Page 18 of The Russian’s Forced Bride (Kamarov Bratva #2)

The beat of a Taio Cruz song shook the glass in the VIP room where I was sitting, my eyes fixed below on the club’s main floor, a martini swirling in my hands.

Bodies of men and women dancing to the music appeared as dark silhouettes against the room’s dim lighting, with red and blue neon overhead lights flashing occasionally across the space, immersed in sin.

In the center of the room, Arlette seductively swayed her hips to the music, her hands caressing the exposed skin of her body in her shimmering strapless dress.

I watched her—the way her body swayed to the music, almost teasing. Her fiery red hair, which was let loose, flowed down the curves of her body, stopping right above her heart-shaped ass. She looked enthralling under the lighting of the club, and I observed her every move, bewitched by her.

And it didn’t matter that the men lurking in the shadows watched hungrily too, because they knew she couldn’t be touched or approached. She was mine. They didn’t need to be told. They just knew.

I wasn’t too enthusiastic at first about letting her go clubbing with her best friend, Eleanor—the girl who was dancing in front of her, dark-haired and about a foot shorter than Arlette. But I knew I couldn’t keep her locked up forever either.

She had already run off to see her “ half-brother .” The last thing I wanted was a repeat of that.

Even from afar, the presence of that boy irked me.

Irritated me to the extent I knew I would’ve shot him dead if I had my Glock within my reach.

I hadn’t seen his face clearly, but immediately after Arlette had slipped that he was someone who claimed to be related to her, I asked Maxim to check all records of a mystery brother.

I had only known Arlette to have one brother, and not only was he adopted, but he also lived all the way in New Jersey, only occasionally visiting Chicago whenever it involved his business.

But then Maxim pulled up with a load of information that proved Arlette was right. The kid went by the name Brandon Orozco. Apparently, Jaxon Whitmore had fucked a Spanish whore on one of his many visits to a high-end bar in Barcelona.

The knowledge that Arlette was right about Brandon being her brother didn’t change anything, though.

It made me even more suspicious about him. It didn’t make sense why he chose to appear right when Jaxon died. It was all too convenient.

I needed to learn more about him—and whatever the hell he was putting into Arlette’s head that made her risk her life by leaving the house when she clearly knew Joaquin’s men were secretly prowling around, waiting for the right moment to strike.

But if Arlette was going to trust me enough to talk about him, I had to give her all she wanted—hence the reason I didn’t mind her having a blast even whilst lustful men ogled at her.

However, I was being tempted to rip out their eyes and shove them down the back of their throats until they choked to death.

But alas, violence was never the answer. As long as they didn’t cross the line, I stayed calm.

The door to the VIP room slowly creaked open, and Cassandra stepped inside, fully dressed for the occasion in a red backless dress that ended just above her knees.

I had given her permission to have fun, too, but as she appeared, her expression didn’t look like someone who had been partying all night.

She seemed hesitant as she shut the door and walked slowly toward me.

I set my martini on the glass table in front of me.

“Talk.”

Cassandra opened her mouth to speak, but faltered, and despite how icy cold the room was, sweat dripped down her forehead.

“Cassandra,” I spoke lowly amidst the music thrumming beneath the glass walls, yet I was certain she could hear me clearly. “Talk.”

“He’s here.” She looked away. “I didn’t know he was a member of this club because he came in under a false identity using a clean ID through some foreign investment program. Lorenzo Hernandez was what he went by, and apparently, he’s been visiting this club regularly.”

I raised an eyebrow, leaning forward on the plush, velvety lounge sofa. It couldn’t be. There was no way that bastard was at my club—unless he had no idea I owned it. But then again, she probably wasn’t talking about who I suspected she was talking about.

“By ‘he,’ you mean—”

“Joaquin. Joaquin Saavedra is at this club, sir.”

My pulse raced as adrenaline surged through my body, my eyes twitching with the chaos of a million thoughts rushing through my mind.

I had him right here. But it wasn’t yet a checkmate.

Even though I desperately wanted to kill the bastard, I couldn’t do it here—especially not without Matvey giving the go-ahead.

And there was this game he was playing with me. That was the most urgent matter on the ground. I could simply inform Matvey about whatever I could learn right now.

But then again, I wanted that man dead.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I took a quick glance back at Arlette, who was still dancing, oblivious to the chaos that was about to ensue. I couldn’t let either of them know they were in here.

“Get Arlette and her friend out of here,” I instructed Cassandra, getting to my feet. “Don’t make a commotion so no one knows what’s happening. I don’t want her or Joaquin knowing that either of them is in this club. Got it?”

Cassandra nodded as I slipped on my suit jacket now.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“Just two booths away from the DJ. He has a hat on, and there’s not much happening at his booth. My guess is, he’s not trying to make his presence known.”

Well, too bad—his sorry excuse for a cover was already blown.

