Reckless Heir (Underworld Kings)

Konstantin and Arseny glanced back at me as we made our way past the main part of the nightclub and into the back hallways that lead to the offices and staff rooms. I refrained from rolling my eyes at how eager and excited they looked. Hell, this is probably going to be the most action they’d gotten in quite a while.

Because if one thing the Desolation Russians did well, it was party. Unlimited amounts of booze, drugs, tits and ass were always in abundance.

Konstantin stopped at a closed door and looked at Arseny, then glanced over his shoulder at me. He faced forward wearing a stupid fucking grin and gave three hard wraps on the door. A second later it was being pulled open.

I wasn’t surprised to see the room filled with Bratva soldiers, high-ranking underworld officials, and females in every shade and shape.

The noise level was growing louder with every passing second, a deafening roar once I stepped inside. Shouts of congratulations filled the room, coupled with slaps on my back.

“Ah, my friend Nikolai,” Kirill said, his voice slurred from too much vodka, his Russian barely legitimate for how much he’d had to drink.

I glowered at him at the “friend” reference.

“You’ll tell us how rough and hard you fuck that Italian bitch, yeah?” he slurred out and tipped his head back to laugh. “Come back and tell us how much she bleeds and cries.”

I snapped. I turned on him and gripped his throat, tightening my hand so hard his face went from red to purple. I pulled him close and inhaled deeply, my nostrils flaring as I took in his wide eyes, his startled expression, and the stench of fear pouring off him.

Good, the bastard had reason to be terrified right now.

“Say it again,” I gritted out loud enough only he heard me. Although I realized the commotion in the room had lessened, felt all the gazes locked on me, I didn't care who heard or saw what was about to go down.

“Go on Kirill. Fucking say those words about my soon-to-be wife once more.” His eyes widened and he shook his head, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to get out the words.

I squeezed his throat tighter, letting him know that I was the one to control the situation. I was the stronger one. I leaned in another inch until our noses were nearly touching and snarled out in Russian, “if you ever fucking say anything about her again, I’ll cut out your tongue, grill it up, and feed it to Dmitry’s dog. Do you understand?” He struggled even more to breathe. “Tell me you understand. Nod your fucking head,” I finished off in English.

He nodded instantly, his face getting a deeper shade of purple, his struggles becoming less. I held his stare for another second before finally loosening my hold enough that he could suck in a deep breath.

“Yes. Yes I understand. My apologies. I meant no disrespect.”

I let him go fully, feeling satisfaction when he sank to the ground and started rubbing his neck, gasping and struggling to breathe. Bodies moved away from him, but no one said shit.

A red indentation of my hand already marred his throat, a thick collar that would be a bruise and a reminder tomorrow. I smoothed my hands down my jacket and looked around the room, noticing all the assholes glance away quickly.

“Well, “I said in a bored tone. “If this is a fucking party, then let’s fucking party. “

A few men cleared their throats and shifted on their feet as their clear hesitation poured out of them. I got off on the reputation of being “trigger happy” or having a short fuse, and of breaking fucking bones if anyone offended me. It made others remember to tread careful. To fear me.

But after a few seconds of me not losing my shit again the music was turned up and the voices started to rise again. The stripers, or hell, prostitutes more than likely, started grinding on the men and taking their clothes off. I could hear hands slapping ass cheeks, and saw hands reaching for any and all available female fresh flesh.

I knew before the night was over there would be condoms littering the ground, clothes scattered across couches, and the stench of booze, sweat, and dirty sex filling the air to a nauseating level.

One of the girls sauntered up to me but I gave her a firm shake of my head and she made a U-turn, getting snagged around the waist by one of the other men right away. I scowled as I pushed a few guys out of my way and walked over to where Dmitry sat on a leather chair. He had a glass of whiskey in one hand, and a thick cigar in the other.

When I was in front of him I glowered down at the way he smirked. The bastard thought this shit was funny?

“How are you liking the soiree?”

Fucker.

He knew I wasn’t into this kind of shit, and had no doubt, especially by the cocky look on his face, that he found it hilarious that I was annoyed by this bachelor party.

When I didn’t respond, Dmitry exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke and chuckled. I lowered myself down and sat on the other chair beside him.

Long seconds passed before he said, “never took you for the protective type.” His voice was low, his focus on the crowd.

“She’s an extension of me,” I said flatly.

“Hmm,” he responded and I made a gruff noise in my throat of irritation.