Page 1 of The Mobster’s Secret

1

IVAN

I may own a strip club, but I don’t do dances.

As a matter of fact, I don’t do women. At least not for the last ten years since I took the reins as head of the Oleff crime family when my father was murdered.

Pops thought he could rule over New York City’s biggest criminal empire and at the same time give his heart to a woman. Boy, was he wrong. My mom betrayed him, sold him out to the Messina family, and stabbed him in the back. Literally. I had just turned twenty-five when it happened. The next thing I know, I’m the new king.

Overnight, I became a ruthless son of a bitch.

You have to if you want to survive in this world.

I rule with terror. I make examples of those who dare go up against me. A wise man once told me when I was a kid that the world is separated into two groups of people, the few and the many, and whatever you do, make damn sure you’re one of the few.

The many are what I see when I enter the club. My club.

Many small-minded wage slaves, throwing away what little money they have on dances from girls who couldn’t give two shits about them.

The thought of me spending money on women almost makes me laugh.

But the club has its purposes. I use it to launder my dirty cash. Wash it clean in the cleansing waters of lingerie, spotlights, and heavy bass. It’s also an ideal spot to hold business meetings. No surveillance, no cops to worry about, and plenty of girls and alcohol to loosen the tongues of my potential enemies.

Of course my men love taking meetings here. It’s like a mini-vacation for them. I could be a tyrant and forbid them from getting drinks and dances, but a good boss knows how to keep his crew happy.

The boys are always goading me, trying to get me to let one of the girls onto my lap, but that’s never happening.

The last thing I need is a knife in my back like my father.

Growing up as the son of the most powerful man in New York, you’d think I’d have lived a safe and privileged life, but you’d be wrong. Dad kept a watchful eye over me, but he made sure I learned about the dark side of the world on my own.

The boys at school tested me on the playground. One day I came home with a bloody nose, so Dad spent a week teaching me how to use my fists. The next time they tried to screw with me…

…Well, let’s just put it this way: If my dad wasn’t who he was, I would have been expelled for what I did to those suckers.

“What about that one? She looks like she knows what she’s doing,” Brian says, pointing to a girl on the main stage shaking her ass in a thong. I know her. As a matter of fact, I’d bet at least half the men in here know her very well.

“Nah, boss likes blondes,” Tyler interjects, pointing to another dancer. “Her! With the hair down to her ass. And what an ass she’s got. Am I right, boss?”

I give them a look they both understand. The look that means shut up. They do.

We’ve used this place for meetings for years now, and I’ve never had a single dance. And no way in hell is that changing any time soon. I don’t let strangers close to me, even if they are women half my size. That’s a good way to end up in a mahogany box five feet underground.

Don’t believe me? Just ask Dad.

“Well, if boss doesn’t want one, that means more for us, right?”

Eyes follow me as I move through the crowd. Down here, I’m a celebrity. Everyone knows who I am. The girls look at me the way the men in the crowd look at them. They’d do anything to get with me. I’m the king, and being my queen would change their lives.

Most guys just glance at me then quickly look away, but one actually sizes me up.

His eyes are sickly, either from too much vodka or some illegal substance that’s got his adrenaline flowing. He’s barely passing the club’s dress code too, wearing a pair of torn jeans and a T-shirt so worn-out it’s almost turned into a tank top. From the look of him, I’d say he’s from out of town. Maybe Rhode Island or Boston. Came down for a visit to the big city.

Part of me wants him to try it. Give it a go. I’m six foot four, two hundred and fifteen pounds of muscle and brutality, forged in an underworld of darkness this man has no concept of.

So I stop and stare down at him as he reclines in his seat, a sweaty bottle of beer in his hand.

My eyes do all the talking, and in less than five seconds, he puts on the worst acting I’ve ever seen and pretends like he’s got a call.