Vegas Boss: A Mafia Hitman Romance Page 4
I glance up at her eyes. There’s a hint of fear written in them, even in the bliss of her afterglow. I wonder how much of that message she understands. Her cheeks are red, but most people would be appropriately shamed for snooping.
My ‘two spies’ are a pair of my informants who are the eyes and ears of the bratva, and the sovietnik is a counselor of mine. These three men are second only to the pakhan in the hierarchy of the Russian mafia.
Second only to me.
But does a pretty young American stripper recognize such words?
Her face is hard to read, though. Her sweetness is as bright and full as ever, and the blush in her cheeks makes my heart melt. If she has an idea of what the text is about, she’s doing a good job of hiding it, or maybe the danger excites her.
Regardless, she isn’t running out the door.
“How about a shower, dove?” I ask in a husky whisper, holding my hand out and tossing the phone onto the bed, effectively offering to forget this little incident.
She hesitates, then smiles and takes my hands. “I’d like that.”
Nicole
I cannot believe what my life has become.
It’s one in the afternoon, and I am strolling around a strip club, looking for clues. Normally, I would be dancing, but right now the club is almost totally empty. So far, I have mostly been working evening shifts, thankfully, but today one of the usual daytime dancers called out so I have been asked to come in and fill her slot.
However, there isn’t much of a slot to fill.
Apparently, the noon time crowd isn’t so much a crowd as just… a trickle. Mostly just bored retirees who probably go to bed at eight in the evening, so this is their prime time hours for being sleazy and stingy with the girls.
From the moment I stroll into the strip joint, it’s completely obvious to me how little money there is floating around here. The high-rollers and big spenders of last night are nowhere to be found, and these old men living off disability checks and meager pensions are not cutting it.
In fact, it seems like most of them are just here to drink watered-down beer and shoot the shit with their buddies at the bar. There are only three girls working right now, including me. The other two are considerably older, both women in their forties who have kids in school.
I learned very quickly that for a lot of single mothers, this was a dream job. It let them work while their children were safely tucked away in a classroom, and when the school bell rang and they went home, their mothers could be there to help them with homework and make dinner.
Sure, the daytime shifts are nowhere near as lucrative as the night shifts, but all it takes is one generous tipper to make the day worth it. Admittedly, I went into this undercover assignment a little skeptical that I could figure out how to properly fit in with the crowd here. But after a short amount of time, I have realized that I have more in common with these women than I even expected.
I, too, often have to do things I would rather not to keep my job.
Hell, sometimes being one of the only female officers in my department feels a lot more exploitative and uncomfortable than dancing for tips. At least the men here pay me for their awkward, pervy stares and filthy comments, which is more than I can say for some of my colleagues in the vice department.
To be fair, it’s kind of unusual for a woman to work in vice, especially in a high-risk, fast-paced city like Las Vegas. When I first started there, some skeezeball started a rumor that I only got the job because I blew one of our commanding officers in the bathroom.
Obviously, that was untrue. There isn’t a single guy in that whole department I would even dream of touching beyond a professional handshake. It’s almost funny how the vice section of Las Vegas PD is full of people who have their own vices. My old office mate was a gambler. The male secretary who files our paperwork and directs calls is often slumped over a bar counter within an hour of clocking out for the day.
As for me, I don’t have a vice. And that makes me a rarity, it seems. But I have sat through far too many boring seminars on drug abuse, gambling, alcoholism, sex addiction, and all kinds of other topics to let something like that rule my life. I have a job to do, and I’ll be damned if I let anything in my personal life distract me from it.
Today, though, I am starting to wonder if this is how addictions begin.
Because no matter what I do to keep my mind and body busy with work, I cannot seem to stop thinking about Misha. My brain is so focused on him, on replaying vivid imagery and scenery from our roll in the hay last night, that I keep catching myself staring off into space.
More than once, I’ve snapped back to reality only to notice some potential customer looking at me like I’m crazy. Earlier, when I was trying to chat up a client at the bar, I nearly slipped up and called him Misha by accident. It was a close call, saved only by the fact that my target was so old and decrepit he hardly seemed cognizant of our conversation in the first place.
All I can think about is the way the low light flickered across Misha’s powerful muscles, how his eyes bored into me while his huge, strong hands guided my body. He bent me and moved me around with such ease. Before last night, it had been years since I was last even remotely intimate with anyone.
I’m only twenty-four, but the last six years of my life have been totally wrapped up in my career. Keeping up with the physical standards of the job means that I spend a ton of time at the gym, running, lifting weights, doing endless lunges and squats.
The written and oral exams I take to stay on top of my game and to get promoted mean that I spend my weekends and weeknights poring over handbooks and law books. I am always the first to ask for overtime and always the last to leave the office at the end of a shift. I jump to answer the phone. I demand more assignments than anyone else. I sign up for extra seminars and volunteer for extra responsibilities.
I’m not ashamed of the fact that I am essentially the teacher’s pet of the Las Vegas vice department.
