Page 10 of Silken Chains
CLUB V
The bass thumps in my chest as I stride into the club, my footsteps in sync with the heartbeat of this place. It’s mine, after all—every plush seat, every polished glass, every drop of top-shelf liquor. And by the looks of it tonight, every scantily clad woman with a predatory gleam in her eye. The grand chandeliers cast a dim glow, making the gold and marble décor glint.
“Victor!” one calls out, a sultry redhead in a dress that leaves very little to the imagination. She runs a finger along the curve of her collarbone, batting eyelashes thick with mascara.
Ignoring her is as easy as breathing.
Another, a leggy blond with a neckline plunging to the navel, sidles up, offering her most practiced pout. “Victor, a drink?” she purrs, tracing a finger along my forearm.
“No, not today,” I retort, brushing her off, my attention already elsewhere.
As I make my way, I can hear the chorus of disappointed sighs and the muttered curses from the rejected. The women in this joint might look like they stepped out of a high-end magazine, but they’re vultures, each one of them. The gold-plated counters, the shimmering drapes, and the chandeliers—all flaunting the obscene amounts of cash that flow through Club V every damn night. We’re talking a few hundred grand on booze alone, and don’t get me started on what these depraved souls spend on their drug fixes.
I might own this place, but I’d be damned if I give these gold-diggers even a whiff of what they want. They’re after one thing: a quick ticket to the high life on my dime.
Not happening. Ever.
“All good, boss?” A deep voice pulls me from my thoughts. Luka, my club manager, stands beside me. A solid wall of a man in his early 30s, wearing a slick black suit that stretches a bit too tight across his broad shoulders. The glare from his bald head is almost as sharp as the predatory glint in his eyes. But beneath that exterior, the guy’s got a head for numbers and runs this place tighter than a drum.
“Everything running smoothly?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
“Like clockwork,” Luka rumbles, adjusting his thick gold chain. “VIP section’s filled up, and the new shipment’s in the back. We’re gonna make a fucking killing tonight.”
“Language, Luka. We’re businessmen, not street thugs.” I smirk, taking a sip of my drink.
He snorts. “Says the man who could snap someone in two without breaking a sweat.”
I arch an eyebrow, not rising to the bait. “Anything else?”
Luka glances around, ensuring we’re not overheard. “Got a tip-off. Feds might be snooping around. Might want to keep the backroom activities low-key tonight.”
I nod. “Thanks for the heads up. Just make sure the patrons are happy and our earnings remain sky-high. As for our… other business, we can always resume tomorrow.”
The deep beats of the club pulse around me; my gaze narrows, meticulously scanning the crowd. It doesn’t take long for me to pick them out. Two men, dressed a bit too sharply, sipping on their overpriced vodka and feigning interest in the women around them. Their eyes, however, are firmly locked on me, tracking my every move. Fucking undercover feds, I’m sure of it. I’ve been in this game long enough to spot a rat, and these guys reek of it.
“Fucking Vasiliev,” I mutter under my breath. The tip-off had to be from him. Only Ivan Vasiliev would be low enough to send the feds my way in the middle of a goddamn Friday night. It’s a move straight out of his playbook. Subtle but unmistakable. He might have climbed his way to the top through sheer ruthlessness, but I was born into this life. And while he was busy building his empire, I was learning the trade—every dirty trick, every nuance.
A waiter swings by, offering drinks from a tray. I wave him off and continue to survey my domain. Club V is my fortress, my ground, and nobody, especially not Ivan or his snitches, is going to challenge that.
Grabbing my drink, I make my move. Walking with purpose, I head straight toward the two undercover agents, deciding to play this my way.
“Gentlemen,” I greet them, my voice dripping with faux warmth. “Enjoying your night?”
They exchange a glance, clearly not expecting the direct approach. Good. Keep them on their toes.
One of them, a tall, broad-shouldered guy with a bad comb-over, forces a smile. “Just a night out with the boys. Heard this place was the best in town.”
“Indeed, it is,” I reply with a smirk. “Just remember to play nice. We have a strict policy against unwanted… attention.”
The second one, younger, with nervous eyes, clears his throat. “We’ll keep that in mind.”
With a nod, I leave them be, heading back to the heart of my club.
Let them stew on that.
Let Ivan stew on that, the suka.
If they want a war, I’m ready. Always have been.
