Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance - Riley Rollins Page 0,6

quash my emotions, to harness the darkness, to make it work for me. I embraced it. And now, my guilt overrides everything. Everything except my lust for Penny.

But I won't put her in danger. I won't. That will be my salvation, for as little as it's worth.

So I keep my eyes glued to my locker, my eyes straight ahead. When she comes onto me, I shut her down hard. Women throw themselves at me everywhere I go, and I just laugh in their faces. But with Penny, it takes all my self-discipline to deny her. And by the time she's dressed and out the door, my cock is throbbing and aching with need. The kind of need that manifests as a brutal, urgent craving to fill all the holes in her body.

I try to clear my head as I collect my things and leave the club. There's a Bratva meeting at 2 a.m. sharp, nineteen minutes from now, and it's a mile by foot. They'll have my head on a platter if I'm late.

The chilly West Ark night air nips my ears as I plod down the sidewalk, and the colorful neon store signs reflect off the dirty rain puddles. I always enjoy late-night walks. No one fucks with me on the street, and it gives me a chance to have some thoughts to myself.

Tonight, I hope the fall night breeze will blow the thoughts of Penny out of my brain. But of course, it doesn't.

I'm still thinking of her at one-fifty-eight when I arrive at my destination, an old run-down Russian restaurant and grocery called the White Bear. Bells jingle on the door as I push it open, and a welcome warmth surrounds me. Inside, the store is brightly lit, with a food counter and shelves stacked high with authentic Russian food, spices, and goods.

I force Penny out of my brain for now, as best I can. I have to focus.

Grigory, the white-haired senior mafia man in West Ark, sits behind the counter. He used to be a hitman like me in his youth. Now, he calls the shots and runs the store as a way to pass the time, selling snacks and trinkets until he fucking croaks.

Of course, at two o'clock in the morning there aren't any customers in the store. The White Bear is open for a different kind of business right now.

"Privet," says Grigory, greeting me.

Tipping my head to him, I walk past the food counter and down a hallway toward the restrooms in the back. But instead of going to the little boys' room, I turn the corner and open a door to a descending stairwell, then go down.

The room is small and cramped, lit only by a couple bulbs chained to the ceiling. The aroma of vinegar and fermented vegetables wafts through the air, and I see the guys huddled around the table are eating herring and sour cream on rye flatbread. A Russian staple.

Everyone's here: Petrov, the bald, lanky pakhan, or boss. He's Grigory's right-hand man. Igor, the manager of this club who I don't fucking trust. And Valentin and Luka. My two loyal brothers-in-crime who I've known since I was a cub.

"Havok," says Petrov. "Sit. We starting." His English is no good.

I take a seat next to Luka, across from Igor and Valentin. Petrov stands at the head of the table. That fucking hard-on that Penny gave me has finally gone down, and good thing, too, or I might have accidentally stabbed Luka in the eye in this goddamn cramped basement. And he's such a burly son of a bitch that I wouldn't have cared to see the outcome of that.

"First order of business, drugs," says Petrov. He doesn't mince words. "Valentin. Has shipment reached Port Bellevue?"

"Da," replies Valentin. "This morning. West Ark's about to drown in white powder," he says with a charismatic grin. Valentin is damn near the opposite of Luka. While Luka is big and thick, Valentin is wiry and chiseled with a square jaw, a handsome blonde son of a bitch who runs the fucking drug trade in this town. The man drowns in fucking pussy. Hell, so does Luka, when he can be convinced to take his mind off money for a damn minute.

Petrov smiles, pleased. "Excellent. Luka—the plates?"

"On the boat right now, boss," says Luka, puffing on a cigar. His dark hair is slicked back, his suit perfect, concealing hundreds of pounds of muscle. He runs our money laundering, counterfeiting, and other financial operations, and he

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