Ivan: A Dark Mafia Romance (Underworld Book 1)

ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

Sometimes death lurks after them for days, weeks, or even months, waiting for their time…

N.B. Roberts

I stroll into the club, past the doormen who by now know me well enough to let me in with a nod. I’ve got my fur coat buttoned up to the neck, and my feet stuffed into some lovely new fleece-lined boots, because it’s bitterly cold outside. The snow is blowing in from the west, the flakes as tiny and granular as sand, biting every inch of exposed skin.

But that’s just an average November evening in St. Petersburg. It hasn’t deterred the patrons of the club, who fill the expensive leather booths and especially the seats around the stage. The heat of their bodies has almost made it too warm inside. I’m eager to get to the staff room to shuck off my coat.

I’ve been working here six weeks, long enough to become familiar to the regulars and the other girls. It’s longer than most people would have devoted to a job like this, but that’s why I’m the best at what I do. I don’t shirk on the details.

Even when the details are, shall we say . . . somewhat unpleasant.

I head to the change room, which is a mess of curling irons and lipstick tubes, discarded boots and glittery thongs. I open up my coat to reveal the outfit underneath, if it can be called an outfit at all—it’s more like three little patches of black leather, held onto my body by elaborate, crisscrossing silver chains.

Now I have to do what all the girls have already done and exchange my nice comfy boots for a pair of awful platform heels. Then I touch up my hair and makeup. The hair is a wig. Blonde, because Yozhin exclusively likes blondes. And the makeup—smoky eyes and pouting red lips—is about ten times more than I’d usually wear.

While I’m dolling myself up, a couple more girls come in—Marta, who’s from a little town in Belarus, and Angie, who’s American, like me. Marta goes by the stage name Star. Angie calls herself Montana, though she’s actually from Idaho. She came here as a backpacker, then started stripping once she ran out of money.

They think my name is Amanda Wallace and that I’m in a similar boat to Angie. Angie helped me pick my stage name, which is Roxie. I made sure to make friends with Angie the second I saw her, because she’s exactly the type Yozhin likes: blonde, fake tits, with a sweet girl-next-door smile.

I’ve only got one of those things, and the hair isn’t even real. But it’s fooled Yozhin so far. He’s paid for private dances with Angie and me every night that he’s come in.

I could have done the job the first time I had him alone in the private room, but first encounters are the enemy. Yozhin’s bodyguards were watching us. Yozhin himself was too riled up, his hands all over me—paying too much attention to the “new girl.” Even if I’d managed to slip something in his drink without anyone noticing, it would have drawn too much attention if he started foaming at the mouth within five minutes of meeting me.

Routine is what I look for. Complaisance.

That’s the time to take someone. When they’re perfectly comfortable and happy.

I want a man to die in front of the fire with his slippers on and his favorite cigar in his mouth.

I’m a very considerate grim reaper.

Yozhin’s favorite place is probably this strip club. He certainly doesn’t stop grinning from the moment he steps foot in the door. And he comes every Wednesday night, like clockwork.

If he really cared about staying alive, he wouldn’t be so predictable. He also wouldn’t have pissed off whoever it was that hired me.

But that’s his problem, not mine.

I just give him dance after dance. I let him put his pudgy little hands all over me, until I could kill him out of pure disgust, let alone for the $50K in bitcoin wired to my account.

The men at the club aren’t supposed to touch us. This is a high-end establishment, not some cheap speakeasy where the girls give out blowjobs at the tables for three thousand rubles a pop. But Yozhin is the minister of the Admiralteysky District, so there’s some leeway. He’s not the biggest fish to come in here, but he’s important enough to get what he wants.

He gets his pick of the girls and the same VIP table every time. He orders a dozen bottles of top shelf liquor for whatever entourage he’s brought along, and he’s generous with his tips. And yet, apparently, someone wants him dead.

And they want it to look like an accident.

Murder is easy.

Stealth is a little harder.

Of course, I already know what I’ll be using. I plan to poison him tonight, when he takes Angie and I back for a private dance.

He’s an important man, so I’ll have to assume that there will be an investigation, an autopsy.

