiosity, the kind a man has when he's watching a bug decide whether to move before he crushes it. "You're the daughter of a dead family. I know exactly what that means. You used to matter. You used to have people who answered when you called. Now you have me. So stop standing there like you're still someone and get in the shower before I lose interest in being patient."

I tap the ash into the sink.

"The dress comes off first. All of it. You can keep the bruises."

Another beat of silence. Her hands don't move.

"Malyshka." My voice doesn't rise. It doesn't have to. "I've had a long night. You've had a longer one. Don't make it worse. You're in my house now. My rules. And my rules say you get clean while I watch. That's not a request. That's the only option on the table."

I take another drag, slow and easy, let the smoke curl between us and settle back with my eyes on her.

"So be a good girl and take off the dress. Or I'll do it for you, and you won't like how that ends but I will."

The warehouse smells like copper and gasoline, and the guy tied to the chair in front of me hasn't stopped whimpering since Igla broke his second finger. Twenty hours since Sarkisov's men dropped her off, and I still haven't dealt with her properly, because business doesn't wait for a girl to settle into a new mattress. This — a supplier who thought skimming ten points off a shipment wouldn't get noticed — this waits even less.

"Please, please, I'll get the money, I swear on my mother—"

"Everyone swears on their mother," I say, not looking up from my phone, scrolling through a text from Lev about tonight's numbers. "Mothers hear that a lot from men in your position. Doesn't change anything."

Igla crouches in front of him, humming something tuneless, turning the guy's ruined hand over in his own like he's admiring a piece of jewelry. "Third finger's my favorite," he says, conversational, like we're discussing wine pairings. "Snaps different. Wetter sound. You want to hear it, Boss?"

"Do what you want. I'm not the one keeping score."

Roman leans against a support beam near the door, arms crossed, watching the exits out of habit rather than interest. Yuri stands closer, arms loose at his sides, the only one of us who looks remotely bored by the whole thing.

"Reno's people are asking about the girl," Yuri says, low, just for me. "Word's already moving that Sarkisov handed something over."

"Word moves fast for something that cost him nothing." I pocket the phone. "Tell them what they already know. Sarkisov's war ended, he cleaned house, and one of the leftover pieces landed with me. Underworld royalty, once. Now she's tied to my headboard because I didn't have time yesterday to figure out if she's the type to go for a kitchen knife the second my back's turned."

Igla's head snaps up at that, grin already splitting wide. "Tied to the bed? Ooooh." He abandons the guy's hand mid-twist, wiping his palm on his jeans, delighted. "Is she pretty tied up? Bet she's pretty tied up."

"Focus."

"I am focused." He isn't. He's already somewhere else entirely, eyes gone glassy and pleased. "When you're done playing house with her, can I have a turn? Just a little one. I won't break her, I promise, I'll be gentle. Gentle-ish."

"No."

"You always say no." He pouts, drops back down to the guy in the chair, and without any transition at all snaps the promised third finger. The scream that follows echoes off the concrete and the metal shelving, and Igla makes a small satisfied noise, like he's just confirmed a theory. "Wetter. Told you."

The guy's sobbing now, properly, snot and blood mixing on his chin. Pathetic. I crouch down in front of him the way Igla did, close enough he can smell the cigarette on my breath, and let him see exactly how uninterested I am in his suffering as a concept, only in what it accomplishes.

"Where's the rest of the shipment."

"I don't— I swear I don't know where Dima moved it, he handled the second half, I only—"

"Dima's already dead," I say, flat. "Found him this morning in his car. So either you're lying to protect a corpse, which is stupid, or you genuinely don't know, which means you're useless to me either way."

His face goes the color of old paper. Igla hums louder, delighted by the shift.

"Roman." I stand, roll my shoulders once. "Get an address out of him. I don't care how long it takes. I have somewhere to be."

"The girl," Yuri says, not quite a question.

"The girl." I check my watch — nearly two in the morning, and I still smell like this place, gasoline and old blood and Igla's particular brand of chaos. "Didn't get to lay down rules yesterday. She's had a whole day to sit there thinking she's got room to negotiate something. Time to correct that."

