The Mafia King and his hard-headed slave

ler's Pe

swaying to the music. Women danced on poles that stretched to the ceiling, their movements slow and hypno

She smiled, her teeth bright under the dim lights. She was eager, but I felt nothin

ndered. It always did. The thrill was gone; no woman had managed to

lted me out of my thoughts. I

ation. "Yes," I said, gr

my father's voice was calm but c

d. They said the money

f it d

ed from the cigar between my teeth. "They'll pay. An

then: "Fine."

and tears glistened in her doe-like eyes. "One more chance," I murmured, twisting her hair in my fin

uickly, fear

of cold air swept through the room. The sound of heels clicking against the floor c

p, her steps deliberate. A sleek black coat draped over her shoulders, and her fa

turned, conversations stopped,

trigued for the fi

cers and drunk men reaching out to her. She stopped j

id, her voice calm bu

taking a drag from my

ld hear. "You've made a mistake. One that could cost you eve

******************************

Now zip me up." She complied without a word, and as

nto line. Outside, we climbed into the sleek black car waiting at the curb under the flickering ne

ed away, I snapped, "Out." They hesitated briefly but obeyed without question. Once

ts, unnoticed by police. Then I saw it: a gl

car, followed by her. Even in the shadows, Rita Sokolov was commanding-tight leather jeans, high

lawlessly and with ruthless precision, as though moc

e mansion as guests arrived. I spotted an open second-floor window and climbed the wall, the

all of Russian books, a sleek desk with a loaded .40 caliber handgun, and a wardr

d in the air, her signature. Water ran in t

ne aside, I rifled through the cupboards: neatly arranged dresses,