Page 6 of Refrain

I find him holding court from a leather couch positioned at the farthest end of the stage. He’s cleanly shaved tonight. His girth has tripled since I saw him last, his jowls jiggling with every word he speaks. He isn’t scowling though; the bastard must be on his best behavior. Following the line of his gaze, I see why. A man is sitting across from him—a guest of honor? This far back, I can only make out his silhouette.

“Go!” The bouncer beside me slaps my ass, shoving me forward. “And be sure to fucking smile.”

My lips contort on command as I mount the stage. It’s one of the few things that has changed in my absence. Added length makes it long enough to serve nearly the entire expanse of the club, holding several girls at once.

Before tonight, I was sure I would never be able to dance the way I used to, stringing my body along like a puppet on a wire. Surprise, surprise, my old routine is still ingrained—the fallen angel with the fake wings.

I’m the only woman on stage with a prop—a fact the men in the audience don’t miss, a few whistling their amusement—but my attention is focused solely on the man seated at the head of the stage. The “throne,” we used to call it.

Vladimir Olshenkov barely looks up from the swill in his shot glass as he trades a few words with the dark-haired man beside him. A well-known criminal? I hope so. The identity of some thug doing business with Piotr would be the perfect leverage to cover my ass with Grey. But no… He turns, and I don’t recognize him.

A chiseled jaw anchors Romanesque features and intense blue eyes. Eyes that fixate on the right breast pocket where Vlad likes to keep his gun rather than ogle the dancers vying for his attention. The club itself holds his interest more than the dancers. He scans the room while brushing a mop of black curls from his face. Something’s off about his right hand. The ring and middle fingers are normal, but the remaining three are formed of black material and metal joints. Prosthetics.

There are no identifying tattoos on his arms to symbolize whatever cartel he’s loyal to. His black shirt and jeans can’t be traced to any one gang.

“My associate apologizes for his unexpected absence,” Vlad murmurs to him, his accent thick. “Please, enjoy yourself.”

The younger man says nothing—or, if he does, I don’t hear him. Desperate, I shuffle closer, dragging my hands along my hips while my heart hammers out a staccato rhythm.

All I need is a name. A location. Something worth the mounting risk. Something to leverage.

“Hey!”

I look down and find Vlad snapping his fingers.

“Drinks for my friend,” he commands a startled girl holding a tray a few feet away.

The brunette I came in with. She hurries closer and offers her selection of drinks. The stranger takes a shot of vodka, whileVlad amuses himself by pinching the girl on her ass. She trips, landing across the stranger’s lap, and spills booze onto the leather couch. I physically stop myself from lurching forward as the stranger grabs her arm. He should throw her off him. Hit her, even. Instead, his touch provides enough stability for her to lean against him, her mouth near his ear. The subtle motion of her lips could be a trick of the light. Either that, or she tells him something. Something that makes his gaze flicker toward me.

“Silly bitch,” Vlad snaps, shoving her to her feet. She mutters apologies and scurries off while the two men shift away from the spreading puddle of alcohol.

Oh, Vlad. I would give anything to shove my heel through his eye socket. Twist. Stomp. Grind.Thisbastard deserves more than a simple bullet to the brain. He deserves to be cut, burned,tortured. Rage sears through my veins, goading my movements. It’s his throat my groping fingers clench, not my breasts. Every sharp twist of my hips grinds the life out of him, bit by goddamn bit.

“You call this a fucking show?”

From my peripheral vision, I see Vlad gesture toward the women in front of him, myself included.

“Get me someone new.”

My pulse skips. One of the bouncers rushes toward the stage, and I reach back to unhook my bra. With a flick of my wrist, I toss the garment at Vlad’s feet.

“Wait.” He holds his hand up as the bouncer nears my position. Then he sinks back against the cushions of the couch, rubbing his chin. “She can stay.”

Air floods my lungs in a dizzying rush. He always did prefer the slow, vulgar shows. The kind where the girl pretended to fuck the stage, salivating for any man to give her a fix. He liked breaking those girls even more.

But a striptease can only buy me so much time.Focus!The girl told me that making it to the front is my only way out. Taking my eyes off Vlad, I scan the far wall, spotting the exit, which isguarded by another bouncer. Slipping past him should be easy enough. Gradually, I inch backward, still flexing my hips. One step. Two…

“You.”

Every ounce of air leaves my lungs as Vladimir sits forward, eyeing my body with a frown. This is it. I wait for his beady pupils to narrow in recognition or for his hands to curl into fists.

One of them slashes through the air, gesturing toward the couch. “He wants you to give him a dance.”

He didn’t notice. My heart starts beating again only to sputter to a stop as my brain processes the full command.Give him a dance.Slowly, my attention returns to the other man.

He’s watching me. Dark stubble covers his chin, but his smooth, porcelain features remind me of something from a cathedral fresco. Like a cherub. Or a demon.

I dismount the stage on trembling legs, and another morbid memory flashes. I hated being singled out for these impromptu lap dances. They, more than anything, were the source of the beatings Vlad or Piotr would dish out every night.

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