She shrugs. “You’re insane. Though, if you weren’t, I would have ratted you out a long time ago.”
She’s gone before I can laugh at the joke. Alone, however, it doesn’t sound so funny. In a world where someone can virtually own another, few things are.
I’m definitely not laughing as I return to the main street and head for my destination—a club named Moe’s. It lurks in a brick building a few blocks up. Two bouncers guard the door while scores of women walk the strip. Domi’s one of them, lurking out of sight. The money I gave her is enough to help her make her quota tonight. Helping her tomorrow solely depends on if another gangbanger can get himself shot—and happens to be desperate enough to seek out someone like me to patch him up. Funny. I used to consider myself an artist, finding refuge in colors and paint. Now, my art extends to the medical jargon I read in a book, and a whole lot of trial and error.
Admittedly, that’s the most dignified of the ways I make my money. Another? It’s not so pretty. Some might call it downright shady.
Setting my sights on the wooden door leading into the club, I pick my way through the women posted on the street andapproach one of the bouncers. He frowns as he looks me over and then jerks his chin to the door.
“He’s waiting for you,” he grunts, making the statement sound more like a warning. “Go on in.” He shoves the door open, and I step through it.
My soul may have a price tag, but at least I still have one. In a place like this, that’s a rare thing to find.
Cold eyes greet me as I enter the front of the club—a narrow office where another bouncer guards a second door. I’m already dreading what waits beyond. Chaos, for one. Piotr, the man who runs this branch of the syndicate, keeps his club brimming with drugs, sex, and booze. Enough vice so the twisted fucks who come here forget that the girls prancing around in risqué costumes aren’t here by choice.
Domi’s lucky to be outside tonight. At least she can hide. That isn’t the case in here. Piotr’s trained thugs don’t miss so much as a trembling shot glass. Any girl who doesn’t play her part is given a shove and a pointed look. The smart ones don’t screw up twice.
“He’s waiting for you.”
I smother any reaction as a hulking bodyguard appears at my side, his voice deeper than the pulsing music. He inclines his head and starts toward the center of the club, where a balding man in a black suit is watching a parade of women strip naked on the stage that spans the length of the room.
“My friend!” The man rises to his feet as I approach and offers a meaty hand for me to shake.
The gesture is for show—a way for him to draw attention to his scarred knuckles should I forget the danger he represents. Not that I can. Even the dumbest gangbanger knows who Vladimir Olshenkov is. There is a reason his nickname is The Butcher.
“You’re late,” he says, narrowing his beady eyes over my face. “I hope I didn’t interrupt some other business.”
I shrug off the subtle threat lurking in his tone and plaster on an expression that I hope passes for a smile. “Nothing important.”
Satisfied, Vlad lowers himself back onto a leather couch positioned near the stage and pats the space beside him. “Sit.”
I do, angling my face toward him—not that it helps much. In my peripheral vision, a girl takes off the thin strip of fabric serving as her top and my jaw clenches. “Arno’s sorry he couldn’t make it,” I say. Not that he ever planned to come anyway.
“Do this for me,” he begged. “Act like I want to make an offer—not that I ever would go into business with those fucks. I just need eyes on the inside.”
For what? He never told me.
I never asked.
“Arno,” Vlad says, nodding. “He is busy. I understand. You are busy yourself.” He nods to my hands as if they convey more than I realize. Maybe they do. The left sports five fingers, like most people’s do. The right…doesn’t. “It’s why I don’t mind that your boss sends you in his place,” Vlad adds, laughing deeply. “He must depend on you a lot, what with your brother being gone.”
I swallow hard, keeping every muscle in my face as still as I can. I’ve met with him three times this month alone, but this is the first meeting that he’s brought up Dante.
“We manage,” I say tightly.
Vlad’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I would hope you do. Here.” A girl slinks past, carrying a tray of shot glasses. He grabs two and offers one to me. Vodka, probably. “A toast. To new business.”
Not if I have any say in it. But there’s the rub—a truth that stings even as I contort my hand to slam my glass against Vlad’s. Arno does business with whoever he wants.
Like always, I’m just along for the fucking ride.
CHAPTER TWO
CHLOE
The real Devilsets up shop in a brick building downtown, where a flashing neon sign above the door readsMoe’s. He doesn’t require fire or brimstone to keep his captured souls in line, either.
Just money. A lot of it.
