Obsessive Boss (Bratva Brothers 4)

I shouldn't be excited when Savannah enters the club. She's here to work, but my heart rate quickens.

Her eyes lock with mine, and she offers a shy smile. I don't fall for her innocent routine. She danced on my desk. The girl isn't the least bit shy.

Striding across the hall, I greet her for her first day. "Are you ready?" I ask as she follows me to the ladies' dressing room.

"I hope so," Savannah says with a nervous laugh. Her voice quivers, and I get the impression that she may not be used to dancing in front of men, but I gather that she'll like the attention. Most of the girls do, and those who don't quit.

On a metal rack are dozens of outfits for the girls to wear. "Anything on that rack, you can borrow. If you want to bring your clothes, you need clearance from management on every new outfit. Hair, makeup, and nails should be done before you get dressed. On the back wall, are heels you can borrow. Again, anything that you want to bring needs to be cleared by Nikita or myself."

"No boots," another girl says as she sits in front of a mirror, applying her liquid eyeliner. "And you pick your wardrobe last."

"Bailey, you give a warm welcome," I mutter at her.

"I've got seniority," Bailey says.

"And you bring ninety percent of your clothes. I don't know why you feel it necessary to harass the new kid."

"I'm not some kid," Savannah quips. "I can take care of myself."

I'm surprised by the new girl's boldness. "Fine, by all means." I shut the door, leaving the girls on their own before the stage show begins.

I need to keep my distance.

Savannah is off-limits. She's a dancer, and I'm management. This thing between us, the spark, has to be extinguished.

I clear my throat, stalk away from the girls' dressing room, and knock into Nikita.

"You're in a rush," he grunts, glancing me over. His eyes tighten, and he grabs my arm, dragging me into one of the back storage rooms where we house our liquor.

"What?" I don't know why he's found it necessary to drag me away from the floor. I haven't done anything wrong yet.

"I've seen that look," Nikita says. "I wore it for weeks while dealing with Lucy."

I clear my throat. "Is that before or after you married her?" I honestly don't know what look he's talking about, but I'm trying to steer the conversation far from the new hire.

"Before, when she made me so angry, all I wanted was to bend her over and have my way with her."

I choose my words carefully. "Yeah, I've seen the way you look at her." Anyone would be blind to miss the heated stares they exchanged, even when they swore they hated one another.

"Trust me when I say you stare at the new girl the same way."

"She's just a dancer. I interview all my dancers in the same manner. She's nothing special." I nearly have to choke the words out because even I don't believe them.

Savannah shouldn't be special; she's just another girl we've hired to entertain the guests.

But there's something about her that I can't quite let go of, maybe the fact I'd like a private dance or two and a session alone with her in a suite.

"Tonight, go out for drinks. Get whatever the hell it is out of your system because you need to be focused on work. And then come back tomorrow and be your grumpy, asinine self."

"I have to cover the club tonight. Are you offering to take my shift?"

"No, but you need to find a hot piece of ass and forget about the new girl."

I snort under my breath. In what spare time? He makes it sound easy, and getting girls isn't hard for me, but I don't need my one-night stands showing up where I work. I prefer to keep my private life separate from my job. "I'll get right on that, boss."

I head to my office and crack the seal on the vodka, pouring myself a drink.

What does Nikita know?

Savannah is just another girl, a dancer. She's nothing to me. Sure, she's gorgeous with that long blonde hair and those bright baby-blue eyes, but I'm all about personality, not looks.

I down another shot of vodka, attempting to convince myself that I feel nothing for her.

Nikita has gotten under my skin.

I huff out of my office and onto the main floor. A few customers are seated, sipping their drinks, and watching Bailey on stage.

Savannah hasn't emerged from the dressing room yet, but she has ten more minutes until she's late.

I wander the main floor, keeping an eye on the guests. Since the run-in with the Italians a couple of months ago, we have added security measures. Otello and several of his buddies came in, guns blazing.

Gunfire erupts from all around. Men in suits cover the entrance and exit. They don't bother with masks. They want us to know who they are, and a message will be delivered.

"Where's Nikita?" Otello asks in his thick Italian accent. The man wreaks of vodka like he bathes in it or wears it as a cologne.