Where the Sun Hides (Seasons of Betrayal #1) (3 page)

Sliding his finger across the screen, he connected the
call. “Kaz.”

“What have I told you about this?” His father’s voice came
in loud on the stereo of his car. “Your mother named you Kazimir, act like it.”

This wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion, and
probably wouldn’t be the last. Then again, there was very little about him that
his father didn’t take issue with.

“Have you seen to the new storage?”

That was code for: 'Did you make Marcus regret not paying
on time?’ “It’s under control.”

“Good. And the shipment from Dulles?”

“Secured.”

That was the way these things worked. It was one thing to
say that Kaz was a shit son, but no one could ever say that he took his
position in the
Bratva
lightly. Not anymore. This was what he lived and
breathed, the only thing he was sure of lately.

Truthfully, the
Bratva
was the only thing he and
Vasily had in common.

His earliest memories were of Vasily’s role in the
Bratva
.
From the time when he was his brother, Gavrill’s,
sovetnik
, or right
hand, to when he became the acting
Pakhan,
the boss
,
after
Gavrill’s death. Sometimes, Kaz thought Vasily was a better boss than he was a
father—and there was a strong chance that Vasily felt the same way about him.

To say that they didn’t get along outside of their mutual
responsibility to the
Bratva
was an understatement.

“You’re meeting with Ruslan soon, no?” Vasily asked.

Kaz heard it, even if he didn’t want to, the derision in
his father’s tone when he said his brother’s name. For those that didn’t know
the man, they might have missed it, but Kaz had his whole life to study him. He
could practically see the slight curl to his lip that Kaz was sure would be
there if they were in the same room together.

But Kaz never called him out on it, he bit his tongue.

He bit his tongue about a lot of things.

“I am.”

Vasily was quiet for a moment. “Be careful out there. Stay
mindful of where the lines lay.”

He received that warning any time he ventured anywhere near
Brooklyn, although he did go further in from time to time for personal reasons.
Back when he was younger, before he could understand what the
Bratva
meant,
a truce had been called between his father and Alberto Gallucci, head of the
Gallucci Crime Family. The years before it had been wrought with tension, the
animosity escalating to heights of which people hadn’t seen since the
Valentine’s Day massacre.

Even Kaz had felt the unforgiving hand of what an
escalating turf war could do to a city. Sometimes, as he lay awake at night, he
could still feel the heat of the blast on his face.

Hear the sharp cries of alarm as the car that had been not
too far in front of him had blown up into a cloud of black smoke, the ensuing
fire raging for hours.

No, in that regard, Kaz had no interest in testing the
boundaries set before him.

“Yeah,” Kaz said drifting back to the present. “I got it.”

Vasily hung up then, without a goodbye.

Tossing his phone on the passenger seat, Kaz gunned through
traffic, just spotting the glowing blue lights through his tinted windshield
that shone from the club’s exterior.

Sonder had been a pet project of Ruslan’s, something he’d
worked on for the better part of a year before he had even thought to try and
open it—but that was his brother. A perfectionist. He went over the details
numerous times, working through any problems that might arise, and making sure
he had a solution before he ever got started. Ruslan didn’t believe in failure.

There was already a line forming at the doors where Ruslan
and Nathaniel stood like sentinels, ensuring that only those they deemed worthy
stepped foot inside. Despite the late hour—or maybe because of it—the line
stretched down the block.

As he came around the corner, eyes shifted to his car, some
in amazement, some in envy, but he paid none any mind as he parked in the alley
next to the club. Climbing out, he pocketed the key and headed around the side
to the entrance. The thumping bass of the music playing inside echoed out to
the street and alley. Kaz drummed his fingers against his thigh to the beat.

At the front of the club, he didn’t bother to get in the
mile-long line. He walked straight to the doors where his brother and Nathaniel
were standing.

Ruslan caught sight of Kaz and smiled, holding out a hand.
Kaz took it, and his brother brought him in for a one-armed hug before
releasing him just as quickly. He was the only person Kaz would allow to do
that shit.

“
Brat
,” Kaz greeted.

“Brother,” Ruslan replied in English. “Did you finish out
your business?”

“Mostly.”

“Then you deserve a drink.”

Kaz laughed. “The business wasn’t drink-worthy. But talking
to Vasily, after, certainly was.”

Ruslan’s lips drew into a thin line at the mention of their
father. His brother, more than anyone, understood just how exhausting it could
be to even have a simple conversation with Vasily Markovic.

