Page 38 of Owned Bratva Bride

“Okay. Send Leonid here.”

“Yes, Boss.”

***

As I left my office later that night, Ivan asked, “Are we going to the club or the estate?”

Going to the club to unwind was my usual on Friday nights.

It was something I’d never admit, but as much as I was glad to be away from the house, I had been subconsciously counting down to when I’d be back there.

She was already wielding her power over my mind; I couldn’t let her have power over my schedules. I couldn’t begin to change plans because of her.

So, I told Ivan, “To the club.”

This was one of those nights that proved my claim that going to the club wasn’t about the drinks. It was about the change of scenery, the ambiance in the pulsating beats.

Rolling my sleeves up, I relaxed into the chair once I got to my regular corner spot in the VIP area.

A tall waitress with a blinding smile walked over to me.

“What can I get you, sir?” she asked, her tone suggestively low.

The undone buttons of her white shirt showed more cleavage than should be allowed.

“My usual.”

“Okay, sir. I’ll be back to satisfy your needs in a minute,” she assured before turning around, purposefully swaying her hips.

Of course, she knew who I was.

It wasn’t news that I liked pretty girls. But what this waitress seemed to be missing was the knowledge that I didn’t mix business with pleasure; I never got intimate with waitresses.

“Hey, handsome.”

I heard the soft voice before I saw the face.

A lady dressed in a maroon slip dress approached me, setting herself right in the space beside me on the velvet couch. She was bold, alright.

“Hi,” I answered, my eyes raking over her dark red lips, down to the low neck of her dress, and her exposed legs.

She was stunning, very sexy.

But there was a tiny problem.

Her red dress drew my mind to Marielle’s brighter dress—the one she was wearing the first time I saw her, the one she had on when she was on the floor, glaring at me with that pretty face.

The waitress came with my drink before either of us could say anything more. I noticed the displeasure on her face as she looked at the pretty lady; she probably thought she was my date.

Once the waitress turned around, the pretty lady turned to face me totally.

“So…here to relax after a busy day?”

“What makes you say so?” I asked, chuckling.

She twirled a lock of her black hair with her fingers as she spoke. “Let’s just say you look like a stressed work machine…. So, I was wondering if you’d be down to work out your stress,” she slurred.

I moved forward, lifting my glass.