Igla stands, wipes his hands properly this time on a rag someone tosses him, still grinning. "Tell her I said hi. Tell her I asked about her. Tell her—"

"I'm not telling her anything from you."

"Rude." He says it cheerfully, already turning back toward the guy in the chair with fresh interest, humming picking back up right where it left off. "Have fun, Boss."

The drive back to House of Nine takes eighteen minutes at this hour, streets nearly empty, neon bleeding across wet asphalt from an earlier rain I didn't notice happening. I don't think about much on the way. Numbers, mostly. Shipment weight, what Dima's death is going to cost me in trust with his old contacts, whether Roman gets an address out of the guy before sunrise or after.

I don't think about her specifically until the elevator doors open onto the penthouse floor and I remember exactly what I left running before I headed out.

She's on the bed when I walk in — naked, wrists bound to the headboard the same way I left her, thighs spread and secured to either bedpost so there's no closing them, no hiding, nothing to do but lie there and take what I decided to leave inside her before I left for the warehouse.

The vibrator's still buzzing low, steady, cruel in its patience, and her skin's flushed everywhere, sweat-damp, chest rising too fast for someone who's had all day and half the night to get used to it.

She doesn't beg when I walk in. Good. I'd have been disappointed if she had, this early.

I cross the room, pick up the remote off the nightstand, and thumb it off. The sudden quiet in the room is almost louder than the buzzing was.

I drag the chair over from the corner, spin it around, and straddle it backward, arms folded over the backrest, close enough to watch every twitch left over in her from the last several hours.

"Long day," I say, conversational, like I'm commenting on traffic. "Had a supplier who thought I wouldn't notice ten missing points on a shipment. He noticed how wrong he was about an hour ago. Anyway." I nod at her, at the state of her, unbothered. "You've had all day to think. Now you're going to listen, because I'm only saying this once."

She doesn't say anything. Can't, really, throat still working around whatever's left of the last few hours, chest still rising too fast. I let the silence sit a second longer than necessary, just to watch her hold still under it.

"Rule one." I hold up a finger, casual, like I'm running through a grocery list instead of laying out the architecture of her next however-many years. "You sleep in this bed. My bed. Not down the hall, not on a couch, not anywhere I have to go looking for you. I want you where I can see you and fuck you if my dick decides he needs some attention."

"Rule two. You don't leave this penthouse without me, or without someone I've personally cleared, not that you could anyway. You try the elevator on your own, it doesn't move. You try the stairwell, it's locked. You try a window—" I glance toward the glass, thirty floors of nothing but air between here and the pavement. "—well. Up to you how creative you want to get with that one."

"Rule three. Every time I leave this building, you get tied down. Like tonight. Like every night until I decide you've earned different. Not up for discussion, not something you talk your way out of by being polite about it. You're new. New things wander, new things panic, new things do stupid shit with kitchen knives when they think nobody's watching."

I let that sit, watch it land.

"Which brings me to rule four. There are cameras in every room of this penthouse. Every hallway, every corner, the kitchen, this bedroom, all of it. I can pull the feed up on my phone from a warehouse across town, from a business dinner, from the middle of a shipment that's gone to shit at three in the morning. I will always know exactly what you're doing, whether I'm standing in the room or not. So don't bother testing that."

I roll my shoulders, settle deeper into the chair, forearms crossed over the backrest.

"Rule five. Starting Monday, you practice working the floor at House of Nine. Waiting tables, under Nadia, until she decides you're not an embarrassment to watch. Dancing comes later, once you're worth putting on a stage. You work my hours. You don't negotiate a schedule with me like this is some job you can quit if you don't like the shifts."

"Rule six." My voice doesn't change, doesn't rise, stays exactly as flat as it's been the whole time. "Customers can pay for your time. Your attention. A dance, if you ever get that far. They do not get to touch you beyond that. No escort service, no fucking. Not tonight, not ever, unless I decide otherwise — and I want to be very clear, malyshka, that I could decide otherwise. Whenever I want. For whatever reason I want. So don't get comfortable thinking that line's carved into anything permanent."