Between the two Markovic brothers, Ruslan took after their
father more than Kaz did in appearance. Ruslan had a good forty pounds of
muscle over Kaz’s lean, tall one-eighty-five. His brother would make the
perfect linebacker, with wide shoulders and a chilling stare ready to silence
anyone who looked at him the wrong way. At six-foot-six, Ruslan had three
inches of height on Kaz. Ruslan sported their father’s squared jaw and thin
lips, while Kaz had taken his mother’s sharp lines and fuller smirk.

Anyone who didn’t know Ruslan always took a step back when
they first met him. He was as intimidating in stature as he was in behavior.
But Kaz did know his brother, and he didn’t find him intimidating at all.

Ruslan put a hand on Kaz’s shoulder and squeezed. Then, he
turned to Nathaniel.

“I will be back after I get my brother a drink,” Ruslan
said.

Nathaniel didn’t look up from the tablet in his hands,
which contained what looked to be names he was scrolling through. The man was
always around. Wherever Ruslan went, Nathaniel was right around the corner. Kaz
didn’t mind him all that much because he stayed out of his business, and
Ruslan’s, for the most part.

“Sure, Rus,” Nathaniel replied.

Kaz gave Nathaniel a nod that was returned as he passed.
The music instantly became louder as the entrance doors of the club opened
under Ruslan’s push. Walking in behind his brother, Kaz took in the floor of
the club. He noted the moving bodies going from the bar to the dance floor, and
between the tables and booths.

The place was packed, but it wasn’t shocking. Ruslan had
created a high-energy atmosphere with constant movement and total sensory
pleasure with the music, lighting, and modern setup. The club scene wasn’t
Kaz’s thing, but he could appreciate the effort and talent it took for his
brother to pull something like this off.

Not to mention, make it a success.

“Looks full,” Kaz said, coming up to his brother’s side.

Ruslan shrugged, but pride radiated in the action. “Trying
to keep it under fire code limit. We don’t need that problem.”

Kaz chuckled. “No, we certainly don’t.”

The brothers came up to a bar that stretched from one wall
of the club all the way down to the other, the background made of mirrors that
reflected the glistening bottles lined up there. Ruslan caught the gaze of one
of the bartenders, and waved two fingers high.

“Two vodka. Neat.”

The bartender nodded, and turned to ready the drinks,
abandoning the one he was already prepping for someone waiting at the bar.
Ruslan spun around to face the crowd and Kaz followed the action.

“So, Vasily was his usual self, yes?” Ruslan asked.

Kaz forced his scowl away. “Same old.”

“The twins’ birthday is in a couple weeks.”

Shit.

Kaz had forgotten about that. Their fifteen-year-old
sisters would be soon turning sixteen. Vasily and Irina, their mother, had
probably planned something for the girls. Vera, their other sister who was one
year older than Kaz, would come in from the city for it.

But Ruslan …

Blyad
.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ruslan said.

“I’ll talk to him—he shouldn’t exclude you with the
family.”

“It’s easier.”

“But you want to go, no?” Kaz asked. “See the twins, and
Vera? Irina, too.”

Ruslan frowned. “It’s been a while for all of them.”

Kaz was aware of just how long it had been since Ruslan had
been allowed to any family event. Vasily kept up appearances well enough, for
show and nothing else, but he made every effort to keep Ruslan away.

He hated that for his brother.

“I’ll talk to him,” Kaz said again, offering nothing more.
 

The brothers turned at the sound of glasses clinking down
on the bartop.

Kaz picked up his drink and tilted it toward his brother. “
Za
zdorov'e, brat
.”

Ruslan returned the sentiment before tipped his own glass
back and emptying it in one go. Kaz took his a little bit slower, wanting to
enjoy the taste of good vodka.

His brother clapped him on the shoulder after he’d
discarded his empty glass to the bar. “Stay and drink. Watch the people. You
never go out unless it’s for the
bratva
. I’ll be around.”

Kaz thought about it, and decided maybe he would stay. He’d
only promised to come and see the club in live action, given how much work his
brother put into it, but he did like the place.

“Find me after you’re done vetting people at the door,” Kaz
said.

Ruslan laughed. “Unless you’ve already found some
krasivaya
kiska
to take home.”

Well, Kaz chose not to respond to that.

But he did grin.

Before long, Kaz was milling through the throng of people,
his gaze sweeping the floor for anyone he might recognize or for some problem
that might show up all of the sudden. It wouldn’t be a surprise if some fool
thought they could try something. He was sure that Ruslan had a dozen different
plans at the ready, in case an issue came up, but the habit was hard to break.

Kaz didn't know how to break his habits.

He stayed to the far walls and corners as he strolled
around the joint. His front to the people, his back to the wall—always. Cowards
had a way about them. They preferred to hit a person from behind. So even if
the club was lively with no threat in sight, Kaz couldn’t help his instincts.

