The Score (The Russian Guns Book 3) Page 5

  “Hey, Boss.”

  Anton held back his frown. Where did that come from? “Just Anton, Natalie.”

  “Sure,” the girl drawled with a smile. “I let the guys up into the office. They were pretty insistent about it.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Despite the club only being open for a short while, Anton could tell walking through the main floor that they were already at their fire code limit for the number of bodies inside the building. It wasn’t unusual, and more often than not, the club could handle another fifty people above the limit before complaints were made, but he wasn’t comfortable with it tonight. The last thing he needed was the cops showing up.

  “Natalie, go to the front and let security know they’re to refuse entrance until some people clear out.”

  “Not a problem, Anton.”

  In his office, Anton found more men than he expected to. Boris, Viktor, one of their associates who Anton suspected had been involved in the run in with the gang, Erik, Ivan, and Rory.

  “Jesus, are we having a party, or what?” Anton asked, closing his office door.

  “Already here,” Rory said, fiddling with his phone. “Keeping an eye on Jen, Boss.”

  Ivan jerked his thumb in Erik’s direction. “Dumbass wanted a drink.”

  “Fuck you,” Erik replied blithely. “You’d need one, too.”

  “Issues I need to know about?” Anton asked his old friend.

  “Not unless they involve my wife,” Erik said.

  Ah, yeah. Anton chose to stay away from that nonsense.

  Ivan, on the other hand, did not. “That’s what you get for marrying someone half your age.”

  Erik rested back to the couch with a scowl.

  “All right,” Anton said, turning to Boris. “Where is it?”

  Boris pulled a flat, cellophane wrapped brick from an inside pocket of his coat and tossed it to Anton’s desk with a thump.

  Anton was positive he’d been told twenty bricks earlier. “And the rest?”

  “In Viktor’s trunk. I didn’t think you’d want it inside the club tonight,” Boris explained.

  Anton nodded. His men knew him well. “No, you’re right. I don’t. Get this out of here as soon as we’re done, also, to be safe.”

  There was a small pocketknife in the desk Anton pulled out. Flicking open the blade, he cut a small line on the side of the brick. Shaking the rectangular package, yellowish-grey crystalline white power spilled to the table. Odorless, a small bit of the power on the tip of his pocket knife all but disappeared in a glass of water.

  Instantly, Anton knew this wasn’t his drug of choice to handle and sell.

  But just to be sure, he wet his pinky at the tip, dabbed at the powder, and slid the substance along his tongue. If it were cocaine, it would have created a numbing sensation, being the natural anesthetic-like drug coke was. This powder, however, simply tasted bitter and ill. Anton wanted it off his tongue and out of his mouth.

  Turning to Ivan, he waved for the drink in the man’s hand. “Give me that.”

  “Not blow?” Ivan asked while Anton downed the glass of vodka. “You know you didn’t need to taste that to know for sure. There’s a dozen meth-heads that would have gladly—”

  “Shut up,” Anton said, handing back the glass. “It’s methamphetamine. Of course it is. The gangbangers around here seem to have a problem fucking around with crack or this shit, and I don’t want it on my streets. They must enjoy the risk of blowing themselves up to make speed. Fuck that leaves an awful taste in the mouth.”

  “Meth is cheap and fast to produce,” Viktor put in. “It’s more addictive than most of the higher end product on the streets right now.”

  “And dangerous,” Anton replied. “Which is why we don’t produce it.”

  “You enjoyed speed once or twice, Boss,” Erik pointed out from the couch.

  “I enjoyed dropping it, sure,” Anton replied. “You wouldn’t catch me cooking in a meth lab to make it, though.”

  “You know,” Ivan said, leering, “… they say this is better to fuck on than cocaine.”

  Anton scoffed under his breath. “Yeah, I’d have to respectfully disagree. There’s nothing like fucking on coke. But I’m not in the mood to talk about my previous exploits.”

  There was nothing like fucking sober and being able to remember the next morning, either, but Anton didn’t bother to mention that.