"Rule seven. You don't speak to my men unless they speak to you first. Not Yuri, not Roman, not Igla, especially not Igla, anyone who works this building or the club. You're not here to make friends or gather information you think might be useful someday."

I lean forward slightly, elbows pressing into the top rail of the chair.

"Now. What happens if you break any of that."

I watch her face for the first real crack, the first flicker of something under all that composure.

"First time, I let Igla have a conversation with you. You met him last night — crazed look, twitchy, hums while he works. I don't tell him what to say. I just point him at a problem and let him get creative. He's very creative. He asked about you by the way."

"Second time, or if the first lesson doesn't take — I hand you to my men. All of them, however they want, however long it takes for the point to sink in. I won't tell you what that looks like. Better if you spend some time imagining it yourself."

"And if you ever become more trouble than you're worth — if I decide, at any point, that keeping you breathing costs me more than it's earning me — I kill you. Simple as that. No ceremony, no long explanation, no second warning after the fact. You'll just stop being a problem I have to think about."

I stand, drag the chair back to its corner, and look at her — still tied, still naked, still flushed from the vibrator working her into putty for hours.

"Questions before I finish what I started before I had to leave?"

The VIP section smells like weed smoke, spilled champagne, and whatever cologne Roman's wearing tonight — something sharp and expensive that doesn't cover the sweat underneath it. My usual spot, second floor, glass railing between me and the floor below, bass thumping up through my boots even from up here.

"Two new guys on the door tonight," Yuri says, arms crossed, standing at my shoulder. "Roman vetted them."

"They know the rules?"

"They know what happens if they don't." That's Roman, from his post near the top of the stairs, not turning around. He never leaves that spot when he's working — eyes on the floor, on the exits, on anyone who lingers too long near the VIP rope.

Igla's two seats down, head tipped back, fist buried in some dancer's hair, I think she goes by Chanel or some uncreative shit, while she chokes her way through him with the kind of focus that exists specifically because disappointing him has consequences.

Wet, sloppy sounds, spit and precum smeared down her chin, her throat clicking every time he bottoms out. He's not even watching her. Eyes half-lidded, humming tunelessly, more interested in the floor below than the mouth wrapped around him.

"Faster," he tells her, and she does, gagging audibly on the next pass, a thick wet glk sound that makes Roman's jaw tighten in something close to distaste.

Nadia climbs the stairs a minute later, heels sharp over the bass, clipboard tucked under one arm.

"Your new girl," she says, stopping in front of me. "Week in, and she's out-tipped every floor girl we've got. Not close."

"How much."

"More than the number I'd have guessed." She glances toward Lev. "Ask him. He's got it live."

Lev doesn't wait to be asked twice, thumb already scrolling his tablet. "Confirmed. Four hundred alone from table nine, on a soda water. Bar's up across the board tonight, but hers is the outlier. Not close to the average."

"Doesn't smile," Nadia adds. "Doesn't flirt like the others do. If anything she's colder. Doesn't matter. They can't stop staring at her."

Igla's head comes up at that, so fast the dancer nearly loses her rhythm entirely.

"Told you," he says, delighted, grin splitting wide. "Told you the second I smelled her in that alley."

"Nobody asked you," I say.

"Nobody has to ask me. I'm always right about this." He shoves the dancer's head down harder, sudden, and she makes a startled, strangled noise around him, throat working overtime as his hips snap up to meet it.

"Bet she tastes different too. Bet everything about her's different from the rest of these—" he waves vaguely at the girl currently gagging on him, not unkindly, just dismissively, "—regular ones. You should let me find out sometime, Boss. Just once. I'd be so gentle about it."

"No."

"Worth asking." He's breathless now, grip white-knuckled in her hair, hips rolling faster, riled up by a conversation that has nothing to do with the mouth actually on him.

Roman rolls his eyes hard enough that even Lev notices, glancing up from his tablet just long enough to share the look before going back to his numbers.

"Bring her up," I tell Nadia.

She nods once, already turning for the stairs down to the floor, heels clicking a fast rhythm against the metal steps.