Back to the wall.

Front to room.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a flash of blonde
that drew in his attention. Just as quickly as he saw the woman, she was gone,
swallowed into the dancing, swaying bodies.

Still, he looked again.

S
onder was hot.

And not just a great club that was filled with patrons. No,
hot
.

Violet could barely breathe when the music turned up, and
the people started moving faster around her. She had already tossed back a few
drinks and danced with her friends until her feet hurt in her heels. She still
wasn’t ready to leave. She shrugged off the leather bomber jacket she wore
overtop of her cherry-red, bodycon dress. At the same time, she leaned forward
and took a sip of the green-colored drink Nicole offered. The sour sharpness of
the liquid burned the whole way down, but she barely even noticed.

“Good, right?” Nicole asked.

“So good.”

Violet looked around, trying to find where Amelia had
disappeared to in the swarm of drunk, sweaty bodies. She quickly found her,
right in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by other people with drinks
held high and grinding together.

“I think she forgot about Franco,” Violet mused.

Nicole snorted. “I guess so. Not like that’s a loss. Want
another drink?”

Violet knew she should refuse the offer. As it were, she
felt light on her feet and a little hazy in the head. But she hadn’t risked her
father’s wrath and traveled all the way from Manhattan to Coney Island for
nothing. She planned on having a damn good time, partying it up to celebrate
her twenty-first birthday, and nothing more.

“Yeah, get me another,” Violet said.

Nicole spun on her heel and made a beeline for the bar
again. Violet cut through the people toward where Amelia was still dancing in a
group of strangers. The beat of the music pumping through the venue pulsated
from the floorboards and into the soles of her heels.

Violet loved to dance.

Moving to the rhythm was as easy as breathing. One of the
purest forms of pleasure for her. She had danced since she was young. Ballet,
jazz, contemporary and whatever else her father could put her in to keep her
out of trouble and add to her Gallucci profile. As an adult, she didn’t get to
dance as much as she used to when she was a younger girl.

Focuses changed.

School became more important.

So when she did get the chance to let loose with her friends,
especially in a club that seemed specially designed for people to have the best
time they could, Violet didn’t take it for granted. There was the bar area that
had a number of stools lined up along the front with three bartenders ready to
take orders. A DJ’s booth was set up against one wall with the dance floor
stretching out as far as the eye could see. Soft lights lined the floor, but
not so much that it took away from the setting.

Violet joined her friend to dance as the song switched to a
faster, smoother beat. She linked hands with her friend and ignored how the
swell of people seemed to grow, getting even closer to her and Amelia. The
strangers that Amelia had been dancing with before Violet joined in came back,
one wrapping around her friend while the other tried to slide in behind her.

She wasn’t having too much of that, but she let the guy get
close enough that she could move to the beat with him.

Before long, Nicole was back. She balanced two drinks in
one hand while she sipped on her green concoction from the other. Violet took
one of the two red drinks from Nicole’s outstretched hand, immediately tipping
the drink back for a long pull of the tartly sweet mixture that reminded her of
strawberries but with the harsh kick of rum.

“Slow down,” she heard Nicole say, laughing right after.

Violet paid her no mind. She was already taking a second
drink. Amelia wasn’t far behind, grabbing the drink that Nicole had brought for
her. The music kicked up again, lights flickered, and Violet was lost to the
visceral sensation of the club’s atmosphere.

There was no mob boss’s daughter here.

No
Italiano principessa.

She was just another face in the crowd.

No one could possibly understand how precious that was to
her.

Violet leaned forward, away from the man she was dancing
with when he tried once again to kiss the back of her neck. She didn’t mind
dancing or flirting with him, but she wasn’t up to letting the guy think he was
taking her out to his car, or wherever.

Unfortunately, the fool had a handful of her wavy blonde
hair wrapped in his fist and he tugged her right back in place. A faint sting
radiated over her scalp from his pull, but Violet’s senses—diluted with
alcohol—was numbed to the pain.

“Back off,” she said, turning to push her hand against the
man’s stomach.

His lips pulled into a smirk and he chuckled, but
thankfully, let her go.

“A tease, then?” he asked.

Violet narrowed her gaze, refusing to dignify that with a
response. Why did men automatically think because a woman rejected their
advances, that woman was suddenly playing games?

“Go find someone else to feel up,” Violet told the guy.
“I’ve had enough.”

He took a step toward her, and Violet forced herself to
stay in place and not back up. She gave a little sigh in relief when he
shrugged her off and walked on past into the rest of the dancing people.

It was only then that Violet realized she had lost her
friends.

Shit
.