  Done with the direction the conversation had taken, Anton turned to his brigadiers. “Which one of you has boys able to get rid of twenty bricks of this within a couple of days?”

  Viktor stayed quiet while Boris raised a hand. “Me, Boss. Well, they’ve got the contacts to get it into the right place, given we don’t usually deal in this.”

  Yeah, that was exactly the problem.

  “Work for you to have Boris’s guys handling it, Viktor?” Anton asked.

  Viktor shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Forty percent to Boris for handling it. Sixty to Viktor for getting it. I want ten from both of your cut because it’s in my territory. Simple math, make it work. I want my cash by the end of the month, and it’s not a part of your regular tribute.” Anton turned to the young kid, maybe only twenty-two, who’d stayed silent in the corner. “And you, who are you?”

  “Joshua,” the boy mumbled. “One of Viktor’s boys.”

  Yes, Anton figured that. Every brigadier essentially controlled a brigade of men who ran the streets, handled the products, and paid their captain. If they were lucky, quick, and smart, they could move up the ranks. It wasn’t easy, it often took a long while to get off the streets, but it happened if the man showed potential.

  “Your friend who got shot, is he okay?” Anton asked.

  Joshua shook his head.

  “Sorry to hear that, but that’s dealing on the streets when you’ve got enemies, kid. Do you use?”

  “Not meth.”

  “Chemical at all?” Anton pressed.

  The kid nodded. “Not serious use, it’s mostly recreational. You can’t expect to turn a profit if you’re only selling to feed an addiction.”

  Joshua was a smart kid, but he could get a hell of a lot smarter.

  Anton flicked his knife closed and tossed it back into the drawer. “Well, I suggest if you want to stand in my office for a different reason someday, you don’t ever touch a chemical again. Got it?”

  “Got it … Boss, is it?”

  Most street thugs never got the chance to stand in the same room with the head of the family. They heard them talked about enough, sure, but meeting them was a whole other ballgame.

  Anton smirked at the kid. “It is to you.”

  “Boss, then,” Joshua said quickly.

  “All right.” Anton leaned over his desk and pressed the conference button to call own to the bar. “Now, let’s get some drinks. On the house.”

  ***

  Anton rested back in the booth. The calmness sweeping his senses barely registered as unusual, but somehow, he knew it was. He was never this relaxed inside a venue with well over two-hundred drunken bodies moving around him.

  “Boss?”

  Drumming his fingers to the tabletop, Anton was vaguely aware of the heat that bloomed under his fingertips at every tap and moved up his digits. Fuck, that sensation was great. He rapped his fingers again just to feel it spread.

  “Boss?” someone asked again.

  Anton wasn’t in the mood to talk. The spotlights rounding the moving wave of people were far too interesting and had caught his eye well over a half an hour ago. Melting into his seat and watching the rhythmic movement of the rays, he almost felt dreamlike. As if he had no weight. Like there was no substance to his self, or the things around him.

  Maybe his thoughts, though.

  Those had to be real.

  “Jesus, Boss, look at me,” Rory snapped.

  Anton glared in his bull's direction, aggravated that his mood was being interrupted. “What?”

  “How much
of that shit did you swallow?”

  “What?”

  “The meth, how much of it did—”

  “Shut up,” Anton ordered, turning back to look at the lights again.

  Rory didn’t make sense, Anton decided. He’d merely tasted less than a pinch of the meth and washed it back with a drink. It certainly wasn’t enough to make him fly, or get his mind jumbled up. Anton might not have used anything strong in a long while, but a blow of powder wasn’t going to get his mouth sticky like wet cotton, or make him crave a joint something fierce.

  No, he was just drunk.

  “I need to go lay down,” Anton muttered under his breath, the decision coming as quick as the last thoughts had gone. No worries. No cares. He was tired, unbothered, and his nerves felt really, really good. “Yeah, in my office.”

  Rory’s brow furrowed across the booth. “Want me to take you home?”

  “I want to lay the fuck down.”

  “Boss, look at me,” Rory repeated.

  Anton waved him off, already leaving the table.

  It seemed like a blink and Anton was in his office.

