Obsessive Boss (Bratva Brothers 4)

ONE

Savannah

I'm a virgin all over again, except this time, my first is being undercover. And it's not a little job. Supervisory Special Agent Barrett Kingston is sending me deep, to infiltrate the bratva.

And if that's not complicated enough, I have to make sure that I steer clear of Madisyn Carter, former FBI and a colleague of mine.

I'm a bundle of nervous energy wrapped in a neat little bow with a shy smile. I swallow down the anxiety and bury it as deep as I can because I can't screw this up.

The FBI higher-ups have demanded that we provide evidence against Mikhail Barinov and his crime organization. No easy task, but I'm not dealing with the Pakhan. My focus is on one of the men running the club. My mark is Anton Petrova.

I stroll up to Club Sage in a short black skirt and bright red top that matches my lipstick. It's not my usual attire, but I'm dressed to play the part and for my interview with Anton.

Yanking open the heavy door, I see that the club's interior is much darker than the outside, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the intense change.

"Can I help you?" a man with a thick Russian accent asks. He glances me up and down. It's not Anton. I've seen his picture enough times and memorized who I'm targeting to realize that this man is just another member of the bratva. The man at the door is nothing more than a glorified bodyguard.

"I have an interview," I say.

The place smells of fresh paint and wood. The interior is shiny, and the stage appears new. At first glance, the club has just opened, but the outside of the building shows its age. Something must have happened here to require such an extensive remodel.

There's no mention of it in the FBI or the newspapers. No report on the news signifying a remodel or the reason for one.

"Wait here," the man says. He tromps down the hall and out of view. A minute later, he returns. There's not an ounce of friendliness or warmth in his tone. "Follow me."

I oblige and accompany him down the long, dark hallway and then around the bar to the back. It's a small office, no windows and only one door.

"Hi, I'm Savannah," I say, introducing myself and handing him my resume.

"Thank you, Dmitri." The Russian who escorted me to the office shuts the door behind me on his way out. "I'm Anton." He drops the resume to the desk, uninterested in the paper and the information it contains.

I press my lips together. He hasn't gestured or told me to sit, so I stand opposite his desk, my hands folded in front of me.

"You dance?" Anton glances me over, his gaze scrutinizing every inch of my clothed skin.

"I've dabbled," I say. Agent Kingston insisted before this operation that I take a pole dancing class and train with an instructor. They weren't my finest hours, but I've improved quite a bit since the beginning. Enough that I should be able to pull off dancing. It's not like I'm fibbing that I've had years of experience.

"I need to see what you've got. Dance," Anton gestures at me and points to the small space in the room. He's not looking for a lap dance. He wants me to show him what I can do on my own.

My pulse quickens, and I place my purse on the nearby chair. I turn with my back to Anton and sway my hips, letting him stare at my ass while I work the top button on my red blouse free.

I spin around to face him, my shirt giving him a glimpse of my push-up bra, but I haven't shown all of it yet. I'll be wearing far less on stage, but he hasn’t asked me to strip down. However, I'll probably be expected to do so during the interview, so I may as well give him a show.

The man isn't half bad-looking. Okay, if I'm to be blunt, Anton is hot. His dark brown eyes wander down my body. His hair is thick and dark. Dare say, I want to run my fingers through it. But I refrain.

He's in a buttoned-up suit, giving no indication of what's underneath his outfit. I'd like to undress him, rip his crisp white cotton shirt open and grab him by his tie, dragging him toward me and down onto his knees.

But I doubt that he'll let me dominate him.

He's the kind of man who exudes power and revels in being in control. Just imagining what it would be like in bed with him, makes my cheeks burn and helps me get into my role as a dancer for his club.

I use the small space and own it like I belong here because this can't fall apart if I want to climb my way up the bureau ladder.

The wooden desk sits between us, and I use it as a prop while dancing. I don't bother to ask for permission before climbing atop it, my platform heels allowing me to clomp against the wood. Thankfully, the room has tall ceilings.

Anton stares at me and leans back in his leather chair with a smug grin. I'm sure he can look up my skirt and see the thong I'm wearing. I expected that he'd require me to dance as part of the interview, and I wanted to be prepared.

I have to land this job. If he doesn't give it to me, I can't go sulking back to the FBI that I failed the most basic aspect of undercover work, getting in with the bad guys.

I sway my hips, and my hands smooth over my body, undoing the rest of the buttons on my blouse. I turn my back to Anton and slowly inch the shirt over my shoulders. My best moves are teasing and seductive. There's no pole in this office. I have to use what I know.

I run my fingers through my long blonde tresses and let my hand wander down across my bra as I let the red shirt fall to the floor. I won't wear a shirt and blouse when I dance for the club. I'll be in nothing more than a G-string and bikini top.

My black skirt wraps around my waist, and I dance and unclasp the clip holding the material together before letting it glide down to the floor.

Anton shifts in his seat and bites down on his bottom lip. The tips of his ears are bright red. Does he always get aroused by the entertainment? Or is it me?

The office door swings open without so much as a knock. Am I supposed to continue? As if there is music being played, I continue swaying and dancing.

Anton clears his throat and motions for me to get down. "I've seen enough."

"I'll chat with you after you're done," the gentleman who barged into the office says.

I recognize him from the background that I was forced to memorize. He's Nikita Krylova, one of Mikhail's men and the club's manager.

He retreats from the small office and shuts the door while I climb down from the desk and retrieve my clothes off the floor. I'm still in my matching scarlet panties and bra.

"The pay is shit. My other girls get priority on the main platform. You'll have to earn your place on the stage," Anton says. "The club takes fifty percent. You have to wear the clothes we provide and no sassing the patrons or giving any of the employees attitude. Also, no taking on private clients after hours. Are you still interested?"

"When do I start?" I ask.