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“Men. If you’re not sucking their dick, they’ll be a dick,” I spoke into the rim of my drink, chugging down a generous gulp. The drugs might be free, but the drinks were expensive and watery as shit.

Movement from the corner of my eye caught my attention. I homed in on the commotion, weak drink forgotten. The crowd parted like the red sea, making room for the pack of intimidating men making their way to the VIP stairs.

What the fuck was he doing here?

Caleb Callahan. Criminal, asshole extraordinaire and someone who should not be in a Russian Bratva club. Broad shoulders filled out every inch of his black button-up. It was impressive that I could even see his shoulders above the crowd. Men normally lied about their height, but it seemed Caleb was every bit of the six foot three inches his bio claimed. The lights shone off his hair, revealing its auburn hue. A chiseled jaw was accented by his trimmed facial hair. Caleb managed to toe the line of put-together and rugged.

Honestly, it pissed me off that he was so hot. Fucker probably just woke up looking good.

Also, it was a major tool move to put his height in the magazine article about being one of New York’s hottest bachelors. Funny how it left out that he was the son of Gael Callahan, head of the Irish Mob. Maybe because they’d have to address Caleb’s place as the less desirable second son, who wouldn’t inherit any of his daddy’s kingdom. The rumors about him being a major man whore were accurate based on the leggy blonde plastered to his side. My eyes lingered longer than necessary on how his large, tattooed hand grabbed her ass.

I’d give the grab a four out of ten. Where was the kneading? The second slap? Hell, with hands the size of his, I’d want him to grab my ass and let those long fingers get close to brushing my pussy.

Did the tattoo on his knuckles say fuck?

Something drew my attention away from his bold choice in body ink.

Well, that’s interesting.

I turned my body to fully face the dance floor, making sure I wasn’t seeing things. Not only should Caleb not be here, but neither should the two men flanking him. Especially not together.

One was a real-life, goddamn giant with buzzed hair and tattoos running up the side of his neck. A neck so thick I’d have to use my legs to choke him out if we ever got into a fight. He had a reputation for being able to find anyone trying to escape punishment and had a knack for getting them back.

A shiver ran down my spine at the thought of him throwing me around—and it wasn’t entirely from fear. I’d never seen Nikolay Volkov’s face. The Russian boogeyman usually lurked around in the dark, but his backside was delicious.

Then there was Kenji Jirocho. He was narrower than the other two, with long, lean muscles, but he was as tall as Caleb. He may not have the mass of the others, but he was very much deadly. And damn good with a knife. Kenji was the interrogator for the Jirocho Yakuza Clan. His ability to break men was whispered about in every circle. Hell, he was flown out to Japan on several occasions when they needed his special touch.

From my spot at the bar, it looked like his silk shirt was unbuttoned, and the rolled sleeves showed off the ink covering his arms. I’d seen Kenji’s face when we were both working a job in Tokyo. Honestly, he’d deserved a cut from that gig since he’d done all the work of getting the asshole to sing like a canary while I watched from the shadows. And as much as it pained me to admit, the man was gorgeous. Sell your soul to the devil, gorgeous. Caleb’s was too, but I was trying to gaslight myself into thinking he was ugly as fuck.

“Why are you three together?” I whispered, tracking their movements.

As if he could sense my gaze, Nikolay turned and scanned the room, sending me scrambling to turn in my seat to face the wall of cheap liquor. I threw back the rest of my drink, the burning sensation of vodka sliding down my throat, helping me refocus. Why had it felt like he knew he was being watched?

I rolled my eyes at the vibrations interrupting my thoughts. Enzo always fucking called me during jobs, and it pissed me off. It was such an unnecessary distraction, and I’d told him so more times than I could count.

Me: You know how I work, Enzo. I’ll text you when the job is done. Until then, don’t bother me.

I shut off my phone the moment the message said delivered, not needing this job to be jeopardized by my jailer sending me texts the whole time. Pushing off the stool, I allowed the crowd to swallow me up, becoming another body among the masses. Hands trailed over my flushed skin, attempting to entice me to join their drug-hazed trip. Molly was a Bratva favorite in their clubs. Low risk of ODs in the bathroom and high-profit margins.

This place was definitely not my style. Grimy as shit, with an off-brand Hot Topic vibe going for it. I swore the walls were spray-painted black, like they couldn’t be bothered to use a damn brush and roller. The flashing lights and house music were helpful, though. It made slinking into the private hallways so much easier.

Amazing how many places you could get into with confidence and a little black dress that practically showed your ass cheeks. No one batted an eye as I strode through a door clearly labeled staff. Still, I was careful to keep any identifying features out of sight of the cameras as I moved up the back stairwell to the third floor. The precaution was probably unnecessary since I had a mini jammer stuffed in my bra, but one couldn’t be too careful when stealing from the Russians. Ironically, they were supposed to be our allies. Well, the Mafia’s ally.

But as the saying goes, there’s no honor amongst thieves.

The quiet click of the door behind me centered my focus. My fingers wrapped around the thick fabric of the ski mask, trying to shove under the brunette locks that poked out at the bottom.

I took a moment to orient myself, recalling from memory the footprint for this part of the cub. Most people didn’t realize that their building blueprints were readily available. If one knew where to look—or hack. Came in handy for a thief. This storage closet had a discreet door inside that led to an office. I pressed my ear against the wood, trying to filter out the sounds of the club and what might lie behind the door.

Silence.

A simple deadbolt was all that was on the door. They probably assumed no one would be ballsy enough to walk right into their club and steal from them. Not unless someone had a death wish—or an over-lording uncle who held your fate in his hands.

The corners of my mouth tilted up at the clicking of the disengaged deadbolt I’d picked.

That was well under thirty seconds.

I slipped inside when no one started yelling or shooting. The only light in the room came from the windows behind the giant desk. New York had enough light pollution that I didn’t need to take out my small flashlight. I toed off my shoes and shoved them in my bag. It was easier to get away on bare feet than in heels.