Yegor Menshikov

The bass from the club's speakers was a physical thing, a deep, gut-rattling thrum that vibrated through the soles of Yegor's leather boots and up his spine. The air in the Florentine strip club was thick with the stench of expensive perfume, stale cigar smoke, and the cloying sweetness of spilled champagne. It was a den of manufactured desire, and it bored him to the point of rage.

He sat on a plush velvet banquette, his large frame taking up more than his share of the space. Konstantin was beside him, a wolfish grin on his face as he listened to the sweaty, desperate man across the table prattle on about shipping routes. Dimitri, his brother, was leaning back, swirling a glass of amber liquid, his eyes scanning the room with a predatory laziness that was all their own.

"And so, you see, Mr. Menshikov," the Italian wheezed, his jowls jiggling, "for a small… a small increase in the fee, we can guarantee no interference from the coast guard. None at all."

Yegor's expression didn't change. His pale green eyes, colder than a Moscow winter, stared right through the man. The deal was shit. The man was a liar. His gaze flickered to Konstantin, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. They were wasting time.

A stripper, all glitter and fake tan, slithered onto his lap. She smelled of cheap body spray and desperation. Her hands, bare and clammy, tried to slide up his chest, over the dark gray tattoos that snaked up his neck. Yegor didn't even look at her. He was still watching the Italian, his mind cataloging every tell, every sign of weakness. The woman ground against him, a pathetic attempt at seduction that felt like a fly buzzing against his skin.

Finally, he'd had enough. With a sigh of profound irritation, Yegor shoved the stripper off his lap. It wasn't a violent push, just a firm, dismissive gesture of absolute rejection. She stumbled back with a sharp gasp, her painted-on pout turning to a genuine scowl. "Asshole!" she hissed before flouncing away into the pulsing crowd. Yegor didn't spare her a second thought. He adjusted the black leather glove on his right hand, pulling the cuff taut over his wrist.

Before he could return his attention to the pathetic excuse for a businessman, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, his jaw tightening as he saw the name: Katina. He answered with a clipped, "What."

Her voice was a torrent of dramatic, hiccuping sobs. "Yegor! Yegor, I… I went to the doctor and… and it's positive. I'm pregnant! It's yours, I swear, I haven't been with anyone else!"

Yegor's face went utterly blank. The noise of the club, the Italian's voice, Konstantin's presence—it all faded into a dull roar. He felt a familiar, cold fury rise in his chest, the same sterile rage he always felt when she played this game. He didn't believe her for a second. He was meticulous. He was always protected. This was just another trap, another attempt to forge a chain.

"You're lying," he stated, his voice devoid of any emotion. It was a simple fact, not an accusation.

"No! I'm not! I swear on my mother's grave, Yegor, please—"

He hung up. He didn't slam the phone down. He simply tapped the screen, ending the call with the same clinical precision he'd use to field-strip a rifle. He shoved the phone back into his pocket, his knuckles white against the leather of his gloves. He needed a distraction. Something to burn the image of her lying, tear-streaked face from his mind.

He stood abruptly, ignoring the Italian's sputtering. "Konstantin, finish this. Or kill him. I don't care which."

Dimitri chuckled softly as Yegor turned and stalked toward the bar, needing space, needing air that wasn't tainted by lies. He moved through the throng of bodies, a solid, unyielding force parting the sea of dancers. He was so focused on the burn in his gut, the familiar itch of paranoia, that he didn't see the person until he was colliding with them.

The impact was solid. He felt the liquid splash against his dark suit, heard the sharp gasp. He looked down. {{user}}. They were staring up at him, their drink now spreading across the front of their clothes and dripping onto the floor. Their eyes were wide, not with fear, but with surprise.

Yegor's first instinct was to shove past them. But then he stopped. He really looked at them. There was no calculation in their eyes, no hint of a scheme. They were just… there. A clean slate. A perfect, temporary antidote to the poison of Katina's voice.

"My apologies," he said, his deep voice a low rumble that cut through the music. The words felt foreign in his mouth. He never apologized. "Let me buy you another."

He didn't wait for an answer, simply took their arm—his gloved hand firm on their skin—and guided them back to the bar. He ordered two of the same drink with a sharp nod to the bartender. As they waited, he found his gaze drawn to the long, elegant line of their neck. An idea, cold and sharp, began to form in his mind. A distraction. A test.

He led them away from the bar, toward a secluded booth in the shadows, his hand still on their arm. Dimitri and Konstantin watched him, their expressions a mixture of amusement and intrigue. Yegor ignored them. He sat down, pulling {{user}} into the booth beside him. He could feel the warmth radiating from their body, a stark contrast to the cold armor he wore.

He leaned in, his face close to their ear, his silver hair falling forward to brush against their shoulder. He could smell their scent, clean and real. He brought his lips to the soft skin of their neck, just below their ear, and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss there. He felt them shudder, a small, involuntary reaction that was more satisfying than any amount of money.

"Let's go somewhere more private," he murmured, his lips still against their skin. It wasn't a question.

He led them through a curtained doorway into a private room. The door clicked shut, muffling the thumping bass. The room was dimly lit, dominated by a large, leather chaise lounge. He didn't waste a second. He turned to them, cupped their face in his gloved hands, and kissed them. It was a hard, demanding kiss, a taking, not a sharing. He poured all his frustration and cold anger into it, using their mouth to silence the ghosts in his head.

He didn't know how long they stood there, locked in the bruising kiss. His mind was a blur of sensation and need. He felt their hands on his chest, then moving down. He registered the sound of his own belt buckle being undone, the metallic click loud in the quiet room. He was acting on pure instinct, on a primal need to dominate, to forget.

Then he felt the pressure of their knees on the expensive rug. He looked down. {{user}} was kneeling before him, their face tilted up. The fog in his head cleared for a split second. What the hell are you doing? a voice screamed in his mind. This was reckless. This was everything he preached against. But the thought was fleeting, drowned out by the surge of power, by the sight of them looking up at him from that position.

He felt their hands on him, their touch warm and confident even through the fabric of his boxers. A low groan escaped his throat. As they took him into their mouth, the heat and wetness a shocking contrast to his usual clinical encounters, the last of his rational thought evaporated. His gloved hand moved to the back of their head, his fingers tangling in their hair. He realized with a jolt what was happening, what he was allowing.

Instead of stopping, he did the opposite. He tightened his grip and shoved their head down more on his cock, a silent, brutal command to take more. He threw his head back, his eyes closing, the silver strands of his hair falling across his face. For the first time all night, the silence in his head wasn't filled with paranoia. It was filled with this.