Obsessive Boss E-Book

Willow Fox

• Herausgeber: Slow Burn Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

We’ve remodeled Club Sage, and I’m just about to burn the place down to the ground.
When Savannah comes looking for a job, I hire her on the spot. We’re desperate for dancers, and she’s stunning. How could she not be perfect for the job?
Don’t mix business and pleasure—the advice I should have heeded from my mentor and boss, Nikita Krylova.
I let a federal agent into the workplace.
Savannah has access to the books and the money we launder.
I’m screwed if my boss Nikita or the head of the bratva, Mikhail, discovers my little indiscretion.
But they’re bound to find out since Mikhail’s better half, Madisyn, is former FBI. She worked with Savannah Blakely. Do I come clean and accept that I’m a dead man or bury the truth and a few bodies before anyone finds out?

Leseprobe

OBSESSIVE BOSS

BRATVA BROTHERS BOOK FOUR

WILLOW FOX

Copyright © 2022 by Willow Fox

All rights reserved.

Edited by Marla VanHoy

Cover Design by MiblArt

V2

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CONTENTS

About this Book

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue Part 1

Epilogue Part 2

Giveaways, Free Books, and More Goodies

About the Author

Also by Willow Fox

ABOUT THIS BOOK

We’ve remodeled Club Sage, and I’m just about to burn the place down to the ground.

When Savannah comes looking for a job, I hire her on the spot. We’re desperate for dancers, and she’s stunning. How could she not be perfect for the job?

Don’t mix business and pleasure—the advice I should have heeded from my mentor and boss, Nikita Krylova.

I let a federal agent into the workplace.

Savannah has access to the books and the money we launder.

I’m screwed if my boss Nikita or the head of the bratva, Mikhail, discovers my little indiscretion.

But they’re bound to find out since Mikhail’s better half, Madisyn, is former FBI. She worked with Savannah Blakely. Do I come clean and accept that I’m a dead man or bury the truth and a few bodies before anyone finds out?

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.

TWO

Anton

I'd been in my office all morning, interviewing, and only one girl showed up, a sexy blonde with the brightest blue eyes I've ever seen, Savannah Parker.

I would have hired her on the spot based on her looks and the set of tits and ass on the girl.

But I figured that I might as well make her dance, and boy, am I glad that I did. That was quite a show, and it was entirely for me.

Until my boss, Nikita, decided to burst right in without knocking. Couldn't he pretend to give a shit? The last thing I want is the new girl thinking that I'm below Nikita, even if he is my superior.

The man runs the club.

He doesn't own it. Mikhail, the head of the bratva, owns the business. But he's too busy with other matters to run every enterprise that he's involved himself in, which works out well for me. I get a portion of the proceeds brought in from the club, while Mikhail gets to launder money. It's a win-win for everyone.

I loosen my tie and stand. Savannah has already found her way out of the office. She has orders to return when we open this evening. Until then, she doesn't need to hang around. I don't need her discovering the shit we do around here.

I open the office door and head up the stairs for Nikita's private office. He's got a large office with an exceptional view that overlooks the dance floor with one-way glass. Even after the remodel, he kept the same floor plan and layout. His office is three times the size of mine. Although, in his defense, I spent quite a bit more time on the floor with the ladies and patrons.

Someone has to make sure the place is running smoothly, and although Nikita is the manager, I mingle with the guests, help when the floor is crowded with drink orders, and keep the place operating smoothly.

I ought to run the club, but I have no hard feelings for Nikita. We're brothers.

Unlike Nikita, who barges into my office, I knock before entering.

"It's open," Nikita says.

I step into his office and close the door behind myself.

He glances up from behind his desk, his pen poised in his hand, but he stops writing. "Cute girl you had in here earlier. Did you hire her?" Nikita asks.

"I did," I say and quirk a grin.

"Quite the dancer. Is that how you interview all your employees? Because I'd love to be part of the interview process."

"Shut up."

Nikita shrugs, not the least bit offended. "I'm taking off early tonight. I assume you can close for me."

He's not asking.

"You got it," I say. I shouldn't ask, but I can't stop myself from wanting to know if it's because of his new flame. "Do you have plans with Lucy?"

He's married, and while he doesn't strike me as a family man, the marriage was initially to protect Lucy and her son. But I think he's always harbored feelings for her, even when he hated her. Besides, the man can barely keep his claws off her.

"No, she's going shopping with Hannah."

"Better keep her on a tight leash," I joke.

"I'm not worried. Hannah is shopping for a wedding dress." Nikita flashes his wedding band at me. "The way I see it, I got off cheap."

"Careful, brother. Marrying her at the courthouse could come back to bite you in the ass. If she hears you talking like that, she'll be asking for a do-over wedding somewhere exotic and expensive."

While Nikita and I aren't blood brothers, we're both members of the bratva. We might as well be blood because our ties are just as strong.

"Don't go putting any ideas into her head," he warns.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Nikita shuffles a few pages around on his desk. He glances up at me once more. "Did you run a background check on the new hire?"

"I did not." I wince at the realization that I was supposed to vet her qualifications before I offered the job. "Is that a problem? We're short two dancers." We're not down several more because Nikita paid them during renovations to ensure that when the club reopened, they would be ready to work.

Nikita glances at his watch as if that will indicate how long a background check will take.

Days.

We don't have days.

I'm down to a couple of hours and no more interviews for the afternoon. Besides, even if I had a half dozen girls lined up for the job, I wouldn't be able to run background on them, either.

"Just make sure her references check out. Did she strip at another club?" Nikita asks.

