Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance - Riley Rollins Page 0,2

who loves me, no one to soften my sharp edges and keep me more human than machine. Not anymore. I haven't touched a woman since Irina, my ex-fiancée, got fucking raped and murdered back in Moscow. God, the memory enrages me. I thought I was keeping her safe, but…

I failed her.

So now, when I'm on a hit late at night, my arms covered in my target's blood up to my elbows, my mind sometimes starts to wander, and I question whether I'm in control or if the darkness has finally taken over. But then I get my bounty, and I get that rush of power and satisfaction that doesn't come any other way, and I keep returning to the darkness again and again. It's all I know. So I chase it. And one day, I'll catch it.

Or it'll catch me.

The door to the front lobby swings open. New customers. My head automatically swivels to survey the scene, by pure reflex. A welcome distraction, to be honest.

My instincts immediately tell me something's wrong with this picture. The four men entering the room are brawny, menacing figures, two of whom have shaved heads. They look like roided-up jerk-offs, not the kind of clientele we let in this club.

My suspicions are confirmed when Oscar, the well-dressed but skinny doorman, bursts through the door after the men.

"Hey," he protests shrilly, "You need to pay up!"

Before Oscar's lips stop flapping, I'm taking action, my feet moving under me. The customers who barge in without paying are almost always college kids too wasted off their asses on Jäger and Red Bull to know they're doing anything wrong. Fucking stupid, but harmless. But my gut says these guys are bad fucking news, and for that I have no tolerance. We can't afford flare-ups or incidents at the club, and that means no riffraff allowed. Keeping up appearances is key to avoiding heat from the pigs.

Most men would be intimidated by a group of juiced-up thugs like them, but not me. I've seen it all before. Slaughtered criminals who could've made these idiots cry like babies.

I move across the club floor swiftly. Up on stage, Violet and Mackenzie, two long-time dancers, are doing a two-girl pole routine. Years ago, I'd have struggled to focus while naked women danced in front of me. But I'm jaded these days. Tits and ass are all the same. They make me feel nothing, not anymore. But every fight is new and different.

I cross the room in five or six strides and come face-to-face with the men.

"Oi," I say curtly in my thick Russian accent, "Get the fuck out of my club."

The biggest man among them, one of the two with a shaved head, stares into my eyes. He's nearly 6'5", my height. Most men would tremble before him, and I sense his aggravation that I don't. If it weren't for the bass thudding through the speakers, I have no doubt I'd hear his teeth grinding together. His jaw is tense and his hands are balled up into fists. Body language reveals everything, and his is telling me we're doing this the hard way.

"Listen, comrade," he growls, "Beat it, pretty boy, and open some beers for us."

Behind him, his three buddies snicker, watching from a safe distance.

I give him a hard gaze, cocking my head, my lips parting in a slight smile. He thinks he's challenging a bouncer. The poor asshole has no idea he's fucking with a Bratva hitman. "You have ten seconds," I say.

He steps toward me, grabbing the lapel of my jacket with a meaty fist.

That's all I needed. Whenever a customer puts their hands on me, all bets are off. Even the fucking pigs don't question a bouncer acting in self-defense.

My hand shoots up to his neck, my fingers latching around his throat, crushing his windpipe. Shocked, he releases my jacket lapel and clasps his hands around mine, trying to peel my fingers off his throat. But despite his size, his strength is no match for mine. Hours in the gym didn't make him as hard as the Russian streets made me.

Around us, a few customers turn their heads, noticing the disturbance. Some of them look nervous. Personally, I'd fucking enjoy escalating this, but I'm on the clock right now, which means I need to put an end to it, fast. I slam him down, forcing him hard onto his knees. He gags, sending flecks of spittle onto my wrist and jacket sleeve. He looks up at me, his