Twisted One night stand

DANILL

The Pakhan sitting across from me raises an eyebrow, his gaze fixed on me, awaiting my response. He mutters a curse under his breath and reaches for his glass of vodka, taking a long sip. His lips tighten into a thin line as he continues to stare at me.

He's probably furious about the amount of money I'm requesting, but I couldn't care less. He wants a job done, done his way, and done right. And he knows better than anyone the cost of doing a job the right way.

"I understand that you only answer to one Pakhan, and even then, your loyalty lies solely with the Bratva. But you must offer me a deal," he says.

"Must I?" I lean back in my chair and ask.

We're in a restaurant, the only place where business can be openly discussed. Pozhaluysta is the designated spot for such matters. Most of the men sitting around the tables, murmuring among themselves, are Bratva members engaged in various business dealings.

Though we may come from different parts of the city, under different Pakhans, and involved in different enterprises, we are all Bratva. This is a safe haven where we can comfortably discuss life, jobs, or anything else.

And that's precisely why Fyodor called me here for lunch.

He wants me to eliminate someone.

Not just anyone.

Not merely an enemy or a business associate. He wants me to eliminate someone whose disappearance would attract attention. That's why I cannot accept anything less than what I deserve for such a significant task. He expects me to make it appear as nothing more than a suicide.

"What's in it for me?" I inquire.

"Besides money?" he retorts, raising an eyebrow as he leans back with his vodka in hand.

"Yes, besides money. You see, I'm putting my life on the line, not you. Simply put, money isn't sufficient."

He hums in response. "You said there would be no discount, no deal for the job. So, you'll receive money. Nothing else."

Shaking my head once, I clear my throat. "To enlist the men I'll need for this task, I'll have to call in favors or acquire new ones. It puts me in a position where I'll be utilizing my personal resources. I want to ensure I'm properly compensated."

"Belsky," he warns, using my last name as if I were a child.

I hold his gaze, unyielding. Fyodor Davydov doesn't intimidate me. Nothing about this man does. He may be a Pakhan, but he's not my Pakhan. He may wield power, but so do I. We stand on nearly equal ground, and while I respect him, I don't have to bow my head to him.

"Davydov?" I respond, using his last name as well.

He watches me, his eyes never leaving mine, and then he sighs. I recognize that as a sign of surrender. He leans forward, places his vodka down, and raises his hands in resignation. The white flag has been raised. A small grin forms on my lips as I wait for him to continue because I know he has something to offer.

"Fine," he spits. "What do you want?"

Raising my hands to my face, I steeple my fingers in front of my mouth and chin. I sit across from him, studying him intently, waiting for him to come up with something that might pique my interest. I don't have any specific requests since I'm unsure of the terms.

So, I wait.

I desire something more intriguing than mere money.

So, I hold out.

Then I witness his eyes widen, and his lips stretch into a wide smile.

"I think I might have something you'd find intriguing. It's something I wouldn't suggest to anyone else."

"I can handle it," I reply with a grin. A challenge sounds like fun to me.

Little do I know, my life is about to take a dramatic turn.

This is just the beginning.

HOLLAND

My father stares at me across the table as we have dinner. I'm barely eating, and being here feels obligatory. I'd much rather be shopping, dancing, or having a drink. Anything but sitting across from him, pretending to be civil.

"You'll be attending the holiday party. It's black dress, as always."

I almost roll my eyes. Every year, my father throws a pretentious holiday party, and every year, he forces me to attend. Not because I want to, not because he genuinely wants me there, but because he wants to showcase our supposedly perfect family to the world.

In my so-called family, appearances matter, nothing else... well, except for money.

Even my mother flies in from Paris for the event, playing make-believe and pretending to be his perfect wife for the paparazzi and the elite of Los Angeles. I couldn't care less either way.

I'd rather stay far away from the whole affair, lounging at home in my pajamas with a bottle of wine. But he holds my Christmas present hostage if I don't show up. And I love Christmas presents. He also threatens not to pay my rent for the year if I refuse.

"You know I'll be there," I mutter.

"I'd like you to stay for the entire weekend," he adds. "Why?" I ask immediately.

My heart races in panic at the thought of spending the entire weekend with both him and my mother. We don't get along. They don't get along. When we're all together, the toxicity is so palpable that I'm surprised we don't glow from the atmosphere.

He never wants me to stay for anything. Usually, I leave on the night of the party, occasionally crashing in the upstairs bedroom. But most of the time, I want to escape that environment as soon as possible.

So why, this year, is he asking me to stay? There must be a reason. There must be something up his sleeve.

I've never trusted my father, not ever, and I'm not about to start now.

He's famous, entitled, and believes he's untouchable. He sees himself as some kind of god, and I have no tolerance for his bullshit.

Never.