Not that my boss really acknowledges how hard I work. But that’s because of one simple fact: I’m a woman. A young, decently-attractive woman. And as far as my boss is concerned, I am not the type of person who should be working at his department.
He’s sexist, of course, still subscribing to the idea that vice is supposed to be a boys’ club. It doesn’t matter that I can run circles around my male colleagues. I have to work twice as hard to get half the recognition and respect. But it’s worth it.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself when the going gets tough.
But all of this means that I have had no time at all for love or romance or even sex. So my mind blowing night with Misha is getting to me a little bit. I’ve never been manhandled and satisfied like that before, and I might not ever again.
No, I don’t have a vice. But if there was ever something I could get addicted to, I have a feeling it’s guys like Misha. Right now, though, I have to do everything in my power to stop thinking about him. I have a job to do, and fucking him was just one small step of my elaborate plan here. I take a deep breath, smooth my hair in the dressing room mirror, apply another layer of matte burgundy lipstick, slip on my tightest, sexiest black dress, strap my feet into six-inch stiletto death traps, and walk back out onto the floor.
The lights are dim, as always, but there’s something odd and off-kilter about the shadowy darkness in the middle of the bright Vegas daylight. The music is way too upbeat and up-tempo, the bass pulsing underneath my every step as I saunter across the club toward the bar. It’s hard to feel sexy when you’re surrounded by empty space and the coughing laughter of stingy old men, but I have to try. I plaster a smile to my face and walk up to the bar, leaning one elbow on the counter and biting my lip as I gaze down the row of men drinking beers.
“How are you boys doing today?” I pipe up, twirling a lock of auburn hair around my finger. Only two of them even look up at the sound of my voice, the other four totally engrossed in whatever sports game is playing on the TV monitor a
bove the bar. Two out of six isn’t a great average, but I will take what I can get in the middle of the day like this.
One of the guys gives me a nod, but the other just squints at me confusedly, like he’s trying to figure out what I’ve just said. He looks a little too senile to be much of a honeypot. I decide to focus on the first guy. I give him a wink and he smiles.
“I’m good. Better now,” he adds, giving me an extremely over-the-top once-over.
“Good to hear,” I reply, forcing a coquettish giggle. “If you get tired of hanging around all these men, you should come and find me. I can make it worth your while.”
He grins and waggles his wiry eyebrows, which very nearly makes me burst out laughing, but instead I just turn and walk away, careful to sway my hips as I leave. It’s not that I really want his money or his attention, but to keep up my undercover facade, I need to be convincing. And unless I’m hustling for tips, it might look too suspicious. I don’t need their money; I live a simple, modest lifestyle and I get paid a manageable wage as an officer. It’s all for show, all to bolster my undercover identity.
I live in fear of the moment that one of my colleagues might come wandering into this place to blow off steam. I know them all just well enough to guess that at least a few of them venture into these seedy strip clubs on the regular. Thankfully, I haven’t seen any of them yet, but if I do, there’s a chance they might blow my cover. In order to make a secret, high-risk assignment like this one work, it’s important to keep the circle small. In other words, almost nobody can know about it, including my coworkers.
Besides, I am not exactly thrilled at the prospect of my horn dog colleagues potentially seeing me so scantily clad. I would never be able to live it down at the office.
Abandoning the uninterested old men at the bar, I decide to do some actual police work. I mosey on up to one of the bouncers, a big, burly man with a goatee and a trilby hat. He’s exactly the kind of numbskull who seems most likely to let some vital detail slip.
I’ve been gathering intel and waiting for the right moment to approach him for days. I sidle up to him with a sweet smile. The bouncers are used to female attention, and after months or even years of watching nearly-naked girls dance from a distance, most of them are pretty immune to our charms. But this guy seems newer than the others, which is why I’ve picked him.
“Hey Rob,” I greet him with a little wave. His serious expression melts into a genuine smile. Oh, this will be even easier than expected, I think to myself.
“Hi Misty,” he replies, his face going splotchy pink and white. It’s still amusing to me how easily these big, buff, scary-looking bouncer guys can melt into puddles when a pretty girl shows them attention.
“Ugh, is it always this slow in the middle of the day?” I ask, leaning against the wall beside him. “There’s hardly anyone here.”
“Yeah, midday is usually pretty dead. Just the old dudes who come here for the cheap beer. More interested in watching football than paying for a lap dance. I think they’re crazy,” he admits with a sheepish grin.
“See, you understand the value of a dollar,” I tease, nudging him on the arm. “Why come to a strip club just to watch a bunch of sweaty dudes throw a ball around?”
“Exactly,” Rob agrees. He leans in close and adds, “But if you ask me, the real fun is underground. You know, the behind the scenes stuff.”
Wow. He’s cracking like an egg.
“Behind the scenes? Like, what?” I press him, batting my eyelashes innocently.
He gets a conspiratorial grin on his face and explains in a hushed tone, “You know, like the stuff they do out back. In the basement. Nobody’s supposed to go down there. Not even me. Which probably means they’re hiding all the, you know, the good stuff.”
“Oh, really?” I remark. “What kind of stuff?”
