Novak stood in a darkened corner watching the gambling house patrons. Like a caged beast, he was seething with pent up aggression that begged for release. He’d been a good boy for too damn long. He was a man given to carnal lust and bloody fights. The carnal lust he would take care of later—only Katrina could meet those needs. The thirst for blood, however, was what had brought him here tonight.
Since Kodiak and Logan weren’t here to watch over the gambling house, he had volunteered to pick up the slack. And, yeah, he secretly hoped somebody would indulge their inner stupid and try to beat the house by cheating. Then he would be able to sate the beast within him that wanted, even needed, to kill. Or at the very least, do some serious damage.
Novak knew he was fucked up. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that the darkness inside him wasn’t normal – whatever normal was. He was okay with it, too. Unlike some ‘made men’ who struggled to adjust to the brutality of mafia life, for him the darkness had always been as natural as breathing, as instinctual as the mindless drive to fuck his wife into the next room.
He had been born to do this. He was only answering the call of his true nature, even if it was the call of the fucking wild. But it wasn’t every day Glazov’s right-hand man made a personal appearance at the gambling house. The employees all knew it. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch for them to assume something of significance was about to go down. Little did they know that the crazy fucker was just looking for a fight.
He glanced at one of the guards, who nodded discreetly in his direction and then quickly looked away, smart enough to not maintain eye contact with him.
Fuck ‘em. Let them think they’re in trouble. It’ll keep ‘em on their toes and out of my damn way. Whatever the situation was, Novak was going to use it to his advantage. When a waitress approached him, thrusting her tits out front and center and smiling a little too big as she offered to get him a drink, he just shook his head. He’d need his mental faculties tonight. He wanted a clear head for what he was about to do. The frigid look in his eyes conveyed the clear message that he wasn’t interested in anything she had to offer.
It always amazed him that so many women aspired to fuck a Bratva man, even the married ones. Didn’t they know that Bratva wives were crazier than the men? People will do anything for power, even if it means getting on their knees – or flat on their back – for a married man.
Nevertheless, Novak liked the atmosphere here. It wasn’t like most gambling joints with the incessant noise from slot machines. That would be fucking irritating. Lately, though, way too many things were irritating him. He knew himself well enough to recognize when it was time to burn off some steam. Violence was as much of a need for him as BDSM. Lucky for him, his wife was turned on by his penchant for violence and she could take anything he dished out in the bedroom…or the dungeon. He could feel his cock stir at the thought of what surely awaited him at home. But first things first.
At the sound of the main door opening, he turned. His eyes widened as Roksana, Oleg, Anastasia, Dmitriy, and Helena walked toward him.
“What brings you all out?”
“Cabin fever,” Roksana said. “It was supposed to be a girl’s night out until the guys got wind of it.”
“With everything going on, they didn’t want us out alone,” Anastasia chimed in.
“Yeah, right. It was either that or pee on us to mark us as ‘taken’.” Roksana rolled her eyes and took a shot of vodka from a passing waitress, downing it before she picked up a second and tossed it back. Of course, everyone knew the women enjoyed their men’s alpha tendencies.
“Whoa, take it easy there, girl. I’m assuming you’re not the designated driver,” Novak said with a smirk.
“Nope. That’s the newbie’s job.” Roksana glanced at Helena and was pleased when she didn’t let the jab get to her. If she was going to be part of this crowd, she’d need to be able to laugh at herself. Theirs was a playful group. When the teasing stopped, that was when you needed to worry. Helena had been smart enough to pick up on that already.
“Your man okay with you being here without him?” Novak asked Helena with a frown.
“He’s busy on top-secret Bratva business, you know how it is. He knows the guys will look out for me.”
Novak nodded and gave Oleg a pointed look. The waitress, on the other hand, went out of her way not to look at Oleg, knowing better than to provoke Roksana. With his long blonde ponytail, blue eyes, and tatted-up body and hands, his physical presence was imposing in a completely hot way. It was hard not to stare at his leanly muscled, 6’3” build, but she’d be damned if she was going to go out of her way to attract the wrath of the Pakhan’s daughter. After all, no man was worth carrying her teeth home in a bag.
Novak still wasn’t sure about the new girl, Helena. Nothing bound criminals together like secrets and blood, and Helena’s hands were as dirty as anyone else’s now. Killing Bjarke had put Helena in the position of having to keep her mouth shut. She didn’t appear to be a threat, exactly, but experience had taught Novak that there were always those who suddenly grew a conscience and were only too willing to testify for exoneration. There was nothing worse than a snitch. That was why most of them didn’t live to testify.
“So why come here? It isn’t exactly a party atmosphere. At least, not the kind of party you girls usually go for,” Novak observed, not really expecting a response as he turned his attention to Oleg.
Oleg was quick to answer, even as he scanned the room out of habit. “No enemies here. There’s too much going on with the Colombians and Sinaloans to take chances on bar hopping. Nobody likes an ambush. Hard to have a good time when you have to constantly look over your shoulder.” With a glance at Roksana, he concluded, “Girl’s night out, my ass. I’m never leaving my woman unprotected.”
“I know that’s right,” Dmitriy muttered as he gave Anastasia the side-eye.
“Makes sense.” Novak stepped toward Oleg and tilted his chin off to the side, asking, “So, what’s your take on the fat ass at table nine over there in the ugly plaid jacket?”
“What, you looking for a dream date to take your sadistic frustrations out on? Let me take a look.” Oleg could relate to Novak’s fucked up need for blood in a way few others could because he was jonesing for it tonight himself.
“Count me in if you guys beat somebody’s ass,” Roksana chimed in.
Novak slowly turned toward her, his expression devoid of emotion. His flat, lifeless eyes said so much more than words ever could. In that instant, she knew he had no intention of just roughing someone up. He was looking for something more…substantial.
“Well, now,” she said as she crossed her arms. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d lost your edge. You know, turned into one of those paper pushing mafia types.”
Novak always enjoyed sparring with Roksana, so he dove right in. “Oh, I get it. You think I’m some glorified white-collar criminal. Ah, Roksana, how you underestimate me.”
The goodnatured verbal sparring would go on for the next couple of hours as they downed shots and watched the patrons—especially the fat fuck in the ugly plaid jacket.