Dancing for the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 3) (2 page)

My daughter, Kiska, will never know her father, either. Except it was by my own doing, not his. Kirill Baryshev, the love of my life. Leaving him was a foolish thing, the biggest regret in my life but I did it out of pure fear, nothing else.

I believed what a man in a fancy suit told me. I
blindly
believed him, instead of simply
asking
Kirill. I was young and so very dumb. Now that I look back, I realize it. But hindsight is twenty-twenty. If I could go back, I would change everything about that cold winter day where I packed my bags and disappeared, vanishing into the night.

I hike my duffle bag higher on my shoulder and put my head down, hoping nobody will notice me as I walk through the
Tenderloin
area of
San Francisco
. I have to work tonight.

I’m a dancer.

A stripper.

I hate it.

No, that’s not true. I hate the way it makes me feel sometimes, but I can’t deny that without it, my daughter and I would be destitute. So no, I don’t hate dancing, and I’m good at it, so there’s that.

But when you run away because of rumors, when you don’t finish that pointless Classical Studies degree, and you’re eighteen and find yourself a single parent, you’ll do anything to feed and clothe your child. I became a topless dancer in a city too expensive to live in so we could merely
survive
.

San Francisco wasn’t my first choice, but the FBI Agent, Ryan Green, talked me into it. He said since he was in Los Angeles, it would be easier to keep me safe. His intentions became clearer as time went on. He didn’t want to keep me safe; he wanted me to rat out Kirill, and he wanted me in his bed. Possibly as a big
fuck you
to Kirill.

I doubted he wanted me for anything else, except to prove to Kirill that he could take his woman. I never gave him the satisfaction, and in turn, he took my government allowance away from me.
What a complete
joke. The whole charade.

By the time I figured out all of the missing pieces of the puzzle, it was too late to search for Kirill. It had been years, and I was too scared of what the outcome would be.

Fear
.

It is a tricky emotion. It took me away from the love of my life, and it has kept me away from him for ten years. I don’t know that I will ever gain the strength and courage to actively seek out Kirill Baryshev.

I know that my heart still aches for him. I know that no other man could every compare to him. I also know that I never really
knew
him. I knew his
heart
, but I didn’t know the
man
.

I step off of the bus onto the dark city sidewalk of Columbus Avenue. There are half a dozen strip clubs clustered together in this area, and I work at the most exclusive one. I suppose I should be more proud of that fact.

I’m not disgusted with myself, I’m
disappointed.
I was in college at one time. I thought I would be something special, something
more
. Life has a way of getting in the way of our hopes and dreams, bringing us down to reality.

I reach for the back entrance handle and freeze. Something is off. I feel as though somebody is watching me. Unfortunately, I know that feeling all too well, and it isn’t something I can just brush off.

I slowly look around, to my left, my right, then behind me. I see nothing. Though, that does not mean that nobody is there; it just means they do not wish to be seen
yet
.

Once I am safely inside of the building, I breathe a sigh of relief and head toward the dressing room. The lights are already dimmed, and the stage is lit and ready for dancers. My eyes scan the room and I see Tony, one of the bartenders, washing glasses. He lifts his chin toward me when I catch his eye. I, in turn, lift my hand in a half wave before I hurry to my dressing area.

I don’t want to be stuck talking to him. One night at a special event, I had one too many shots and we kissed. He tried for more, but I refused him. He didn’t take the rejection well. Things between us since then have been—
tense
. He still hits on me. I try to be nice and let him down gently.

Carlie and Sapphire are already halfway finished applying their stage makeup when I sit down at my own mirror to prepare. I don’t particularly care for them, or most of the other dancers.
I tolerate them
. I’ve been here the longest, eight years to be exact, and I’ve seen so many women come and go. It’s hard to forge friendships just to lose them. I’m cordial to all of the girls, but I’m nobody’s BFF.

Once I finish applying my thick stage makeup, I curl and tease my hair, making it a big, blonde mass around my face, head, and shoulders. Then, it’s time to change.

I’m the
All-American
kind of girl, blonde hair and green eyes, so I play that up on stage as well. Tonight I’m wearing a full rhinestone, matching red bra and panty set with a skimpy sailor costume over the top, paired with white knee high stockings and red platform high heels. I take one last look in the mirror after Stu, our manager, calls my name.

I sigh heavily.

This is me.

This is my life.

Tatyana
.

I never bothered with a stage name. My real first name is stripper sounding enough. What’s the point? They all see my face, my tits, and my ass anyway. I’m plastered on their website and featured in their fliers. There is no denying and no hiding that it’s me up here working for a buck. If anybody has a problem with it, then that’s their issue. Nobody else is going to pay my bills and put a roof over my baby’s head. So this—this is what I do.

I dance.

News that the FBI had some informant on their payroll from the
Bratva
surprised me. Shocked the shit out of me, actually. Usually, if anybody in the organization looks like they might talk, even twitches, they’re taken care of.

After some more research, I found out that not only had this person been on the FBI’s informant list, but she was also a part of their witness protection, then she was terminated from their list. It intrigued me. How did this happen? How did one of our own turn their back on us and nobody in the organization found out and eliminated them?

Then I found out the name.

Tatyana Orlova.

It was as if a ghost had come back to haunt me.

I had to see it all for myself.

I watch as the pretty blonde opens the door to the strip club. She stops and looks around. Her eyes scan over me, but I’m too hidden in the shadows for her to see even my silhouette. I saw her face on the webpage, but until her bright green eyes looked right at me, I didn’t know if it was truly her.

