AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He had married a madwoman. Viking grabbed a bottle of scotch and slouched onto one of the plush couches at Flux. It would be a few hours before the club opened. The cleaning crew was already at work, the bartender was stocking up the bar, and a few dancer girls were traipsing around.
It had taken a good portion of the night to locate the new strippers who had almost been shot. Thankfully, Baran had gone after them to nip that clusterfuck in the bud. Of course, the asshole had been the reason why they’d been let inside in the first place, so the least he could do was make sure the girls would keep their traps shut. They knew not to go to the police. No one in their right mind would file a complaint against a Bratva wife, but he needed to make sure they wouldn’t go around gossiping about what happened that night.
He should also make sure the guys wouldn’t direct any more of the new strippers to his apartment. Some things were so ingrained into his life he hadn’t even given it a second’s thought. Elena certainly had. That woman had been on fire tonight. He was lucky she hadn’t shot him in the balls. Just thinking about him shooting his balls inside her made him hard again. He took deep breaths, forcing his hard-on down. He didn’t know what it was about her that made him turn into a horny teenager, but it was all he could think about. She was all he could think about.
He motioned for Sylvie, one of the cage dancers, but she didn’t see him. Great, now he would need to get up and get his own glass.
That’s when he spotted another dancer. He called her name, but she didn’t seem to hear him either. When the third dancer hurried past him, he started to get suspicious. Any other day, at least one of them came by to have a talk, whether it was about receiving an advance or referring a friend. The club was Bratva, but unlike a lot of other venues, their girls were safe and protected. There was no ‘sampling of the goods’ here.
Having no other choice, he walked up to the bar. He held up his bottle to Brent, the barman.
“One shot coming up, boss.”
He took the drink and downed it in one pull. In the end, he decided to just ask Brent outright. The guy knew everything that happened around here.
“So, tell me, Brent. Is it just me, or are the women avoiding me?”
Brent leaned over. “It’s definitely you. Actually, your wife. Word has spread about what happened tonight.”
Fucking great. “I need another one.”
Halfway through the excellent Scotch, Baran showed up. His lips were tight. “Those new dancers who tried out at your place? They’re not for Flux,” he quipped. “I’m calling it before you decide to give them a second chance.”
“Yeah, I heard they couldn’t keep their traps shut.”
Baran took a seat next to him. “I need a drink. And don’t give me that pussy stuff those Russians drink.”
Brent saluted. “One pure raki coming up.”
“I’ve been up all night putting out fires,” Baran continued. “I think those girls sent a message the second I brought them home. In an hour I’ve had three girls call to ask me if they should be worried your wife will shoot them. I told them it was just a marital spat. When I explained the situation, two of them championed your wife. The other asked for her number so she could ‘hire’ her to shoot her ex.”
Viking groaned. The one bottle wasn’t going to cut it.
“They fear her like Baba Yaga,” Baran mock-whispered.
“Who the hell is that?”
“It’s what they call Keanu Reeves in that movie where he plays a hitman. When a gangster shoots his dog, and steals his car, he goes on a killing rampage.”
Of course, he did. “What else is a guy to do when someone shoots your dog?”
“I hear you.”
When Kristoff came in, Viking wished he’d already left. Tonight was not a night he wanted another lecture from his friend. Like clockwork every year on this day, Viking's mood plummeted. He was already dreading what he was about to do, but he couldn’t help himself.
It was that night again. The night Elena had married Morelli.
“You gonna be in the bunker tonight?” Kristoff asked.
They never talked about it, and he appreciated that. So the fact that Kristoff asked him about it was out of character.
Oddly, for the first time in years, he didn’t feel a pull to go into the bunker and get wasted.
Then the image came back to him. Elena dressed in white, so beautiful that it had hurt his eyes and fractured his soul.
He took another bottle of Scotch and left for the bunker at the wharf. There he did the same thing he’d been doing every year for the past sixteen years: he pulled out an LP and slumped onto the couch keeping the bottle next to him.
Why was it that this time when he closed his eyes, he didn’t picture Elena with Morelli? Why was it that this time that picture got blurred, and instead was an image of himself with her in his arms, at his house, petting his dog? Kristoff was right. This war inside him of whether or not to forgive her was tearing him apart.
