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“Ha… ha.” I reply sarcastically, taking another sip. “Any news for me?” I place my hand on the arm of the ancient chair and look over at my confidant - the only Russian man I've met with dark features but stark blue eyes. I’ve often wondered how many of his kills took that sight into the afterlife with them. He’s a scary, good-looking fucker, for sure. Never has any issues with the women around us.
“Richie Black is creating a buzz for next week’s fight.”
Richie Black, a big motherfucker and lethal also, a good acquaintance to have in your corner. I grunt at Niko, taking another sip of my whiskey.
“Are you ready to fight him?”
I let a shoulder lift in a shrug. “He makes the club good money.”
“That’s an understatement. We’ve generated over a hundred grand in ticket sales already.”
It doesn’t matter. I've been the reigning champion in my club for the last decade. The King… marrying a Syndicate princess. I never lose and I never will. That’s why marrying Sabrina and gaining access into the Syndicate is a priority. Another few beats of silence pass between Niko and me. The money is and will always be my first priority. Between Eden, Inferno and Purgatory, it’s not an issue. “That’s good. Who all is attending?”
“Big names.”
I nod mindlessly. “And the new girl? Dana Harly? How is she?”
“No complaints, she seems to be doing just fine.” he assures me and yes, Harley wears a blonde wig that’s dyed pink and blue at the tips. It’s something we encourage our dancers to do to protect their identities once they leave our club.It’s a safety precaution we do at every single one of our clubs from Inferno to Pandemonium.
We only accept new “dancers” every four months. That’s how long the contracts are typically for. Usually within that time frame they’re able to save up as much as they need and move on to better things or they re-sign a new contract for another four months. They don’t have to worry about paying too high a rent and we provide protection for them and the ones with kids. They live in an apartment building we rent out to them and only a few rules apply, which are stated in their contract:
One) No johns entering the building.
Two) No hard drugs.
Three) Keep everyone else’s identity secret.
Four) They must get on birth control and stay on it for the length of their contract. No exceptions.
I don’t necessarily have a soft spot for sex workers, but Niko does, seeing as that was how his mother was able to provide for him… until she was murdered in cold blood by her pimp for choosing to pay rent and have food on the table for him when he was only sixteen.
We took him in.
He and I found his mother’s pimp and took care of him.
The following year, my mother died.
So when I say Niko and I are brothers, I mean it.
We’ve killed together and grieved together.
Once my father retired and all three clubs were transferred to me, five years ago, Niko made sure we made the necessary changes to how our sex workers were treated to make it safer for women like his mother. We already knew some of the dancers were doing shady shit before, getting into trouble.
This way, we have a better handle on things.
The girls are treated right; therefore they don’t bite the hand that feeds.
I take another sip from my tumbler, enjoying the silence before Niko asks, “How’s the fiancé?”
I roll my eyes, remembering the way I slipped out of the Escalade with barely a ‘goodbye’ escaping her lips. “I’ve never met a woman that doesn’t talk my ear off.”
Niko laughs. “I wish I had that problem.”
I swallow another sip, looking at my oldest friend in the world.
My consigliere is the only non-Italian made man. I trust him with my life, which is why I stepped on toes and made him my advisor-slash-enforcer.
We grew up together, and yet, for some reason, I don't want to tell him what I see in Sabrina. How she keeps to herself, bringing cupcakes to the office every Thursday before their meetings, setting up the conference room so everyone in the office can have a cupcake. How that’s the only time I see her genuinely smile, not like the ones she gives others, that make it seem as though her cheeks must hurt from smiling like that all goddamn day. I don’t tell him how, when they invite her out every Friday night, she comes up with a quick excuse - her favorite being she’s going to see her mother over the weekend and then stays home baking. Scream-singing. I don’t tell him that her room is vacant and voidof the male species, not even a slight buzzing noise comes from her room.