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Dylan was right.

The thought of fucking Stanislav Zhukovsky had my heart racing.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dylan said. “I’m still down to spend the night with you. I’m not exactly looking for forever either. Just don’t think you’ll get as much out of it as if it were that man under you instead.”

“It’s not that deep, Dylan. It’s just a fuck. Anyone will do for the night.”

He clutched his heart. “Ouch.”

I shrugged. “It’s true. I don’t do romance.”

“Don’t worry. My expectations end at a good time in the sack.” Dylan turned away to pour a drink for a customer, and I looked back toward the pool table.

The air in that corner had shifted. The laughter was gone, replaced by sharp movements, the crack of a cue ball hitting wrong, and the low thrum of voices gone tight. One of the men—broad, red-faced, ginger hair—jabbed a finger at Stas. The other, lanky with a shaved head, leaned in close, too close.

Stas didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise his voice. He said something I couldn’t hear, set his cue on the table with slow precision, and straightened. Every muscle in his frame stayed wound but controlled, like a fuse lit but waiting for permission to burn.

Then he turned away. Walked off.

He might have seemed calm, but I’d made the man angry enough times to know he was furious. He strode toward the bar, came to a stop next to me and snagged his coat from the back of the stool.

“We should go.”

I turned on my stool, eyebrows up. “Go? Why? What happened?”

“Nothing important.” His jaw flexed. “Are you coming or not?”

I glanced over his shoulder to the men who were still arguing and pointing at Stas’s back. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of those pussies.”

“I’m not here to cause trouble for Lena and your brother.”

I raised my half-finished drink. “Well, I’m not done for the night. I haven’t gotten laid yet.”

“Suit yourself.” He took a step, then paused, his focus on Dylan. “You can do better.”

He didn’t wait for me to respond but turned and walked out, shoulders rigid.

Dylan rushed over, waving off a customer who wanted a drink.

“You don’t mind being fired?” I asked.

“Nah, my boyfriend’s dad owns the bar.”

“Boyfriend?” I sat up straight.

He chuckled. “Relax. Our relationship is open.”

“Oh.”

I’d shared lots of partners before but couldn’t imagine sharing someone I was serious about.

“Aren’t you going after him?” Dylan asked.

“Why? He’s a big guy. He can take care of himself.”

“Maybe.” Dylan’s gaze flicked to the door. “But those guys he was arguing with? They just followed him out. And trust me, you don’t want to be cleaning up what might happen next. Those men are connected.”

For a second, I almost laughed. Stas was a mobster. The Zhukovsky. Those men had no idea who they were messing with.