Obsessive Boss (Bratva Brothers 4)

Besides, the club gets a portion of my cut, and if I'm not making enough with a single client who has paid for my time all night, it will look suspicious.

"A regular?" Anton asks. His brow furrows.

"I don't believe so," I say. There's no sense in lying. He can see it on the cameras tomorrow if he hasn't already gotten a glance at Kingston while at the club.

Anton locks the door and glances me over. "You must have made quite the impression."

I slip out of my shoes and drop my clutch near the front door. "Isn't that the point?" I smirk and spin around, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him close against me.

His breath tickles my neck as he wraps his arms around my waist, keeping me tight against him. "Tell me what you were really doing in my office, kitten."

I want to pull away, run and keep a steady distance between us, but that space will only bring about more questions. I don't want to destroy what I've accomplished if Anton trusts me.

"You're right. I was lying to you," I whisper.

He tilts my jaw, his eyes boring into mine. "Tell me the truth." His words are a command, and I exhale a soft breath.

"The girls were talking about what they make each night. How they have to pay the club for dancing, and I didn't believe them when they told me they only paid you ten percent."

"I'll bet Bailey told you that," Anton says.

Bailey does seem to be the most vocal of the bunch, causing as much trouble as possible. Being the new girl, her harassment is generally aimed more at me than anyone else. However, I do wonder who she bothered before I was hired.

"Is it true?" I ask, staring up with wide eyes.

I had heard the girls discussing their salaries and how they couldn't hide any money from the owners. That's why they're not allowed to wear knee-high boots because they pay a portion of their tips to the club.

My percentage was a hell of a lot more than ten percent. Not that it matters, anything I make from dancing goes directly to the bureau. Well, anything that isn't spent while undercover. It's not like I can carry around my credit cards.

"Don't ever lie to me again," Anton says. His hand remains firm on my jaw and gradually is guided lower.

"I swear I won't." The words spill out before I realize the promise that I've made will inevitably be broken.

It shouldn't matter. What we have isn't real, except I don't want it to end. The thought of being pulled off the investigation burns me up inside.

I inhale a sharp breath, expecting him to cut off my air supply, but his hand doesn't fall around my neck. He pulls me closer, crashing his lips over mine, demanding what he wants, but not in words, instead, in actions.

Anton's phone buzzes in his pants pocket. "I should get that," he whispers between kisses. "It's late. Whoever is calling, it has to be important."

He answers the call, putting the phone to his ear. I try not to stare at him and take a few steps backward, gesturing for him to follow me into the bedroom.

Anton stops walking, and there's a flicker behind his gaze, a fire sparked with recognition of betrayal.

"I see," Anton says to the caller. I can't hear what's being said on the opposite end of the line, but the confidence from Dalia about protecting my cover is sinking.

He charges at me, the phone abandoned as he shoves a gun at my forehead. I didn't even see his weapon on his hip or the act of him retrieving it, but I hear the safety click off.

"You're a fucking fed," Anton snarls.