Page 3 of The Possessive Prince

X: Hello, Iris.

My thumbs move quickly across the screen, my heart thumping, two months of working VIP, all the tension building up.

Iris: Hello, sir. Might I suggest that you ban Rafael Cordero from the premises?

X: How polite of you to call me “sir”.

It’s like he was waiting for my response because he texts back almost immediately. He’s up in his office, bloody and drunk, probably angry too.

X: But I think you’ve misunderstood what this number is for.

Iris: Maybe you’ve misunderstood what your staff is for. They need support.

I need to slow down. I’m getting too… caught up. This is the sort of thing I’d say outside work, not here, where I’m supposed to be submissive and subservient.

X: I pay my staff more than any other club in the area. And people like Rafael Cordero are the ones I need here. Since you’ve been welcomed into this fold, Iris, I thought you’d know that. Your job isn’t to be a hero. Heroes just end up hurting people.

Oh, great. Now he’s going to go on some philosophical rant.

I’m not trying to be a hero.

Iris: I don’t need a lecture. I’ve asked you if you’ll remove a cruel and abusive patron. You’ve said no. I’ll text if I have anything important.

He sends a thumbs-up in return.

I go to my locker and put the phone inside, locking it away before I send a middle finger in reply.

CHAPTER 2

NIKOLAI

My goddamn head. I sit up on the couch in the office, morning sunlight slanting through the window. Miami, in all its bright and obnoxious glory, is glaring at me. As usual for the past week, my gaze goes to the envelope on the desk. I recognize Maksim’s handwriting. I’m not sure what it is. Anton usually tells me if it’s something important.

Maksim has sent reports through Anton.

How close are you to setting up the information pipeline?

Do you need any help?

Is the club itself profitable?

Have you encountered any problems?

The last question always feels like a test, as if he’s wondering how far I’ll let men push me before I finally make a stand. There was a small group of us here before I arrived: the brothers Igor, Yaroslav, and Dmitry Sokolov. They were running security and gathering some information of their own. But then they retreated to their compound in the marshes. When I called Dmitry, the oldest, he wouldn’t tell me why.

The Sokolov brothers have always been independent, not paying tribute, but they’ve passed us useful information, and we’ve always said we’ll go to war for each other. We’re the new Bratva, switching things up. Less blood. Well…

I cringe, my mind going to DC, to all that happened. To all I did.

I’ve told my big brother – through Anton – that I’m handling it. I’ve got no idea if Anton is telling Maksim about the late nights, the drinking, the fights. Like I can escape what I did. I tried to save a mother and her child, but it cost me everything.

I betrayed my brother… I betrayed the woman who’s going to be his wife one day. I ruined it all. People died because of what I did. When it gets too much, I become a fucking cliché. Go back to the bottle.

Standing, I grab my cigarettes and toss them in the trash. Then I take them out and crush them in my tatted hand, then toss them again. Through the tall, wide one-way glass, I can see the VIP section and other areas of the main floor. With just the cleaners moving quietly around, it looks small and sad.

I go to the bathroom adjoining my office. Shower, brush my teeth, and pull on a pair of fresh clothes after I make myself a black coffee. By the time Anton arrives, I’m something vaguely resembling human.

Anton scratches his bald head. He’s all business, quiet and lethal and official. Maksim sent him here with me. To spy and report. He has a heavy Russian accent and bleak eyes.