He sighs. “Well, I don’t really know. They won’t let me down there. Miss Galina says it’s top secret. Only certain guys get to go down there. You know what I think it is?”
“What?” I ask, egging him on. My heart races.
“Drugs,” he whispers, raising both eyebrows. “Cocaine or something. Or maybe guns.”
“Guns aren’t drugs,” I comment.
“Yeah, yeah, no. Guns and drugs. If I do a good job up here I think they might let me down there sometime to see,” Rob says proudly.
“Hmm. Maybe. Well, in that case, I better let you get back to work, huh?” I say brightly. Before he can even respond, I turn and walk away, a new motive in mind: to find Miss Galina and see if she’s as quick to spill information as Rob was.
Galina is the house mother, the head of operations here at the strip club. She’s in charge, ruling over the club with an iron fist. She can be sweet and protective over her dancers sometimes, but the bottom line is that she wants to make money. If a girl isn’t pulling her weight, Galina won’t hesitate to boot her. That’s another reason why I’ve made such a concentrated effort to make money: to avoid her wrath. I need her on my side, at least long enough to pick up all the secrets this place has to hold.
And I know just where to find her. I walk back to the dressing room where the girls change clothes and put on makeup between sets. Galina has a little office on the other side of the dressing room, behind a pane of two-way glass. I learned that on my very first shift. I’ve spent enough time in vice to recognize a two-way mirror when I see one.
I stride through the dressing room and knock politely on her door. A few moments later, she opens it with a dubious look on her face. Galina is a short, stooped older woman with jet-black hair and dark eyes, magnified slightly through her half-moon glasses.
“Yes? What is it?” she asks, shrugging.
“Oh, I just wanted to ask you about something,” I reply, suddenly nervous.
“Well, out with it,” she prompts.
“I-I was just wondering if there is extra parking out back,” I reply, forcing a smile. “You know, for customers. Like, is it safe for them to park behind the building? There’s not any, uh, structures blocking them from doing that?”
She narrows her eyes at me, instantly suspicious. Shit.
“Why are you asking? There aren’t enough customers here for parking to be an issue. There’s plenty of space out front,” Galina answers. She folds her arms over her chest. “What are you really asking? Don’t you have a routine to do? Perverts to please?”
I feel my cheeks flushing pink. “Y-Yes. You’re right. Sorry. I-I was just wondering. It was a stupid question, my apologies.”
“You’re right. It is a stupid questions,” she agrees icily. “Now get back out there and make some money before all the customers go home.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I respond hastily. I turn on my heel and nearly run out of the dressing room, feeling like a gigantic idiot. Slow down, Nicole. Don’t get ahead of yourself, I warn myself inwardly. Don’t blow it.
But I can’t slow down. That old burning curiosity has gotten ahold of me now. It’s the same instinct that had led me to crack cases wide open in the past, and I have to ride it out to its conclusion. I’ve been dilly-dallying around this strip club long enough. I need to push this along.
I need to check out the underground.
On the pretense of taking a smoke break, even though I have never smoked in my life, I grab my purse and slip past Rob and the other bouncer to head outside into the bright Vegas sun. I stand quietly by the door for a moment, then when I feel the coast is clear, I slink silently around to the back of the building. My heart is pounding wildly, my blood rushing in my ears.
It’s time to jump the gun.
I start searching, looking for anything that looks out of place. The strip club is in a pretty nondescript brick building, with lots of parking space out front and not much in the back. In fact, the back of the building looks pretty abandoned. It’s dark, with high, unruly bushes growing over the pavement. I scan the wall for a secret door or anything out of place.
There’s nothing.
To my horror and amazement, it opens up a small square door with a dusty staircase leading down into the ground.
“Holy shit,” I murmur.
This is the kind of moment at which it’s probably smart to slow down and call for backup. But that has never been my style. I like to work alone, and I can’t back off now.
Without another moment of hesitation, I take off my stilettos and climb down the short staircase and into a dank, musty basement, closing the trap door behind me. The dust and grime is so thick I can hardly see, until I use my cell phone to light the way. I see unmarked crates stacked all the way to the ceiling, and I know without even having to check that this is contraband of some sort.
This is a hustle. An illegal one. A massive payload I should not handle alone.
I break down and call the department, quietly telling them to send squad cars. Just as I hang up, I hear a scuffling above. I look up at the door to see it pulling open!
“Shit,” I whisper, and shimmy in behind a tall stack of heavy crates to hide as my heart hammers away in my chest. I can’t get caught down here!
Moments later, a tall, hulking figure comes down the stairs. Heavy footsteps. A familiar scent… cologne.
I peek to see who or what has entered the basement, and I nearly gasp out loud. It’s Misha, dressed in a tailored suit and carrying another crate, which he sets down on a stack. He checks his cell phone in the darkness, his eyes locked on the screen. I’m too afraid to breathe, much less move.
If he sees me, I could be dead. And who knows how long I will have to wait here until backup arrives. I stare at him, sizing him up. I don’t see a gun in his hands or pockets, and his suit jacket is too neatly tailored to hide any large bulges.