She quickly scanned the patrons, searching for Nicole and
Amelia. Between several more drinks, songs, and random strangers wanting to
dance, the girls must have gotten separated. Pushing through the faceless
strangers, Violet tried clearing her thoughts enough to resemble being sober.

Drunk and lost was not a good look on a woman.

Violet scanned the people at the bar, and didn’t recognize
the backs of the people or the dresses she knew her friends were wearing. She
was just about to turn and go back onto the dance floor, but a buzz coming from
inside her small clutch stopped her.

She pulled out her phone, and sighed at the name lighting
up the screen.

Nicole’s message scrolled across the touch screen:
Near
the entrance. Help.

Violet shoved her phone back into the clutch and changed
directions toward the front of the club. She found Nicole and Amelia together,
but one was looking a hell of a lot worse for wear than the other. Nicole was
holding onto their friend, and pushing the hair out of Amelia’s eyes, trying to
talk to her.

Amelia wasn’t responding all that well by the looks of it.

Violet knew they had all drank quite a bit, but not that
much.

“What happened?” Violet asked, bending down to help
straighten Amelia’s short dress.

Nicole huffed as she forced a slurring, confused Amelia to
lean against her side. “I don’t know. One minute we were laughing, I danced
with a guy and turned my back on her, and the next …”

“She was like this?”

“She was on the floor and some guy was laughing as he tried
to pick her up,” Nicole said, scowling.

Violet shuddered at her friend’s implication. “She was fine
before?”

“A little drunk. We all are.”

True enough.

“Did she take anything?” Violet asked.

It wouldn’t be such a shock if that’s what Amelia had done.
They weren’t entirely innocent. Sometimes, they experimented with different
things, but they were always careful about it and stayed together.

Nicole shook her head. “She would have said something.
Someone might have dropped something on her. Can we just get her out of here
before something else happens?”

That sounded like a good idea.

Violet moved forward, grabbing Amelia’s arm and helping
Nicole to move their friend away from the wall. It wasn’t easy, considering
Amelia seemed to have the balance of a baby that couldn’t walk.

“You girls need some help?” came a voice from behind them.

Violet glanced back at the person who had asked the
question. It was the same fool from earlier, who had tried kissing her neck
after she’d told him not to. He had “bad” written all over him—and not in a
good kind of way.

“No, we’re—”

Violet’s words cut off when someone slammed into Nicole
from the other side of their three-person chain. She went sprawling to the
floor, along with her friends. Above the music, people, and someone’s
apologies, she heard what sounded like the crunch of glass.

“Shit,” Violet muttered, reaching for Amelia.

Nicole was doing the same, but a thick streak of red
dripped down her arm, and she had tears in her eyes. “Someone dropped a glass,”
her friend said in explanation.

It looked pretty bad—deep.

Chances were, Nicole needed to get that checked out.

Great
.

Like Nicole could read her mind, she said, “Let’s just
worry about getting Amelia out of here, okay?”

Violet nodded, and the two got Amelia back on her feet and
moving toward the door again.

Unfortunately, a bull of a man stepped in front of them,
stopping the girls entirely. His thick, tall build forced Violet to look up at
gray eyes and a scowling face. He pointed at Amelia.

“What’s wrong with that one?” he asked.

Violet’s mouth clamped shut.

Nicole spoke instead. “Nothing, she’s drunk.”

“She would have been escorted out already,” the man said.

The hint of an accent colored up the man’s tone, making his
words sharp and quick. She didn’t recognize it right away, not with his first
question. But with his second, his r’s sort of rolled off his tongue, and that
was when Violet knew exactly what accent the man sported.

She had only heard it a couple of times in her life, and
never firsthand.

Russian
.

“She’s on something, yes?” the man asked.

“No,” Violet argued. “And we’re leaving.”

“You’re not leaving yet. I won’t have the cops showing up
here because some girl got mixed up and found herself in the hospital after
being at my club.”

Violet straightened, panic swelling in her throat. “We’re
taking her—”

He pointed at Nicole. “She is bleeding.”

Thank you, Captain Obvious.

Violet really just wanted to get the hell out of there.

“Can we just go?” Nicole asked, her voice betraying her
panic, too.

“Yes,” the man said.

Violet let out the breath she’d been holding.

“Shortly,” he added with a cold smile.

Wonderful
.

The man jerked his head to the side and said, “Take them to
my office, and we’ll go from there.”

Violet didn’t get the chance to ask what he meant before
someone was grabbing her arm from behind and separating her from her friends.
She chose not to fight against the bull-like man wearing all black as he pulled
her along through the curious crowd that had suddenly quieted and was watching
the show.