I slip out without her seeing me and follow at a distance. She’s in a sketchy, industrial part of town, but there are cars parked everywhere. Something is definitely happening. A warehouse party. Or maybe they still do raves in Liverpool. Either way, I’m going to have to go in if I don’t want to lose track of her. It looks like the place is packed.
I watch her knock on the door. When it swings open, music blares from the place and a big guy who appears to be some kind of bouncer lets her in. I wait sixty seconds then follow.
“Password?” the door guy demands.
I pull a fifty pound note out of my pocket and tuck it in the guy’s palm. “Appreciate it,” I say, wishing my Russian accent wasn’t so damn strong. At least the tattoos on my knuckles don’t work against me with a guy like this.
He gives me a once over. “You gotta friend in here?”
Fuck.
“Yeah,” I say, my brain scrambling. “I’m friends with Kateryna. Ukrainian girl? Rocks a schoolgirl outfit?” Maybe if I’m lucky, this guy will think my accent is Ukrainian, too.
It works. He pushes the door open. “Kat just got here.” He jerks his head inside.
I hope giving her name doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass. I would’ve been better off making something else up. Oh well, too late now.
I enter the darkened warehouse. It’s lit with colored lights like a nightclub and music blasts from big speakers. There’s a DJ playing in the corner, and nice lounge furniture around the edges of the room. The place is packed with bodies bouncing and undulating to the beat. It’s definitely a rave. Kateryna–or I guess it’s Kat here–is nowhere to be seen, but she fits right in with the other scantily-clad girls.
The good news is that I can blend in. The bad news is that I have no idea where my mark has disappeared to. I shove my hands in the pockets of my jacket and make my way casually through the crowd, bobbing my head to the music like I’m just here for the beats.
Turns out, it’s not hard to find Kateryna at all because she climbed on top of a large wooden crate and is swaying her hips in half-time to the music, inviting every mudak below her to look up that short fucking skirt of hers.
Which isn’t my problem, obviously. Still, my fingers close into fists in my pockets thinking about the bad things that could happen to her here. She came alone–which is pretty fucking strange. Girls always run in packs. And now she’s inviting all kinds of male attention.
Oh shit. I look away when we make brief eye contact. Stepping back, I move along the wall and pull out my phone, pretending to text someone.
“Hi.” A female voice pulls my attention at the same time the speaker tugs my sleeve.
You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.
I’ve been made.
Kat stands in front of me, a wide, saucy smile showing off the straightest, whitest set of teeth I’ve ever seen. She looks up at me from under a curtain of dark bangs, and I discover her eyes are a surprising shade of electric blue. She’s not wearing any color on her lids, but the thick black eyeliner that extends beyond the outer corners of her eyes only accentuates the light color of her irises.
I don’t answer her because…fuck. I shouldn’t have let her see me to begin with. I might be a decent cleaner, but I’m a piss-poor tail.
She’s still holding my sleeve, and she slides her hand down to close her fingers around my fist. “Nice tattoos. That's Russian, right?” She pulls my knuckles closer to her face to examine the Cyrillic letters that are an acronym for my bratva cell. Her hands are small, her touch soft.
I pull my hand back and scowl, trying to get her to leave. Although I guess it’s too late. She’s seen me. She won’t forget my face now. “Da.”
Her smile grows wider. “I’m Ukrainian. My name is Kat.” She holds her palm out for me to shake. When I don’t take it, she grips mine and gives it a single pump.
Bozhe moi, this girl has terrible instincts. Can she not tell that I’m trouble? I’m literally here to ruin her life. I wear a permanent scowl. I don’t look like a nice guy. I wasn’t particularly friendly even before her father destroyed my sister, and now? I’m fucking lethal. She’s touching the tattoos that prove it.
Poor judgment must be why her father sequestered her away in England. Even so, it’s a wonder she hasn’t been torn apart yet.
I force myself to pretend I belong here. I’m just another party-goer. I arch a brow and scan her outfit. “You old enough to be here?”