"I should probably look at her resume," I say, admitting that I hadn't even given it a cursory glance during the interview. I was too hung up on the cute blonde.

I clear my throat. I'm not usually this unprofessional when hiring dancers. Typically, I have more time between the interview and hiring them.

"You think?" Nikita is more than a bit snippy. "Begin the process on the background check, but we'll let her start work tonight."

* * *

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.

He shoves a gun under my chin as two men blast the place with bullets. "Upstairs," I say. I don’t flinch or cower. I want to warn Nikita and his new flame that trouble is coming, but there isn't time.

"Best you run home and warn the family our fight isn't over," Otello says. He lowers his gun but doesn't shoot me. He has the opportunity. They could kill the dancers or the patrons, but they've let them flee out the side exit like they want them shuttling out that door while they stand guard, blasting the walls and tables, the bar and stage with bullets. Shrapnel flies in every direction, slicing my arm.

I heed Otello's warning. I get out while I still can, breathing, and my heart is beating. The Italians aren't known for their kindness or for letting men live, especially their enemies.

The parking lot is fraught with screams and fear. A fury of panic, as people jump into their vehicles and blare their horns, trying to cut each other off. Everyone wants to get away as quickly as possible.

I grab my keys from my pocket. My phone is in my office. I'm not going back for it. I jump into my vehicle, start the engine, and pull out of the parking lot. I head straight for the compound. I need to see Mikhail, the Pakhan, and tell him what the hell is going on at the club. They'll want to send reinforcements and backup, assuming it's not too late.

The building stills smells of fresh paint. The wood floors have been refinished and the interior redesigned and remodeled. But my nostrils tingle with the smell of gunpowder, and a chill runs down my spine, while there is no imminent danger tonight.

The additional guards at all entrances and exits keep the building secure. We have a new surveillance system that records everything on-site and sends a copy to the cloud for storage. Behind the bar, is a silent alarm that notifies the compound and Mikhail's men if anything happens.

Next time, we'll be prepared. But I hope there isn't a next time, that the war between the Italians and Russians is over for good.

Savannah struts out of the dressing room in a pair of silver lace-up pumps. They sparkle and match the sexy little outfit that she's wearing.

Is that one of our outfits? I can't recall a girl wearing it before, at least not as well as Savannah. That girl is a fucking goddess.

Her hair is tied back, and she doesn't glance at me as she stalks her way onto the floor and steps onto the smaller platform. Bailey or one of the other girls must have told her where she was positioned on stage.

We're not solely a strip club. If we were, it would be against the law. There's a 60/40 rule that any adult business must devote no more than 40% of its square footage to adult entertainment. We bend the rules. Greasing the right men helps them turn a blind eye. Mikhail had discussed making changes during the renovations, but it was decided to keep the same layout. Guests like to feel at home, and we have repeat clientele who choose our establishment over others.

Her platforms click over the wooden floorboards, and even with the pulse-pounding music, I swear I can hear and feel the beat of her shoes over the floor. She climbs onto the small stage and begins her dance.

I want to watch, mesmerized by everything about her. I stare at her a little too long, and she glances at me, offering a coy smile. She's a vixen. There's no way she's shy or new at dancing. The woman owns the stage by how her hips sway and she grabs hold of the pole. She's outshining the regular girls, who are used to the constant onslaught of attention from the patrons.

They're going to hate her. She's not playing fair or sharing attention. Though it's not her fault she's new, the men like fresh meat. And even though we're reopening now, she's still new blood on the dance floor. Our patrons tend to be regulars, and while they might have been frequenting other establishments until we reopened, one look at Savannah and I swear they're as hooked as I am.

I head in the opposite direction, for my office. I swear I need a cold shower and a stiff drink—a distraction.

I bide my time for most of the night in my office. I should be on the floor, greeting guests and ensuring everyone is happy. But I've heard no complaints, and I'm sure someone working the floor will find me if it is necessary.

"Come in," I say. If it were Nikita, he'd have barged in without thinking twice.

Savannah stands at the door. She's no longer in her silvery sequin attire, making it easier for me to look at her without my jaw hitting the floor. "What can I do for you?" I ask, placing my pen down on the desk.

"I'm new to the area," Savannah says. "I was hoping you might recommend someplace I could grab a late bite to eat?"

"At this hour?" I glance at my watch and stand. "Are any of the other girls accompanying you?" I don't like the thought of her wandering the streets of New York after two in the morning.

"I doubt it," she says and glances down at her feet.

Standing, I grab my suit coat off the back of my chair and slide it over my shoulders. "I'll go with you," I say.

"You don't have to do that—"

"I don't have to, but I am," I say. I shut off the lights in the office and lock the door. My hand falls to her lower back as I accompany her down the hallway and toward the back exit.

The club is closed for the night. The girls are heading out to their cars. Dmitri is the last to leave, with orders to lock up the place after I hit the road.

"Did you drive here?" I ask as we head out into the parking lot. I only take note of Dmitri's vehicle and my own. The other spaces are empty. The girls had just piled out together in unison. Savannah should be trying to befriend them, not the boss.

"I don't have a car," Savannah says.

"How do you get around town?"

"Subway, same as everyone else." She points in the direction of the station.

"It's fourteen blocks. You aren't walking to the subway." She's lucky the train runs all night, the perk of being a New Yorker. The city doesn't sleep. I hit the button to unlock the doors on my SUV. "Get in."

She sighs and relents, climbing into the front passenger seat. "Thanks. You can just drop me off at the station."

"I thought you were hungry."