Now I know.

The woman who haunts my dreams is in fact
alive
and not dead as I’ve imagined for the past decade.

How
? I do not know.

When her car blew up, the police produced a skeleton of her charred body. Then going through her dorm, I found the ultrasound and her note.
She didn’t love me and she didn’t want her baby raised in my life. She had been told that I was Russian Bratva—a piece of shit gangster. She had to leave me
. Only she didn’t make it.

I had always assumed she somehow killed herself. Why a person would choose to be burned alive, I didn’t know. I was too distraught and young at the time to question anything. My woman was gone, my baby—
gone
.

Now.
Now
she is back, or she never left. She’s alive, and she has been just eight hours away from me this entire time. Right under my nose for ten goddamn years.

She doesn’t know the truth, though. She never did. She doesn’t know who she belongs to. What her life was truly meant for—
who
she was truly meant for. I’ll tell her. I’ll inform her of the truth.

I look into her gorgeous green eyes and I feel as though I’m being pulled under a current, drowning. I should be fucking terrified, but I’m not. If I’m going to drown, if I’m going down, at least it is because of this creature grinning over at me. She’s so damn innocent and pure. How she has stayed this way, I don’t know, but I’m glad for it. Something so beautiful should be treasured and I aim to do so, repeatedly—treasure her.

“What are you thinking?” she asks as she traces my brow with her slim finger.

“That I want you again,” I lie.

I want to tell her the truth. I want to tell her everything, but I don’t. One day she’ll know, but I don’t want to see the hurt, and betrayal in her eyes. I don’t want that hurt or that betrayal aimed toward me. I can’t be the person that makes her cry out of sadness. Not my Tati. I want her to always be happy.

“Do you now? I’m sure I can help with that,” she laughs. It goes straight to my cock.

“You can. I want you to touch yourself, Tati. Show me just how badly you want me,” I urge.

“I-I-,” her face heats with pink embarrassment and it turns me on that much more. So shy, my Tatyana.

I drag my hand down the center of her chest to her warm pussy and start to touch her gently. My lips touch the side of her neck as my finger slides inside of her warm pussy, still wet and swollen from our previous round.

“Kirill,” she moans.

“Ya budu vsegda lvublt tebya,” I whisper.

I will always love you.

I will always love her, too.

She’s my forever.

Moyo zolotse—my gold.

I pick up my burner phone, shaking memories off of the past, and send a message to Radimir, my second in command. I inform him of a child and a woman,
my past
, in code. I hope that he understands the words I’ve sent. I will not be able to join him back in West Hollywood for a while. I don’t know how long it will take to get back home, but I will not be going alone.

I need to figure out exactly what has happened here. Why Tatyana ran from New York to San Francisco. Why she would leave the place she was born, her home, for the west coast. It doesn’t add up to me. Not quite.

First
, I’m going to play with her. She will not get away with this so easily, no matter how badly I want her back in my bed. The bitch will suffer for leaving me the way she did. Weakness will not be tolerated.

And my child?
I will find out about that, as well.

I pay the ridiculous cover and waltz through the front door, straight to the bar. I ask the bartender for a glass of
Beluga Gold Line
vodka, and he looks at me as if I am speaking a foreign language. I could spout off Russian to him if he preferred, but my guess is he would have the exact same dumbfounded look on his face.

“What Vodka’s do you have, then?” I ask with an exhale.

“Grey Goose, Kettle One, Popov.”

I hold my hand up, unable to hear another word.

Disgusting, all of them. I can’t even begin to fathom a bar that does not have a decent vodka selection. Perhaps this is how the rest of the world lives. I’m so used to being submersed in my Russian culture, I sometimes forget I even live in America.

“Kettle One,” I choke out. It hurts my heart to even mutter the words.

I throw some money down on the bar and take my drink. He added ice, but the vodka itself is warm—an insult. One sip and I’m finished. I cannot subject myself to this shit one minute longer.

I slowly weave through the people and find an empty seat near the stage. Sitting down, I look around. It is a nice place with a sexy atmosphere, and there are bouncers scattered throughout.
At least she is in a swanky club and not some shithole dive
.

A brunette dancer comes out and does her thing, shaking her fake breasts for the room to ogle. She’s nothing I’ve never fucked before—normal, thin girl with big, fake breasts. They look new,
hard
. I wonder how many semi-hard dicks she had to grind against to buy them for herself.

Then,
my
Tati comes on stage. She’s like gold shining up there, still
moyo zolotse
. My cock goes rock hard as she begins her dance. She’s a pro on the pole. I watch her work it, as though it is an extension of herself. She’s good.
Damn
good.

The Tatyana I knew was so shy, she wouldn’t let me make love to her with the lights on; she wouldn’t let me see all of her in the daylight. This Tati is spreading her thighs and shaking her ass. When she flings her rhinestone bra out to the side, my heart stops.
Fuck,
her tits look a million times better than they did all those years ago.

The men around me clap and holler as they throw money on the stage.

I should feel jealous that they’re looking at her. I should be pissed that this is how she is making money, but the only thing I want to do is fuck her as hard as I possibly can.

Hate-fuck
. Right now, that’s what I want with Tati.

I want to damage her as she’s damaged me for ten fucking years. Not one day has gone by where I did not think of her, angry and bitter about how she chose to leave me.
But now, she lives
. I want to mark her as mine. Then I want to watch her dance for all those fucks and know, without a doubt, that my cock is the only one she’ll come for.