Mafia's Devil part 9

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Luciano

I’m alone in a premium booth, getting eyeballed by every female in this damn place. The electric music pumps loud, the LED lights are bright, and the dresses are lower than my temper.

My arms are crossed over my chest, close to my holstered gun. I fucking hate being out in the open like this. I’ve been shot too many times.

Logically, I know it’s safe. The bouncers have screened everyone before allowing them inside. I’m the only one allowed to have a gun in here.

I’m not sure when clubbing stopped being my scene, but all I want to do now is make a million dollars from my quiet office. Maybe I’ll have a bitch or two at their knees sucking my dick while I sign a contract.

“You’re late,” I tell my Captain when he approaches the booth.

“Sorry—”

“Spare me the pleasantry bullshit. Be a man and do your fucking job or you’ll be out of one. Better yet, you’ll be out of a life. You know I’ve killed for less.”

He nods his head frantically. This Captain is younger than me; maybe twenty-two. He’s slick and a quick thinker, which is how he got the position so quickly, but he has a lot to learn. Knowing that I’m not to be fucked with is the first and most important lesson.

I stand and lead him deeper into the club. My office is in the back. It’s secure, but the irritating music still pumps into it. I’ll have to install soundproof walls.

We spend an hour going over things. The conversation I’m most invested in was saved for last.

“Have you seen any movements from the Russians?”

“I got a tip. Maksim has a private investigator on you. He’s looking for new weaknesses.”

That’s interesting. Maksim knows what financial and turf limitations I have, and I know his. He must not be satisfied with them. He wants a juicier weakness so he can hit home.

He’ll strike soon. I know it. The uncanny thing about us is that we think alike.

“Is the PI crooked?”

“No. He’s legit. We can’t bribe him.”

So the PI is loyal, but not great at his job if he got caught.

“I’ll figure it out,” I dismiss the conversation. “Is that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Get the hell out of my sight.”

I linger in the office for a few more minutes, dreading to walk outside because I know the music will only get louder.

With my wallet in-hand, I walk out. I scan the club, and soon I’m squeezing my wallet so hard that a few hundred-dollar bills spill out.

That crazy little Russian spitfire is here, and she’s wearing the devil’s bible. Her dress is so tight that curves seem to appear from nowhere.

She hops like a little bunny in the crowd. Alarm bells go off, and I find myself counting the dozens of things that can go wrong. She’s so tiny she could easily get smoldered by the crowd. Does she know how to drink? What if she overdoses? What if some suicidal douchebag slips something into her drink and date-rapes her?

I know men, and I know many are attracted by that slim figure of hers.

Somehow, Karine Kuznetsov managed to get me to forget about the dangers surrounding me and focus on the ones surrounding her.

I walk over the bills that spilled from my wallet, not caring to pick them up, and shove my wallet in my pocket.

“Move!” I growl at my customers.

Karine is still far, but I see when she stiffens and jumps away, her arms coming around her. Her bottom lip trembles.

She’s about to cry? That’s impossible. Pigs would fly first.

“Get the fuck out!”

I’m tempted to shoot bullets into the roof to disperse the crowd faster, but I don’t want to deal with police or get Karine trampled.

Two of my bouncers flank me as I tear through people.

The callous part of me— and that’s 99% of my personality, wants to scream at Karine. She shouldn’t be in my territory because I’ll be at fault if anything happens to her. I’m dealing with enough shit from Maksim. She’s not worth any more trouble.

And then there’s that 1% of me. That small percentage I didn’t know fucking existed until this bouncing little woman shook it out of me.

That 1% is worry. I’m worried because I know Karine doesn’t cry easily, and she looks upset.

Not being the best at soothing, I grip her biceps and growl, “What?” into her face.

The next guy would say “what’s wrong,” or “are you alright?” But the next guy is also not a millionaire criminal with too many bullet holes and not enough patience.

"Luciano.” Her hands move up my chest, and her lips tremble again. “Someone touched me.”

The gun in my jacket becomes heavier.

“What? Who? Turn the fucking music off!” I roar at the DJ.

The music dies a second later and people trickle out of the club.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know who. Someone put a hand up my skirt. Can you take me home, please?”

I want to take her to the morgue to identify who harassed her after I kill every man in here.

I don’t like rape-y shit, especially if it happens in my territory.

My eyes rip through the crowd, looking for who a suspect, and then Karine rests her cheek on my chest.

I look down at her. My hands still awkwardly grip her biceps.

This is fucking weird. I don’t cuddle. I don’t soothe. And I don’t like whatever is happening in my chest. It’s that damn protective urge that pulled me to her side that night at the restaurant. I couldn’t suffocate it. It reeled me in like the prospect of a million-dollar deal, or a taste of good scotch.

Karine is the smallest woman I know, and she’s not a seasoned killer as much as she likes to say otherwise. I had to protect her from that bully.

“Who did you come here with?”

“My friend left. We came in an Uber. Can you take me home? I promise I won’t be any trouble.” Her voice sounds small. It makes me feel like I’m the one who was harassed, because it’s so unsettling. Karine is always bickering or saying odd comments. She doesn’t sob because her pride is taller than the rest of her.

I can’t take her home. Her father might discover I brought her and think I had something to do with her upset.

“I’ll take you to a hotel. Now stop wetting my shirt. Can you walk?”

“No,” she sighs. “I broke my heel.”

I swing her into my arms, cursing in Italian when I realize her short dress raised up her thighs. I have to glare at everyone to advert their gaze.

“I’ll take you to a hotel.”

Hell, I had shit to do, and now I’m babysitting.

Damn you, Karine Kuznetsov.