Page 18 of The Viper's Wife

Yevgeniy holds my stare for a moment longer than necessary. He probably doesn’t get many men refusing his temptations, but most of his men haven’t had women throwing themselves at them since they were old enough to fuck.

Bastards are expensive and rarely grateful for the gift of life, as my father well knows.

Yevgeniy dismisses his blondes and wheels toward the table. “Then we drink.”

To the dull flesh-on-flesh thuds of the men sparring in the cage, and the hum of the people around us, I reach for a glass.

Yevgeniy plays a card game with his men, laughing and conversing fluidly between English and Russian. Giovanni’s gaze drifts back to the sparring match repeatedly until a chubby brunette falls into his lap.

Every shot drags me deeper into a dark mood. This is one of the many facets of the diamond-encrusted shit my Father hopes to pass on to me one day. Fleecing the less-fortunate of their small fortunes by day, and losing yourself to cheap thrills by night.

It’s what every man wants.

It’s what I should want.

It’s fucking boring.

Most of the men at the table have a sweet-talking, softly laughing companion at their side or on their laps. A fewchairs down, Omari paws at a young, slender woman in lingerie. Every time she tries to pull away, he grabs her by the hips and grinds her down on his lap.

Loud boos erupt as one of the cage fighters wins his match. The loser lies on the ground, unconscious or dead.

“Play along,” Yevgeniy offers me. He waves a few cards in my direction.

Giovanni has his arms wrapped around the brunette, cards already in hand.

To my side, the slender woman struggles in Omari’s arms. I don’t know what she’s saying, but she seems to be bargaining with him as he shoves a hand into her panties.

The Russians buzz around me.

I sit until my blood reaches its boiling point, and then I stand, the world around me following a beat too slow.

I’m drunk.

“How about a bet?” I ask. My voice sounds hoarse.

Giovanni glances at me warningly.

The men at our table fall silent, looking at their pakhan who leans toward me with drunken interest. “A bet?”

“I bet I can beat one of your men in a fight.”

A few of the men laugh. Yevgeniy smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “That would not be very fair.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

His smile flickers. “I am not so worried about you,Viper.”

I’m not surprised that the man with his personal fighting cage knows about my nickname. He probably knows many things about me. Meeting here was a temptation built especially for me, but I’m past caring.

I slap a palm to my chest and swear, “Only for fun. Among friends.”

Yevgeniy leans back in his chair with the finality of atrapdoor snapping shut. “Then I accept.” He barks a Russian order at his men. Two jump up and leave.

I shrug my shirt off, dropping it onto my seat. A man appears with a roll of athletic tape.

As I get to work taping my knuckles, I cut a lingering glance at Omari, who stops molesting the woman in his lap long enough to catch my eye.

“Do I get to pick my opponent?” I ask.