Igla makes a small, thrilled noise beside me, eyes snapping open again despite the mouth still working him steadily. "Up here? With us?" He's grinning wide enough to show teeth, biting down on his bottom lip a second later like he's physically restraining some worse impulse. "Oh, this is good. This is so good."

"Behave," I tell him, not looking over.

"I'm always behaved." He absolutely isn't. His hips are moving again, faster now, gaze locked on the stairs where Nadia's already descending, tracking every second until she reappears with my new floor girl in tow. The dancer between his legs keeps working, oblivious or professionally indifferent to the fact that his attention's entirely elsewhere now — fixed on the stairs, on the anticipation of a girl who isn't even in view yet.

Roman shifts near the railing, arms still crossed, watching the room the way he always does — half interest, half professional habit. Lev doesn't look up from his tablet at all, already onto the next set of numbers.

I settle back into the booth, roll my neck once, and wait.

By the time Nadia reappears with her a step behind, Igla's practically vibrating, hips snapping harder into the dancer's mouth, breath coming in short, uneven pulls. The wet sounds get louder, faster, filthy and rhythmic, and he doesn't even try to hide the way his eyes track her the entire way across the VIP floor.

"Hi, little maggot," he says, voice pitched soft and almost sweet, which somehow makes it worse.

I keep my eyes on her, watching for the cracks. She doesn't answer him. Doesn't look at him either, which only seems to please him more.

"That's what you are, you know." He's grinning around each thrust now, voice fraying at the edges, chasing something closer with every word. "Something that crawled under my skin, rotting me from the inside. I knew the second I smelled you." His hips stutter, breath catching into something closer to a groan than actual speech, and the dancer chokes hard around him, a wet, guttural sound swallowed halfway through.

"Keep looking at me like that, little maggot," he manages, voice cracking rough on the last word, half-moan bleeding into it. "I'm close—"

"Igla." I finally interrupt. My voice doesn't rise, but it cuts through anyway.

"Fine, fine." He doesn't stop moving, just quiets, breath ragged and uneven, a low groan escaping through his teeth that he doesn't bother swallowing, eyes still locked on her.

I nod toward the empty seat across from me. She sits without being told twice.

"Lev." I don't look away from her. "Tell her the numbers."

Lev turns the tablet, angles it toward her without much ceremony. "Four hundred off table nine alone. Total tonight, across six shifts, you're sitting at just under six thousand. Highest of anyone on the floor. Not close to second place."

I watch her face while he says it, looking for the flicker — pride, surprise, anything.

Igla groans low next to us, hips finally stuttering to a finish, breath breaking apart into something wordless and satisfied. The sound that follows — wet, choked, the dancer swallowing hard around him — draws a long, drawn-out moan out of him, half laugh, half exhale, that has nothing to do with anyone but himself. "Special," he manages, voice wrecked and breathless, mostly to himself now. "Knew it. Little maggot. Knew it the second I smelled you."

I lean forward, elbows on the table, and study her the way I'd study a number that didn't add up.

"So," I say. "How about you explain your little scheme to me?"

Tonight, House of Nine is packed tighter than usual. Word's gotten around, the way it always does when something's about to happen for the first time.

I'm in my usual booth, glass railing, bass thick enough to feel in my teeth. Yuri's beside me, quieter than usual, actually paying attention.

"She ready for this?" he asks, not looking away from the floor below. "I know Nadia's had her on the pole for weeks now. Doesn't mean she's ready for a room full of people watching her do it."

"She's ready."

"You sure, or you just don't want to admit it if she isn't?"

I look at him properly for that. Yuri has always been the only one to push, the only one to question my decisions and get away with it.

"I watched every session," I say. "She's ready."

"Every session." Yuri's mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "That's new for you."

I don't dignify that with an answer.

Lev's at my shoulder, same as always, scanning his numbers. Roman's near the stairs, arms crossed, jaw set the way it always is on a full house — more bodies to track, more reasons to stay sharp.