There’s virtually no poison that can’t be discovered in the bloodstream in this day and age. Modern science is a bitch. But it’s not infallible. The autopsy will only show what they search for.

So, the best poisons are chameleons. They lurk out of sight, or masquerade as something different.

Aconite is an ancient killer. Women used to grow the pretty purple flowers in their gardens, then brew it into tea for unfaithful husbands.

I’ve made it into little white tablets, a quarter the size of my pinky nail. Once I drop one into Yozhin’s drink, it will dissolve in seconds. He’s going to swallow it down, and it’s going to wreak havoc in the sodium channels of his cardiac and neural cells. It won’t happen immediately, while I’m standing there. It will give me a nice little window to make myself scarce. But then, sure and certain, his heart is going to seize up tighter than a charley horse.

The coroner could find a trace of the aconite, but not without ordering a full-scale gas chromatography, which he won’t do. Not with Yozhin’s blood already swimming with much more obvious culprits like alcohol and cocaine. Not to mention his sixty-some pounds of excess weight, and the fact that he’s hardly a spring chicken.

Nothing could be more natural or expected than a heart attack.

The only thing I’ve got to watch out for is his bodyguards. There’s one, a tall blond with a birthmark on the side of his face, who’s already got his eye on me. Either I’ve done something to make him suspicious, or that’s just his natural state. Either way, I don’t want to tangle with anybody the size of a refrigerator.

I join the other girls out on the floor, mingling with the patrons enough that the floor manager won’t give me shit, but making sure not to get pulled into any private rooms before Yozhin gets here. He should be arriving any minute.

The Raketa is a large club, glamorous in that uniquely Russian way where everything is flashy, showy, and just a little bit odd. Russians love a good theme. In Raketa, the theme is outer space. The floor and ceiling are speckled with little lights that are supposed to look like stars, and the booths somewhat resemble rocket ships. There’s a giant portrait of Yuri Gagarin on the wall, watching the girls gyrate against the poles on the main stage.

I keep glancing at the clients’ watches—it’s almost ten o’clock, long past when Yozhin usually arrives. I’m about to give up on him for the night when I see him hurrying through the doors, looking flushed and agitated.

Yozhin is about 5’9, the same height as me, but he looks small next to his two hulking bodyguards. I can see he’s brought the blond with the birthmark. Blondie is already scanning the room with a scowl on his face.

Yozhin is balding, with a short salt and pepper beard, pouchy eyes, and full lips that he licks a little too often. He wears his suits too large, probably in hopes of hiding his belly. When he tips the girls, he makes sure to slide the bills as far into our G-strings as we’ll allow, with his thick little fingers lingering on our skin. We have to smile the whole time like we love it.

This isn’t the first time I’ve posed as a stripper or a sex worker—it’s an easy way to get close to my targets. Every time I do it, a little more rage builds up inside of me. I hate these men who think that their power and money buys a woman as easily as it buys a car or a watch.

I like to think of myself as a professional. I try to keep emotion out of my work. But I can’t deny that I’m looking forward to seeing Yozhin’s face flushing purple as his heart turns to stone inside his chest.

He deserves it. My targets always deserve it.

Yozhin’s look of strain eases just a little as he catches sight of me.

“Roxie!” he cries, coming close to give me a kiss on the cheek.

“Hey, Mr. Yozhin,” I say. “I was afraid you weren’t going to make it tonight.”

“I wouldn’t miss seeing you,” he says, allowing his eyes to roam freely over my body in the skimpy costume.

He pulls back from the kiss, but he lets his hand linger on my right asscheek. I’m longing to shake him off, but if I stay the course, tonight is the last time he’ll touch me or anybody else.

“You want me to go get Angie?” I ask.

The sooner I get him alone in the private room, the sooner I can make my move.

“I want to,” he says regretfully, “but I’m supposed to be meeting someone here tonight.”

“Oh,” I say, pouting out my bottom lip.

“Come sit with me though,” he says. “Until my guest arrives.”

I give a nod to Angie across the room. We join Yozhin at his VIP table. He buys us two of the space-themed cocktails, which are actually just pineapple juice when they’re made for the strippers but cost the clients fifteen hundred rubles a round. I get a kickback every time a client buys me a drink, or any time they purchase a private dance.

