Page 3 of Paved in Venom

Eventually I fall to the floor and hope I pass out soon. The punches and kicks come quickly, too fast for me to protect myself. I count them, focusing on the numbers instead of the pain.

One, two, three, four, five…

It’s never ending, but right before I finally lose consciousness, I make a promise to myself. I will never be the man on the floor ever again. No matter what it takes, I’m going to be the fucker still standing. I’m going to be the one raining down the kicks and punches. This will be the last goddamn time I ever get my ass kicked.

And it was.

From that day forward, I made damn sure to always be the one holding the power. Over the next few years, my brothers and I built something big, and now we’re the dangerous men on top. We’re the ones everyone else fears, and we’re determined to keep it that way. The Melnikov Bratva rules with an iron fist, and we make no apologies for our brutal ways. We will kill anyone who tries to go against us, and we will do whatever needs to be done to keep our family safe. End of story.

We are brothers by choice.

Brothers in blood, in life, and in death.

The path that’s lead us here is one that’s paved in blood, and it’s about to be paved in venom, because we’re about to walk into the goddamn viper’s nest.

Chapter 1

Danil

I pull into the parking lot and cut the engine with a sigh. The building in front of me has come a long way. When the Barinov Bratva was in charge, Pink was your stereotypical strip club—very little class with a perpetual sleazy, rundown feel to the place. That feeling would cling to you after you left for the night, making you wish for a shower.

That sort of depressing atmosphere is not what my brothers and I need. We need a club that will bring in dirty politicians. We need a nice-looking trap that will allow us to infiltrate and dismantle the most lucrative sex trafficking ring in operation. We need a way in, and the classy club in front of me is our ticket.

Ever since my brother, Vitaly, took over, he’s made it his mission to give this place a facelift. If anyone can do it, he can. Gone are the huge, neon, blinking tits that used to hang from the building, and in its place is a hot pink, tasteful, lit-up sign that reads Pink in a pretty font. It’s simple, discreet, and classy. The goal has always been to make it a club that someone in a position of power would feel comfortable walking into. Yes, it has half-naked women and back rooms where anything goes, but it looks classy, damn it, and that’s really all that matters to these bastards. Appearance is everything.

Grabbing my messenger bag, I get out of my car and sling it across my chest. The worn, buttery-soft leather practically molds to my body at this point. I’ve had it since I was seventeen, and I take it everywhere I go. I can’t be away from my laptop. It makes me antsy and irritable, so the messenger bag is just a given at this point. Even with the constant reminder that my computer is within arm’s reach, my mind refuses to be quiet. It’s loud inside my head, way too fucking loud, and over the years I’ve learned that counting will sometimes quiet things, at least enough for me to stay sane, or thereabouts, so I start counting the cars in the parking lot.

Rolling the tension from my shoulders, I take in a deep breath, hoping that will kill the headache that’s threatening to bloom. I spent most of last night on the dark web, scouring through photos that I wish I could scrub from my mind. I wish I could erase a lot of the things I’ve seen over the last year. I push the thoughts aside and head to the front door. The club hasn’t officially re-opened yet, so there isn’t a bouncer out front, and when I step inside, I’m met with a flurry of activity. Several women are making use of the three stages, practicing routines on the poles and familiarizing themselves with everything, and when I look up at the brand-new VIP level, I can see two of my brothers in one of the booths. Lev and Matvey are deep in conversation about something, and when they see me, Lev waves his hand in greeting.

“Bring us up some drinks,” he hollers down at me.

I give them a wave and then walk over to the closest bar while I count tables along the way. Mila gives me a big smile, already reaching for a bottle of vodka. She’s the wife of Timofey, one of our higher-level enforcers, and I can already tell she’s going to be worth her weight in gold. She used to bartend at one of the most popular clubs in Moscow, so she has the experience to handle this, and she’s attractive. Her long legs, blonde hair, and green eyes are going to keep the customers coming back for more. Timofey hadn’t been thrilled when we’d hired her, but we all gave him our word that no harm would come to her. She’ll be safely behind the bar, not out mingling with the clientele.

“Thanks, Mila,” I tell her in Russian, grabbing the bottle and the glasses she sets out. “How’s everything looking?”

She goes back to lining up liquor bottles how she wants them while she says over her shoulder, “It’s looking good, I think. I’ve just about got this place how I want it, and the two women Vitaly hired to help me seem like they’ll be a good fit.”

Laughing, she holds her hands out, miming a pair of huge breasts. “They’ll keep the men happy.”

I laugh at her impersonation, but I know she’s right. These men want something to stare at, and we’re going to give it to them. Everyone we’ve hired is Russian. The girls have been instructed to speak as little English as possible and to report back to us if they hear anything suspicious. They’re our spies, and the club will be full of them.

Telling Mila bye, I bring the bottle and glasses up to my brothers. I count each of the sixteen stairs on the way up. The VIP section is on the second level, and it circles around the entire club. The men can see the stages from up here, but Vitaly’s also put in a few stripper poles, seven that are visible from where I’m standing, so we can have dancers up here as well. He’s also employed a chef and had an entire kitchen built onto the place. Steak and tits—it’s a winning combination. Men are so goddamn predictable.

I set the glasses down and start pouring us each a shot. Lev takes it with a grin, his lip ring glinting in the light when he tosses his drink back. Matvey takes his with a nod, his face hidden in shadow beneath the black hood of his sweatshirt. I down my own drink before pouring us all another and taking a seat.

“So what’s going on?” I ask them.

Lev smiles and lets out a soft laugh. “We’re trying to decide when Vitaly’s finally going to lose his shit and kill Oleg. He’s been following Vitaly around for the last hour, asking him questions, flirting with the dancers. It’s driving him crazy, but he knows he can’t kill him yet.” He pours himself another drink. “I think he’s going to snap, though. It’s only a matter of time.”

I laugh at the image. Oleg Barinov and his brothers, Alexei and Ivan, run the Barinov Bratva and technically own this club. We came to America, believing the rumors that their Bratva ran a large part of this city, but when we got here, we found three brothers who couldn’t even speak Russian, running a shitty strip club while claiming to be something they most definitely were not. It’s working to our advantage, though. We convinced them we wanted to help, nice guys that we are, and that we were going to make them a lot of money and earn them some respect. The truth is we’re using them, keeping their names on the business in case it all goes to shit, and once we no longer need them, it’ll be three quick bullets to the head for these fuckers.

We watch as Vitaly storms out from the back followed by an eager Oleg at his heels. I can read my brother like a book. He’s in his I’m seconds away from completely losing my shit phase. We all three pour another shot and sit back to watch the show.

“Jesus fucking Christ I’m going to put a bullet in this stupid fucker’s face,” he yells in Russian. When he hears us laugh, he looks up and points a finger at us. “Laugh it up, fuckers, I’m sending him up there to hang out with you.”

Oleg, clueless to everything that’s just been said, looks up at us and gives us a wave. “Club’s looking good, right?”

“Sure is, Oleg,” I say, lifting my glass in a toast. “You and your brothers have done a great job.”

---