The bratva’s tattoos depict their crimes. Their stints in prison. Their initiations to the brotherhood. Who they served. How long they’ve served. At least that’s what I’ve surmised. I know better than to ask.
I focus on his right shoulder to start with-it’s always the tightest, not that he ever complains. This probably sounds weird, but I relish touching Dima. He may not enjoy my massages, but I sure as hell enjoy giving them. I like the feel of his muscles under my palms. The scent of his aftershave, his stoic silence.
Today, like the other times I’ve massaged him, his hips go cockeyed the moment I touch him, a boner tilting his pelvis. It can’t be comfortable. If I were the bolder, fearless version of myself, I would lean down and with a purr in his ear, ask if he wanted me to work out that particular part of his anatomy.
But that’s not me. I’m not a sex-kitten. I’m just friendly, helpful Natasha, here to serve with a smile.
I work out the muscles of his deltoid and biceps then down his forearm to his fingers. Holding his hand makes the flutters start in my tummy again. Like the hands are a more intimate body part than all the other places I’m touching. Dima wears a slender gold band with a diamond chip on his pinkie finger. I’m guessing it means something to him because it doesn’t go with the rest of him. He’s not flashy, not the jewelry wearing type. I work down each finger individually. He has three X’s tattooed on his knuckles. All the guys on the top floor have them. I’m guessing they represent kills.
“So, I hear your brother runs a Friday night poker game.” I don’t know why my heart starts pounding so hard. It’s a little awkward, but all I have to do is get an invite to the game. This is my mission.
Alex, my new guy, really wants to go. He got super interested when he heard I lived in the Kremlin. I guess he’d heard about the game.
Dima stiffens even more than he was. When he doesn’t answer, I plow forward.
“May I come?”
“No,” he says immediately. His voice is thick and gruff.
“No?” I laugh to cover my embarrassment. I’d pretty much promised Alex I could get us in. “Why not?”
“Natasha, those games are for serious betters. Not you.”
“Maybe I want to seriously bet.” Now I’m just annoyed. What is with this guy anyway? My mission morphs from being for Alex to proving I’m not a total loser.
“No.” His voice sounds even harder.
“Well, can I come and just watch?” Call me persistent. I adjust the sheet. “Roll over, please.”
Dima rolls over.
“Please?” I say in my sweetest voice. I don’t know why I can’t take no for an answer. I personally have no interest in the game, and it’s not like I’m trying to impress Alex. I actually don’t think we have a future. He feels more brotherly than boyfriend. I think I’m just hurt that Dima told me no, and that, combined with his refusal to act on his obvious interest in me, makes me rather desperate for a win.
“Natasha…” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I can’t believe you’re asking me.”
I pump some oil into my hands and rub his shoulder from the top. “Are there, like, strippers there or something?”
Dima snorts. “No strippers.”
“Drugs?”
“No drugs.”
“Can I just come and check it out? Just once? Please?”
Dima groans and closes his eyes. A moment later, he peeks and catches me watching his face. “Ugn. Fine. Yes, you can come. I’ll text you the address.”
“Yay! Thank you. I’ll be good, I promise.” Now I’m flirting again.
Dima cracks one eye, and the sheet tents between his legs.
My heart trips over itself like I’m running down a hill.
Now is when I should tell him I’m bringing Alex. I should definitely tell him now.
Gah. Why don’t I want to tell him?
And then I realize the ridiculous truth. The whole reason I agreed to ask Dima if we could go to this game was not to please Alex. It was to show up with Alex and make Dima jealous. Maybe spur him into taking action with me.
I ignore the little prickle at the back of my neck that tells me this is totally going to backfire.
Dima
“You did what?” Nikolai’s head nearly spins off his neck.
I’m set up in my corner of the luxury Chicago hotel suite where tonight’s poker game will be held. Nikolai’s the bookie. The games are his operation. I’m here to track the bets, vet the players digitally, and run security footage.
Oleg, our bratva cell’s enforcer, is here as muscle. He sits in the opposite corner, near the door.
“I gave Natasha the address. She wanted to come,” I repeat.
“What. The actual. Fuck?” Nikolai gapes at me. “Seriously. What were you thinking?”
Oleg glances up, but doesn’t comment, which isn’t unusual. He’s mute, and while we’ve all been learning sign language to understand him, he still doesn’t have much to say, except to Story, his girlfriend.
I close my eyes and shove my fingers through my hair. “I know. I tried to refuse her, but she kept begging. I don’t know why she wants to come, but she does.”
“Her mother will kill us both-and Ravil,” he says, mentioning our pakhan, the boss of the Chicago bratva. “You know that woman is not afraid of any of us.”
“Svetlana is fierce,” I agree. “But she’s in Russia at the moment. That’s probably why Natasha timed her request now.”
“It’s not going to work,” Nikolai says. “She’ll ruin the vibe. I’m not letting her in.”