Of course, those earnings pale compared to the actual payout for this job. But it amuses me to drain the bank accounts of these politicians and businessmen, who should be home with their wives instead of groping girls young enough to be their daughters.

“Where is he?” Yozhin mutters in Russian to his blond bodyguard.

“He says he’ll be here in ten minutes,” Blondie replies.

The other reason Yozhin likes Angie and me is because he thinks we only speak English. That’s true for Angie. Not at all true for me.

My father had taught me four languages by the time I was five years old. And that was by far the least-strange thing he taught me.

I was a good student. His rules have kept me alive. One of his rules was, “What you know is just as valuable as what other people know. Never let them see what you know.”

Yozhin has let all kinds of useful information pass from him to me, because he doesn’t think I understand a word he’s saying.

While Yozhin and Blondie are talking, Angie is stroking her fingertips lightly up and down my arm. The clients love it when the girls cuddle up together. And honestly, it feels nice. I’d rather have Angie touch me than Yozhin.

Yozhin is getting distracted, glancing over at us. He’s about to reach his pudgy hand over toward Angie’s bare thigh when the man he’s been waiting for comes walking into the club. I can tell it’s him by the way Yozhin snaps to attention, his face looking more nervous and strained than ever. It’s weird to see him so jumpy.

I don’t know who this guy is—he’s never been in Raketa before. He doesn’t look smug enough to be a politician, nor wealthy enough to be a businessman. He certainly looks mean enough to be a criminal, but he doesn’t have quite the usual style of a Bratva—no tattoos or jewelry.

I just see a man in a black suit, with an extremely pale face—almost sickly-looking. There’s a stiffness to his expressions, as if he’s forming them intentionally, without actually experiencing the emotions he’s pretending to portray.

He shakes hands with Yozhin, and his smile is the worst expression of all. It’s just a straight line on his thin lips. It doesn’t put Yozhin at ease any more than it does me.

Whoever this guy is, I don’t want to tangle with him. I should make my exit and take care of Yozhin another night.

“Do you want to do it now?” Yozhin mutters to the man, obviously eager to get their meeting over with.

“Let’s go to a private room,” the man in the black suit replies.

“You can go, girls,” Yozhin says in English to Angie and me.

I’m about to take him up on that. But Black Suit holds up one slim white hand to stop us, saying, “Bring them. No need to draw attention.”

So, we have to follow the men into one of the private rooms, usually used for lap dances.

Once we’re inside, the man in the black suit instructs us to dance with each other while he and Yozhin sit side by side on the small sofa.

Yozhin’s men are stationed at the door. Black Suit’s men are standing on the opposite side of the room. With Angie and me in the middle, grinding up against each other, it’s difficult to watch the two men on the sofa without being noticed. Even more difficult to hear what they’re saying over the pounding beat of some Nyusha song. I have to read their lips, stealing glances over Angie’s shoulder.

“You know where to take it?” Black Suit is saying.

“Yes,” Yozhin says hesitantly, “but this isn’t what I usually—“

Black Suit cuts him off.

“Just do it. I don’t want to hear any more whining.”

“I don’t—“

I can’t see the next part because Angie has inadvertently moved in front of me, sliding her slim body up and down against mine in her bright red thong and matching bra.

I turn her around and unclasp the bra, slipping the straps down her shoulders to reveal a pair of heart-shaped pasties over her nipples. This position is convenient because I can see the men on the couch again, and it distracts the bodyguards on the opposite side of the room. They’re looking at Angie’s tits instead of at me.

Black Suit is passing Yozhin something small, black, flat—probably a flash drive. Yozhin takes it gingerly between his fingers before slipping it into the breast pocket of his suit.

Black Suit mutters something else, but his mouth moves so stiffly and he’s bent so close to Yozhin that I can’t make it out. I only see Yozhin replying, miserably, “I know. I’ll be there.”

But he won’t make his meeting, whatever it might be. Because I’m sick of coming into this club, and I’m not dragging it out another week. Besides, I’m worried what might happen if Yozhin’s deal with this guy goes south. If someone else kills Yozhin before I do, I won’t get the rest of my money.

