Page 4 of The Bratva Sinner

She sneers.

"I'm not showering, and I’m not putting that on.”

"It's easier when you don't fight."

She says it and shrugs.

"Easier for whom?"

She looks at me, and I think I see sadness. “He likes when they fight.” She moves toward the door. "The bathroom has hot water. You should use it while you can."

She leaves, and the lock clicks behind her.

“Who?” I whisper to the room.

I don’t understand what’s happening, but I will not make this easy for anyone.

I’d rather die than go down without a fight.

2

Maksim

I stare down from my throne at my kingdom below. Okay, it’s not technically a throne or a kingdom. I’m standing at the railing from the VIP section of my exclusive club.

I built this from a handshake and a favor owed to my brother by a city inspector. That was eight years ago. Now Obsidian is the hottest place in Miami. The line to get in is always long, and my people are selective. We don’t let just anyone in.

I scan the undulating figures below. As usual, women outnumber the men. And only the most beautiful ladies are allowed through those doors. It’s not a sex club. People often call it that because after a night here, there will definitely be sex. It’s not a brothel, either, something else that gets mixed into the language surrounding my clubs.

Plenty of women below will provide sex for a price. I simply provide a safe environment. The women who work here, using my club as their hunting ground, are protected. They have rules. They have security. And most importantly, they have a choice.

Cinder moves up beside me. “Busy night.”

I’m not listening to her. My attention is elsewhere.

I've done this long enough to spot the typical woman offering services. She knows how to move in heels. She knows how to work a dress. She knows how to smile and flirt and draw men in like moths to a flame.

The woman who has my attention is stumbling like she's walking in heels for the first time. Her legs wobble with each step, and her knees buckle inward. She's wearing a tight red dress that's riding up her thighs. It’s too short to be decent. She keeps trying to pull it down with jerky, uncoordinated movements. Her makeup is caked on. I’ve seen that before. It’s makeup meant to conceal rather than enhance.

She looks around. Even from up here, I can see her gaze is unfocused. She's not drunk. I know drunk. This is something else. I’ve seen it too many times. She’s high as a fucking kite, and something tells me it wasn’t a choice.

"Who let the Albanians in?"

Cinder follows my gaze. "Fuck.”

"I want them out."

“I didn’t let them in.”

“Cinder.”

“Maksim.”

Cinder is my… sister? Mother? Friend. All those things. She’s been with me for years. She can read me better than anyone, and she never puts up with my shit. Cinder is not afraid of me. Hell,I don’t think she’s afraid of anyone. With everything she’s been through, I’m pretty sure she believes she’s invincible.

Maybe she is.

“Who’s the woman?” I ask.