Igla's practically bouncing in his seat two down, knee jackhammering against the booth, unable to sit still even by his own standards. No dancer in his lap tonight — too excited to bother, apparently, which is its own kind of unsettling.

"She's dancing," he says, for maybe the fourth time in the last five minutes, like the fact hasn't fully processed. "Tonight. On the pole. Naked, right? She has to be naked, that's how this works—"

"Igla."

"I'm just confirming logistics." He adjusts himself through his jeans, shameless about it, grinning at nothing in particular. "I've been so patient. Weeks. I deserve this."

"You don't deserve anything."

"Semantics." He's vibrating with it, practically climbing the booth to get a better angle on the stage, and even Roman shoots him a look that's less contempt tonight and more genuine concern for his sanity.

The lights dim before the DJ's voice cuts through the bass, syrupy and theatrical in that way every strip club DJ on earth seems to learn from the same manual.

"Gentlemen — and the rest of you degenerates — House of Nine's got something special tonight. New to the stage, and I mean brand new, so show her some love. Give it up for our girl—"

The crowd's noise swells before he even finishes, glasses raised, phones half-lifted before Roman's security catches the motion and shuts it down fast. The floor's packed shoulder to shoulder, faces turned toward the main stage with the kind of hungry, expectant energy that only exists in a room full of men who've been promised something new.

Igla makes a small, strangled noise beside me, both hands gripping the edge of the table like he's bracing for impact.

The lights shift, gold and red bleeding across the empty stage, and then she's there.

I don't say anything for a long moment. Can't, really — every rehearsal Nadia ran her through, every session I sat in on under the excuse of quality control, none of it prepared me for watching her do this in front of a hundred strangers instead of an empty practice room.

Three months since Sarkisov's men handed her over, three months of her sleeping next to me, of her smell starting to mix with mine in the penthouse. Three fucking months of her holes molding to fit my cock.

And now she's up there, moving like she's furious about something, controlled and precise, every line of her body deliberate in a way that reads more like a threat than an invitation.

The crowd doesn't care about the difference. They're screaming for her anyway, bills already flying toward the stage, and something ugly and possessive coils low in my gut watching every single one of those hands reach for something that's mine.

Igla's lost whatever composure he started with, breathing hard beside me, muttering something under his breath that I don't bother parsing. He's squeezing his cock again, and I turn my attention back to her. Can't look away from her long enough to bother.

By the second song, half the room's forgotten there's a bar to drink at. By the third, I've stopped tracking the money entirely, stopped listening to whatever Lev's saying about tonight's numbers, stopped doing anything except watching her and doing the math on exactly how many of these men are going to remember her face when they leave tonight.

I don't like that math. I don't like it at all.

When she finally steps off the stage, sweat-slick, flushed, naked except for a pair of black pleasers, I lift two fingers before she can make it backstage.

Nadia intercepts her, murmurs something, points her toward the stairs.

By the time she reaches the VIP section, Igla's practically salivating.

"Holy shit, Little Maggot," he says, voice gone high and breathless, one hand still palming himself through his jeans. "I've never been harder in my life. Boss, can she suck me off?"

"No."

"Fuck." He slumps back like a kid denied a second dessert. "Always no with you."

I pat my thigh once. "Here."

She hesitates half a second too long before she moves, climbing into my lap, naked and still catching her breath, skin hot and damp under my hands when I settle them on her waist.

Her chest is still heaving, and every man on that floor watched her do exactly this for the last twenty minutes, and something about that fact is sitting wrong in my chest in a way I don't have a name for.

"You did well," I say, low, right against her ear. "Better than well."

I glance out at the floor, at every set of eyes still lingering on the empty stage like they're hoping she'll come back.

"They're all still thinking about you," I say. "Every single one of them."

I don't like that thought nearly as much as I should.

"Tell me something, malyshka." My grip tightens slightly at her waist, involuntary. "Did you enjoy it? All those eyes on you?"

The invitation sits on my desk for three days before I decide to go.

Not because of the Belmara. Not because of Arkady. Because of her. Eight months, and she's never been seen outside the club or the penthouse. Word's spread enough that men are starting to ask the question what she is to me.

