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Miami offers hundreds of places for a man to find it, but I only need Seven.
Because she’sthere.
Twisting my way through the bustle of the city, I find a parking spot and kick the door open. Retrieving the Glock from my black bag, I tuck it in the holster underneath my jacket and step foot on familiar grounds.
It’s hot as hell. I know I was just bitching about the same shit in Louisiana, but this is different. It’s December, and it feels like that bare-assed Coppertone bitch should be skipping by any time now with her middle finger in the air. My feet are hitting the pavement in time with my breath and every inhale feels like I’m sucking in cream of oxygen soup.
I fucking hate Florida.
Scenarios rush through my mind as I anticipate what I’m going to do when I get to the door. I’m here to observe tonight, but that doesn’t mean I won’t take everyone out if needed. From what I remember, there are usually eight guards manning the interior. Assuming that doesn’t include Dmitry and Blade, I’m looking at a wall of no less than ten Russian assholes. Ten to one odds aren’t the best even for a skilled marksman, but Arthur didn’t hire me because I’m good at what I do. He hired me because I’m the best.
As Seven’s steel-covered walkway comes into view, I stop to formulate a plan. However, two more steps, and I’m distracted by the neon red sign sitting atop the square building, bathing everything in a red-light district worthy crimson glow.
Seventh Heaven.
The irony that it’s lit up in whore red isn’t lost on me.
Seventh Heaven is the official name of the club, but nothing that happens in there is holy, so most everyone around here calls it Seven. Personally, I’d just call it a laundromat. Sergei cleans so much money through this place, he single-handedly keeps Tide in business.
I’m walking and muttering to myself as I make my way toward the entrance. Fortunately, Blade’s not sitting there like the hound of Hades. I’ve never really had a problem with him, but as Seven’s head of security, he’s not likely to roll out the carpet for me. The guy’s been around as long as the club and knows more secrets than the Illuminati. Even if I somehow managed to get past him, there’s no way my gun would.
Instead, there’s a young guy sitting in Blade’s place who’s more interested in scrolling through his phone than watching the door. Lucky for both of us, he’s a moron. I get in undetected, and he gets to keep his thumbs.
I’m almost past him when he slams his free hand against my chest, barely glancing up from the phone. “There is a line, mudak,” he mutters in a slight Russian accent.
“I’m on the list.”
“Name?”
I flick my hand up between us, a crisp one hundred dollar bill tucked between my two fingers. “Ben Franklin.”
After slipping the bill in his pocket, the guy shrugs and waves me through without giving me a second glance. I’m not sure if I should be thankful or offended. Eight years ago, it’d take a lot more than a fucking Benjamin to turn a Bratva guard.
This place has gone to shit.
Once inside, I find a seat and wait for the show. It’s not ideal. I’m used to waiting in the shadows. Ideal would be in the back of the club in a corner where I could observe everyone and be seen by no one. But that’s not what I’m here for.
I want her to see me. Not too much, but just enough.
For an hour, I endure a party of drunk assholes I’d normally gut, tolerate countless bar waitresses trying to sell me expensive vodka, and stomach two of the worst strippers I’ve ever seen. I’ve had about as much as I can take when the first few hard beats of Warrant’s Cherry Pie snaps my eyes toward the stage. The curtain rustles and my heart rate spikes as two slim legs emerge. Instead of Sergei’s preferred whore’s uniform of a G-string and a smile, she’s wearing a white mesh mini-dress over a matching thong and bra that sends all the blood in my body rushing south.
She’s unlike anything I've ever seen.
Because the only thing I see is red.
It’s impossible not to because, hell, it’s everywhere. A volcanic eruption of deep lava-colored hair tumbles over her shoulders like a second curtain. But the wild explosion is nothing compared to what I find in the middle of it.
She slowly lifts her golden feline eyes, and I see the jaguar hiding behind them. Graceful, silent, and ready to strike.
Ava.
She takes a tentative step closer, and I have to control an immediate visceral response. I want to look away, but I can’t. Nothing about her has ever made me act rationally, but fuck, she’s nothing like the teenager I remember. This version of Sergei’s daughter isn’t the one from my violent fantasies. The one on stage is a walking paradox. A diabolical angel. A mind fuck with a body crafted for sin and a face carved from the heavens.
Salacious thoughts fill my head, forcing out a groan as I adjust myself. That’s when she sees me. I feel it. We’ve always had this bizarre connection, Ava and me. However, instead of shrinking in fear, she does something so reckless—so insanely foolish—I question if Sergei ruined her mind as well as her soul.
She grabs the pole and turns her back to me.
A move so bold it makes my cock harder than my gun and twice as deadly.
Every killer’s instinct roars at me to put a bullet in the back of her head and get it over with, but I won’t—not tonight. For years my need for revenge has been like a disease eating away at my soul. Relentless. Savage. Unforgiving. I’ve wanted to bathe my hands in her father’s blood more than take my next breath.
Unfortunately, Sergei’s daughter will pay the price for both of them because he managed to find my one weakness in life and use it against me. The one thing he knew would keep my knife from his throat.
My family.