Their business concluded, Black Suit quickly finishes his drink and nods to his bodyguards. They exit the private room, leaving Yozhin alone with Angie and me, as well as the two remaining guards.

Yozhin lets out a sigh, visibly relieved to see the man in the black suit gone.

He eagerly gestures for Angie and me to join him.

“Who was that guy?” I ask, keeping my voice light. “He gives me the creeps.”

“He’s nobody,” Yozhin says, eager to distract himself with more pleasant things. “Sorry to keep you waiting, girls.”

I pretend to adjust the little triangles of leather over my breasts, slipping the white tablet out of my top.

“That’s okay,” Angie giggles. “We were having fun.”

She’s about to climb on top of Yozhin, but I grab his drink, the little white tablet sandwiched between my ring and pinky fingers. I hold the glass by its rim, so my hand hovers over the liquor inside. I release the tablet, letting it fall down into the drink, as I pass it over to Yozhin.

“Here,” I say. “Business is over, time to relax.”

Yozhin takes a grateful gulp of his drink, nearly draining the glass.

“You’re so good to me, girls,” he says, grabbing us both around the waist and pulling us tight against him.

I straddle his lap, putting my tits in his face, and letting Angie go around behind him. My body is blocking the view of the men at the door, but I can almost feel Blondie’s eyes boring into my back.

As I grind my hips against Yozhin, I run my hands over his chest, feeling the slight bulge of the flash drive in his suit pocket.

I’m faced with quite the dilemma here.

I don’t know what’s on that drive, but I know it must be valuable.

On the one hand, it would be so easy to slip my hand inside his jacket and take it.

On the other, it’s not part of my job to steal anything. I really didn’t like the look of the man in the black suit. It would be stupid to tangle myself up in his business without even knowing who he is.

I really should just leave the flash drive alone.

But I’m so curious. I want to know what it is and how much I can sell it for. I’m getting tired of St. Petersburg, tired of Russia in general. The right score could set me up nicely somewhere else. Somewhere a lot warmer.

Yozhin’s empty drink is sitting on the sofa next to him. I knock it off with my knee, so the glass shatters on the ground, the ice cubes skittering across the floor.

“Oops!” I say.

In the moment of distraction when the glass shatters, I sneak my hand inside his suit, and pull out the flash drive. I tuck it inside the front of my thong. There’s precious little coverage there, and I’m afraid the drive will leave a lump. The blond bodyguard has sharp eyes.

I trade places with Angie, keeping my body turned away from Blondie. Angie works her hardest, grinding and gyrating against Yozhin, but he’s too stressed from his meeting to focus on her. And he’s beginning to feel the first effects of the aconite. I can see the flush on his skin, the increased rate of breathing.

Which means it’s the perfect time for us to get away from him.

“Sorry,” I say, putting on a fake sad face, “I think our time’s up. Angie and I have another client waiting.”

“That’s okay,” Yozhin says, his voice coming out tight and pinched. “I’m feeling a little off today anyway. But you girls did a good job.”

He slips a few folded bills into Angie’s G-string. When he tries to do the same to me, I swiftly pluck the money from his fingers so as not to risk dislodging the flash drive.

“Thanks!” I say brightly, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Now the tricky part.

As we walk toward the door, I look Blondie straight in the face, boldly holding his gaze so he can’t look down at my body.

“See you next time,” I say, saucily.

He narrows his eyes at me. His lips twitch, as if he wants to say something back, but I hurry out the door before he can reply.

I make a quick detour to the change room to hide the flash drive in my boot. Then I look for a client to engage me in another lap dance.

I’m safely ensconced in a private room with two Bulgarian businessmen when I hear a muffled thud and commotion coming from Yozhin’s room. I assume he’s collapsed on the floor.

His bodyguards are shouting for an ambulance. The floor manager will be debating whether to risk calling paramedics into the club, or whether to hustle the minister into a private car so he can be driven to the hospital.

It won’t matter which option he chooses—Yozhin will be dead before he arrives.

When I finish this dance, I’ll retrieve my cellphone and send an encrypted text to my broker.

It’s done.