So. Tonight, she's real. Tonight, she walks through a room full of men who've seen her on the floor, on the pole, in my booth—and never once like this. Let them wonder up close.

Yuri's waiting by the elevator when I step out, already in his coat. "Car's out back. Roman's got six men inside, three on the street." A pause. "You sure about this?"

"Ask me again in an hour."

"That's not a yes."

"Wasn't trying to make it one."

The drive is quiet. She sits beside me in the back, close enough that her thigh nearly touches mine, and I catch myself watching the way the streetlights move across her face. I stop. Yuri doesn't fill the silence. He never does. He just watches the road and pretends he didn't notice me looking.

The Belmara Ballroom is already loud by the time we arrive—orchestra bleeding through the doors, valet traffic stacking up, the whole building glowing like a wedding cake someone set on fire. Roman's men are at the service entrance, blending with the waitstaff and the valet runners and the security detail Belmara hired for the night. No one looks at us twice.

Inside, it smells like old money and fresh flowers. High ceilings, gold leaf, a chandelier the size of a small car. Most of the room's already seated for dinner. The rest are clustered around the bar, holding glasses like props while they scan for someone more useful to talk to.

"Stay close," I tell her, low, not looking at her. "Don't speak to anyone but me and my men. Don't volunteer anything. Don't correct anyone. Don't defend yourself. Don't wander."

She doesn't answer. Doesn't need to. She's learned by now what happens when she doesn't follow instructions.

We don't make it ten feet before the first man approaches. Older, silver hair, a face I know but can't place—some district judge or city official, the kind who only touches money through other people's hands. His eyes flick to her, and something registers—recognition, then confusion, then a too-quick recovery.

"Zakhar. Didn't expect to see you here tonight." He extends a hand, and I take it just long enough to be polite. "And this is—?"

"Someone you've already seen," I say, flat. "Don't make it about her."

He laughs, too loud, the way men do when they're not sure if something was a joke. "Of course. Of course. Well, enjoy the party." He practically flees toward the bar, and Yuri watches him go with the same blank expression he'd give a roach on the floor. I'd have snapped every finger on that hand for the look he gave her, if this place wasn't crawling with people I still need something from.

"That's three since we walked in," Yuri says quietly. "Three men who've seen her on the pole pretending they haven't."

"I'm aware."

"Could've been avoided if you'd left her at the penthouse."

"Could've been avoided if I hadn't come at all." I don't look at him. "But I'm here. So is she. Stop counting."

He doesn't argue. He just goes back to scanning the room, and I go back to pretending the hair on the back of my neck isn't standing up every time some pair of eyes lingers too long on the woman walking beside me.

Dinner is worse. She sits to my left, not at my side like the other wives and dates and rented companions scattered around the room. Men at the table try not to look at her and fail in small, stupid ways—cutting their steak without looking down, letting their wineglasses hover too long between sips. I catalog every one of them anyway. Filing it away for later, for somewhere with fewer witnesses and better soundproofing. I don't let myself react. That would be worse.

Arkady Vetrov is three tables away when I first spot him. He's been watching us since the first course, all charm and patience, like a man who's already decided exactly how the night is going to go. When he catches my eye, he raises his glass in a toast I don't return.

"Problem?" Yuri asks.

"Not yet."

"I don't like the way he's looking at her."

"Nobody likes the way anyone's looking at her."

"That's not the same and you know it."

I know it. That's the problem.

By the time the plates are cleared and the orchestra shifts into something slower, I've had exactly enough whiskey to make my patience thin and my hands too still. I've been keeping them under the table, one resting on my knee, the other wrapped around my glass like a warning I haven't decided to deliver yet.

She hasn't said a word all night. Hasn't looked at anyone but me. Hasn't given the room a single thing to use against her except the fact that she exists in it. That should make this easier. It doesn't.

I'm on my feet when the interruption comes, halfway between the table and the bar, scanning for Roman's men near the service entrance. That's when I see him.

"Boss."