  A blink.

  Staring at the large decorative clock on the wall, he tried to figure out what time it was. That was a massive failure. Between the time it said it was, the time Anton was sure he’d arrived, and the time in-between, he couldn’t possibly put it all together. How had he been here three and a half hours already?

  That was his first inclination something wasn’t right.

  Where was that time?

  Blankness, that’s where it was. Nowhere.

  Ten more minutes passed while he stared at the clock.

  Wasn’t he supposed to be home with …?

  Anton’s thought process cut off at the quiet click of the office door shutting closed.

  “Boss?”

  That feminine voice was nothing like Rory’s. Anton turned on his heel to face Natalie. Leaning back on his desk, he pressed his palms into the edge to steady the sudden swaying, feeling that glorious heat travel through his skin and nerves again.

  Anton pressed harder to make it repeat. It did.

  “Anton,” he said gruffly. “That’s my name.”

  “I can call you that,” Natalie replied sweetly.

  Something was wrong here. Anton knew it. Like the color of her eyes and hair. Or the way her jasmine perfume soaked the room when it should have been the scent of roses instead. There was something else unexpected crawling through Anton’s awakening nervous system, too. Arousal. He was turned on, and he didn’t have a fucking clue why.

  “You need to leave,” Anton heard himself say, but it wasn’t very firm.

  Natalie took another step closer and Anton felt his own try to take a step back because of it. Oddly, he knew he wasn’t in control of this situation. Certainly not of the woman five feet away, who usually followed directions well, kept her head out of trouble, and left him alone. Thinking he was in control of his own body was goddamn joke, given the only thing his cock was considering was something warm and wet.

  Not hers, though. Not Natalie.

  Anton wanted a dark haired beauty with brown eyes, a pretty mouth, and rose scented skin he could get lost in.

  Not Natalie.

  No.

  Anton blinked out of his haze, glancing from Natalie to the clock. “What time did I get here?”

  “Ten-thirty.”

  Her voice was soft, he noticed. Not silky like his wife’s. But soft.

  Not soft enough, something whispered.

  Natalie took another step forward and Anton noticed the heels she wore. Silver strappy things with spikes that had to be hell for working in the club after hours of walking the floor. Unfortunately, those heels were attached to a pair of legs that traveled all the way up to a tight, short dress showcasing the sexy curves of a young woman. She had a sway when she moved, not a natural one, but a learned one.

  Anton nearly choked on the spit gathering in his mouth. What in the fuck was wrong with him?

  Natalie’s voice distracted him from taking the thought further. “Are you as bad as they say, Anton?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You …”

  Natalie was right in front of him then. Anton had no idea how she got there that quickly. The sensation of being caged crept in and he sidestepped the female. The brush of her fingertips along his exposed skin where he rolled up his shirt sleeves earlier sent a burst of sparks along every nerve in his limb.

  God, it felt fucking amazing. And wrong.

  “Jesus,” Anton whispered, jerking away.

  Natalie’s face tipped sideways. “You okay?”

  “Fine. Why are you here?” Anton asked.

  “I wanted to talk. The club is starting to clear out, so I had a few minutes.”

  The club was clearing out already? Again, time had gone somewhere and Anton didn’t know it passed.

  The cotton sensation was back in his mouth. “I need a drink of water.”

  No more liquor. He didn’t need that at all.

  Natalie handed him a glass of clear liquid that was resting on his desk. Anton downed the room temperature water, barely realizing what he had just done. A couple of hours before, he’d slipped at least a half a teaspoon or more of drugs into that water to watch how quickly it would dissolve.

  Too late now.

  His mouth was still dry.

  Shit.

  “Anton …”

  Where was Rory? That offer of going home certainly sounded good right now.

  “Anton.”

  Viviana’s quiet tenor in his mind asking him to be there in the morning to wake up their son reminded him of where he needed to be right now. Where he wanted to be …

  “Anton?”

  A hand landed to the middle of his chest. The heat from Natalie’s unexpected touch and what was already moving over his skin sent Anton moving backwards instantly. When the back of his legs hit the couch, Anton found himself seated.

