Page 53 of Never Distract a Biker

"Manager," I acknowledge with a nod, my voice even, devoid of the storm brewing within. Every step I take towards him feels measured, the space closing between us charged with the unsaid promise of pain.

His gaze darts towards me, then away, a nervous tic betraying his attempt at bravado. Even now, he clings to defiance, yet his sweat-slicked forehead and jittery legs sing a different tune. Fear is a scent that permeates the space, mingling with the musky air.

"Viktor Makarov?" he croaks as if saying my name might ward off the inevitable.

Zasha lands him a blow to the gut that sends both him and the chair he is tied to spiraling to the floor. “How dare you say his name?”

“Oh, Zasha,” I tsk. “You have to be gentle with our guest.”

Some of my men pick him up from the floor, and he spits out blood while glaring at Zasha.

His attempts to appear unbothered are feeble, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. The handcuffs rattle against the chair—a futile protest against steel—and his eyes flicker to the door, then back to me, a silent plea for escape he knows won't come.

"Let's not waste time," I suggest, savoring the control that rolls off my tongue and wraps around him like a vice.

I perch on the edge of a steel table, my fingers steepled before me. "Tell me about DanceCheck," I command, my voice a low hum in the stark room. "Its patrons, its secrets."

The manager's lips press into a thin line, his eyes defiant as they hold mine. "It's just a club," he snaps back, shoulders squared even as they're hunched. "Dancing, drinks. What you see is what you get."

"Is that so?" I muse, allowing an edge of skepticism to lace my words. "And your special guests from Moscow? They come for the ... ambiance?"

His chin juts out, a silent challenge. "We don't discriminate based on nationality or ethnicity."

"Of course not," I agree smoothly. "But perhaps you favor those with Bratva tattoos? Maybe they get VIP treatment?"

He scoffs a hollow sound. "Tattoos don't mean anything. Anyone can get inked."

"True," I concede. "But not anyone can order a hit on Igor Makarov."

The mention of my father has him flinching, but he recovers quickly, clenching his jaw. "Never heard of him."

"Never?" I repeat, feigning surprise. "A shame. He was quite influential."

"Look, I run a clean business," he insists, a hint of desperation creeping into his otherwise steady voice. "I don't deal with mobsters."

"Yet here we are," I retort, standing to circle him like a predator. "You caught in a trap you claim doesn't exist."

I circle him, each step measured, my gaze never wavering from his sweat-slicked forehead. "You think you can outlast me?" My voice is deceptively soft, a whisper against the concrete walls that close us in.

The manager's breaths come quick, chest heaving like a trapped animal. But his eyes, those defiant orbs, lock on mine with a silent dare. He's testing my resolve, pushing to see how far I'll go.

"Do not waste time," I murmur, stopping before him. My hands clasped behind my back, the only sign of my restrained eagerness. "You will tell me what I need to know."

"Will I?" His challenge is weak, a fluttering heartbeat against the stone-cold resolve of my inquiry.

I lean in close, my breath a whisper across his cheek. "Da. You will." The certainty in my voice is ironclad, a promise made by the darkness itself.

"Tell me about the girls,” I start, my voice steady as the hum of the overhead lights. "The ones who dance at your club and vanish like mist in the morning."

He scoffs, a jerky tilt of his head that sends shadows dancing across his drawn face. "Dancers come and go. It's the nature of the business."

"Is it?" My fingers tap against my thigh—a metronome to keep time with his heartbeat. "Or is it the nature of the Bratva to make things ... disappear?"

His lips press into a thin line, the defiance in his eyes bright and unyielding. "I don’t know what you're talking about."

"Come now." I step closer and watch his pupils dilate. "You can drop the act. We both know there's more beneath the surface."

"Your threats don't scare me," he spits out, yet his hands grip the chair arms, knuckles white.

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