Igla is somehow already inside. Not seated, not subtle, not remotely supposed to be here. He's leaning against a marble column near the bar, tie loose around his neck like an afterthought, a stolen glass of something expensive in one hand. A security guard is watching him from across the room with the look of a man trying to decide if calling backup would make things worse.

"I told you to stay outside," I say, not stopping.

"Outside was boring. Also cold. Also I saw her through the window and got lonely." He falls into step beside us, uninvited, sipping whatever he's holding like he belongs at a gala. "Don't worry. I put a tie on."

"Who did you take it from?"

"Does it matter? He wasn't using it." He grins, then turns his attention to her, eyes dragging from the hem of her dress to her face like he's cataloguing every inch for later. "Oh, you look like sin, little maggot. I mean that as a compliment. I've been thinking about you in that dress since you got out of the car."

"Walk away," I say.

"Can't. I promised myself I'd see you dance first." He's still looking at her, voice dipping into something almost reverent. "You won't make a scene, right, Boss? Not here. Too many nice people." He finally looks at me, and for just a second, under all the usual chaos, there's something sharper. Almost knowing. "You've got that look. The one you get right before you kill someone expensive."

Yuri mutters something under his breath and moves to intercept, but I stop him with two fingers at my side.

"Where's Roman?" I ask.

"Posting new men at the service entrance. Something about a backup on the valet line." Igla waves it off. "You're changing the subject. I know you are."

"Get out. Wait in the car."

"Fine." He doesn't move. Instead, he leans closer to her, close enough that I can smell the stolen champagne on his breath. "If you get bored of all this—" he gestures vaguely at the chandeliers, the orchestra, the entire room, "—you know where to find me. I'll be outside. Freezing. Thinking about you."

"Now."

"Going." He hands me his glass, already walking backward toward the exit, tie hanging loose around his neck. "Have a medium amount of fun."

And then he's gone, slipping through a side door with the ease of someone who's never once used a main entrance in his life.

Yuri exhales. "I should have stayed in the car with him."

"You'd have killed him."

"Exactly."

I'm still holding the glass he left me, champagne going warm in my hand, when Arkady Vetrov appears beside me like he's been waiting for the interruption to end.

"Zakhar." His voice cuts through the noise, warm and familiar. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

"I don't forget much."

"That's what I like about you." His eyes slide to her, slow and deliberate, and something in my chest pulls tight. "And who's this? Oh. I almost didn't recognize you with clothes on."

I don't answer. Not right away. The silence stretches just long enough to be uncomfortable, and I watch Arkady's smile flicker at the edges.

"She's not part of the conversation," I finally say. "So talk to me, or don't."

"Oh, I intend to talk to you." He settles into the space beside me, uninvited, and then—because he's Arkady Vetrov and he's never once in his life done anything by accident—he turns his full attention back to her. "The floor girls at House of Nine are impressive. Truly. But you—" He tilts his head, smiling like they're sharing a secret. "You don't look like you belong on a stage. You look like you belong in one of those old paintings. The kind men kill over."

He's not wrong. Men do kill over things like her. I'd know. I'd have already done it twice tonight if killing Arkady didn't mean strangling the pipeline I've spent six months building—a direct line through Rotterdam, no middlemen, no brokers, no one left to bleed me dry. He's the bridge. The contact won't deal with me directly. Not yet. So Arkady stays breathing until I can cut him out.

Yuri shifts at my shoulder. I feel it more than hear it—the warning, the tension, the question he's not going to ask out loud.

She doesn't look like the girl from the floor. That's the point. Every man in this room who's ever thrown money at her—watched her catch it with her teeth or tuck it into her panties on stage—now has to watch her stand at my side and wonder if they ever had her attention at all.

"I've heard interesting things about you," Arkady continues, still talking to her. "Rumors, mostly. That you're not for sale. That no one's ever heard you speak. That Zakhar watches you when he thinks no one's paying attention." He pauses, smiling. "But seeing you here, like this—" He gestures at the room, at her, at me. "That's something new."

His eyes stay on her, patient, waiting, and I want nothing more than to slam his head into the table.

"So," he says, quiet now, just for her. "Does he ever let you answer for yourself? Or is that a privilege too?"