I gently tapped Cassandra’s shoulder before leaving the VIP room, heading down the spiral stairway to the main floor. I blended into the crowd to avoid being noticed, and while Arlette was too busy having fun, I slipped over to the booth Cassandra had told me about.

At the stage center and hanging off a stripping pole was a brunette dressed in nothing but tape to cover her breasts and pussy. And seated just two booths away from that woman was my target.

Joaquin Saavedra.

His eyes were set on the woman as he sipped from his drink, and though a black hat covered his eyes, I could tell clearly from his mannerisms that it was him.

I approached him, slipping into the booth across from him so we were face-to-face. He didn’t notice me at first until I cleared my throat.

A few of his men were around us—I could tell by the way they silently exchanged glances—but they couldn’t act foolishly. Not only was this my club, but I was right in front of their boss, too. If things became way too complicated, I could always blow his head off.

A flash of surprise flickered in Joaquin’s eyes when they met mine, but he quickly composed himself, a bright smile spreading across his face.

For a man approaching his fifties, Joaquin was surprisingly fit. He had a burly physique, with tattoos lining his exposed arms and stopping right at the nape of his neck. But he didn’t scare me—because in a battle of sheer strength, I was confident I would win.

“Rafael. What a surprise,” he beamed, showing off his crooked teeth marred with plaque. The foul smell coming from his mouth made me recoil in disgust as I fought to hide my revulsion.

So I feigned a bright smile.

“I could say the same, Joaquin.” I slipped off my suit jacket. “I own this club. Never knew you were a regular.”

“Ahh,” the bastard mused. “I didn’t know you did, but that doesn’t change anything, now does it?”

He then handed me a filled shot of whatever the hell he was drinking, but when I didn’t take it from him, he dropped it back onto the table between us.

“I cost you half a million last week, amigo . Don’t tell me you’re still upset about that,” Joaquin blatantly admitted. Shrugging his shoulders, he added, “It’s all part of business.”

I chuckled, leaning forward. “Don’t worry, Saavedra. I bounced back within a day.”

Joaquin scoffed, swinging a shot of his drink as he leaned back against his booth. I could see traces of annoyance on his forehead, but his hat—along with the dim lighting in the club—did a good job of shadowing his expressions.

I wanted to punch him right in the face, or maybe slam his head through the glass table in front of him, but I kept my hands still.

“You know, you’re actually as good as they say you are, Rafael.” Joaquin nodded, the clink of his glass drowning out the music in the background as my attention turned rapt.

“Maybe,” he said, shaking his finger that was now pointed at me, “just maybe you can survive what’s coming next.”

My jaw clenched. “Survive what?”

He shrugged, humming along to the club music while I was struggling to keep my act together.

“Survive what, Joaquin?” I repeated.

He waved his hands. “Nothing serious, amigo . Though I hear you have quite the temper locked in here.” He gestured to his chest. “So don’t go all crazy when your boy breaks the news to you.”

I inhaled sharply.

Calm down, Rafael. He’s trying to get under your skin.

I looked him squarely in the eye. “What news are you talking about?”

He shrugged, and I could see a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“You know—the whole mystery about Jaxon Whitmore’s death.”

He then began to laugh so hard that he held his stomach, as if everything he had said was hilarious.

“I’m sorry,” he said in between his peals of laughter. “It’s just so funny how you think Oskar and Matvey told you everything. It’s hilarious how much you think they trust you.”

A vein on my forehead throbbed, tightening the longer I watched Joaquin laugh.

Control yourself, Rafael.

Control.

Control .

If I killed him here, I’d never be able to properly destroy his empire. And worse, outsiders were in this club. It would ruin everything the Bratva had ever worked for.

I feigned a smile at the fucker. “Well, Uncle and Matvey do sometimes hide things from me. But I assure you, I know everything I need to know about Jaxon Whitmore.”

Joaquin snorted, now rising to his feet. “Whatever sails your boat, amigo .”

He gestured to one of his men, whispering into his ear, and I quickly surveyed the area, sighing in relief when I saw that Arlette was no longer in the club.

“It was nice seeing you, Rafael. You were impeccable as always.”

He started walking out of the booth and then turned his head when he was a few feet away from me.

“And don’t forget to send my greetings to your wife. Enjoy fucking a Whitmore for as long as you can.”

He flashed his teeth at me, a daring smile on his face as he tipped his hat and walked away.

My nostrils flared in anger as I watched him leave, tempted to go after him and beat him to death for insulting my wife right in front of me. He was messing with me because he knew I had rules to abide by.

He knew I couldn’t kill him until my Pakhan approved of it.

I buried my face in my palms. My head was a spiraling mess. I knew we had an insider working for the bastard and feeding him information—but to think there were things Matvey and Oskar were deliberately keeping from me?

I knew I couldn’t fully believe Joaquin, but at the same time, my gut knew there were truths to what he said.

Oskar and Matvey didn’t give me the full story.

Were they even on my side?

I slammed my fists against the table, swearing under my breath.

I had to get to the bottom of this.