  Then, she was on him. Straddling his waist, hands moving. It was much too fast, and Anton couldn’t process the feelings with his thoughts, and his thoughts with the feelings.

  “Are you?” he heard her ask again. “Did you?”

  Buttons on his shirt were snapped open. Fingers trailed up his chest, over his neck. Something hot spilled along his cheek. Anton’s fingers were digging into her sides, but he wasn’t entirely sure if it was to try to move her off him, or keep her there.

  He certainly liked the way her hips ground into the length of his erection, but disgust was rolling heavy, too.

  Not right, he knew. So wrong.

  “What?” Anton rasped.

  “Those people they said you killed.”

  “Who says that?”

  “People. I wondered,” Natalie mused above him. “You hear talk, but you don’t really know. Did you do that?”

  “To some,” Anton muttered. “Men who didn’t deserve breath.”

  Anton was aware he needed to stop talking, but the filter between his brain and his mouth wasn’t working. Just like the filter between his mind and his cock. They weren’t in agreement, either.

  “Sonny?” Natalie asked softly.

  “He tried to kill my wife,” Anton answered. “I made sure he didn’t try again.”

  Something screamed at him to shut up.

  “And what's his name … Sergei?”

  Anton chuckled lowly. “Someone else did that. I just helped.”

  “His daughter?” Natalie whispered, coming down dangerously close to Anton’s face.

  “That was me,” Anton said.

  A hand was at his groin, then, pulling at the button, sliding down the zipper. Wetness flicked at his neck, sending something new pulsing and racing through his blood and cock.

  “Say yes,” Natalie said gently. “Tell me yes, Anton.”

  She didn’t say his name right. It didn’t fall over his senses like liquid gold, or send him spinning. Again he was reminded of how wrong she was with he
r light colored eyes and jasmine scent.

  Fuck, he wished his body would understand that, too.

  “Stop touching me,” Anton breathed. “No!”

  With a sudden strength that seemed to return with no warning, Anton shoved the female off his lap. Natalie landed to the hardwood floor of his office with a thump, her legs sprawling out underneath her as her face morphed into a mask of surprise.

  “Don’t you fucking come anywhere near me.”

  Anton wasn’t sure if she’d heard him. Time was jumping again.

  Chapter Five

  There was a god-awful pulsing in the back of Anton’s skull. Nausea rolled through his middle like a wrecking ball intent on killing him. That feeling was only increased when he turned in the bed and groaned, wanting to bury his face into something sweet-smelling and soft, like his wife.

  Anton only met cold sheets instead of Viviana’s warmth.

  Instantly, his eyes popped open, unfocused and unsure. The morning light filtering into the master bedroom of their home burned his vision, making his headache that much worse. Struggling to figure out exactly why he felt like shit and where in the hell his wife was, Anton rolled over to his back and pressed his palms to his forehead.

  “Oh God, I feel like death. Holy he—”

  “Rough night?”

  With a dry mouth and bleary eyes, Anton glanced a glance in the direction of where Viviana’s annoyed voice had come from. Standing in the entrance of their bedroom, her hip pressed to the doorjamb and a cup of coffee in hand, his wife looked pissed.

  Somehow, Anton knew he needed to apologize. He didn’t know for what, but the stale taste in his mouth mixed with the hangover he seemed to be experiencing was a pretty good indicator he’d done something he shouldn’t have.

  “Vine—”

  “Oh, it’s not the wife today?” Viviana asked, cocking a brow.

  Anton flinched. Had he called her that? “Where’s Dem—”

  “Sleeping,” she interrupted. “It’s still early, Anton.”

  “I should … move, or something.”

  “Three in the morning, really? I can’t even believe you! If it hadn’t been for that new girl answering the phone at the club, I would have thought you were fucking dead.”

  Anton blinked at the bright white ceiling, guilt and queasiness filling him up to the brim. The memories he tried to reach from the night before were hazy at best, but he could remember being at his club in Brighton Beach. A few of his guys had showed up and they drank a bit, but that wasn’t anything new.