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He blinked, dazed, annoyed. “Oh, that’s rude. I’m gonna make you pay for that later.”

“Deal. Yuriy, I’m trusting you to not provoke anyone.”

“I won’t. Unless provoked first.”

Sometimes talking to him was like talking to a rock. A beautiful, well-dressed rock with a talented tongue.

Yuriy and I rode in the back while Nico drove. Two other cars flanked us, and one was in the front. Given our numbers, there was no way Mancini could cause trouble when we were meeting in a public space.

Kansas City pulsed like a vein ready to burst. Two nights before Christmas, the streets were a mess of holiday lights, drunk college kids, and the kind of energy that made men in our line of work keep a hand close to their weapons. The club Mancini had chosen was impossible to miss. A four-story building glassed in gold and red, with a line of people curling around the block despite the cold. Music vibrated through the pavement, a steady thump that worked itself into my bones.

Yuriy whistled low beside me. “Fancy.”

I didn’t answer. The sight of the place irritated me. Everything about it screamed arrogance, like Andrea Mancini a.k.a. Webster wanted the whole damn city to stare at him and applaud. Men like him were never in power for too long. They drew attention like bees to honey. Sooner or later, they were either behind bars or six feet under.

At the club, we bypassed the line. A bouncer built like a refrigerator stepped forward, eyes tracking us from boots to faces. Recognition flickered; fear followed right after as he straightened his posture.

Good. That part never changed. For a man in my field, fear was an expensive currency that not everyone had the opportunity to trade in.

“Mr. Zhukovsky, Signor Mancini is expecting you,” he said, voice strained. “Follow me, please.”

Inside, the heat hit immediately—hot air, cologne, perfume, the sticky sweetness of spilled cocktails. Bodies packed the dance floor, grinding to bass that made the chandeliers tremble. Strobe lights cut through fog machines, flashing over sequins, bare legs, open shirts, and hands slipping where they shouldn’t.

Yuriy took everything in with that lazy grin he used when he was bored enough to be dangerous. Was he remembering his own time at nightclubs as a whore?

Fuck, this is no time to get jealous of the hundreds Yuriy has fucked.

Focus.

The bouncer forced a path through the crowd, and people parted fast once they realized we weren’t here to dance. A few men looked too long at Yuriy, making my heart thump. He was an attractive man with beautiful features. Everywhere he went, he drew attention, but I hated it.

Sometimes I wanted to be the only man who noticed him. Then maybe he wouldn’t need to look elsewhere and find something more…just something more.

We reached a velvet-roped staircase guarded by two more men in black suits. One tapped an earpiece, listened, then lifted the rope.

“This way.”

The music dulled the higher we climbed. By the second floor, it faded to a hum. By the third, it was barely a memory. The lighting grew softer, more controlled—amber sconces, gilded frames, carpets thick enough to swallow footsteps. Expensive. Intentionally quiet. The kind of luxury criminals used to pretend they were legitimate.

At the top of the final staircase stood a glass double door etched with the Mancini crest, a serpent wrapped around a dagger, crowned in laurel leaves. Dramatic bullshit. A thin young man in a tailored vest greeted us with a stiff bow.

“Gentlemen, Signor Mancini is waiting in his private suite. Please follow me.”

We walked a long hallway that overlooked the club through tinted glass. From up here, the chaos looked almost elegant. Yuriy slowed beside one of the windows, watching the crowd below.

“Looks lively,” he murmured. “Shame we’re here for diplomacy instead of fun. Would have loved to bend you over on the dance floor.”

I wanted to say that would never happen, but I bit back the words. If someone had said I would be sleeping with another man, I would have said never too.

Now look at me, ass up practically every night, riding Yuriy’s dick and moaning while I’m at it.

The hallway ended in a heavy door guarded by two of Mancini’s personal men. They opened it without a word, and warm light spilled out, rich and inviting. Yuriy shot me a sideways glance, the kind that carried a dozen jokes he’d say later. I inhaled once, steadying myself, then stepped inside first.

29

STAS

Mancini’s private suite was designed to impress the insecure. Too much mahogany, too much gold leaf, too many paintings of Italian landscapes I doubted he’d ever visited. From the first glance, I pegged him as one of those men who never worked hard a day in his life but was content reaping the benefits of those who’d come before him.