βLoyalty is earned, not given. But betrayalβ¦betrayal is paid for in blood. Remember that before you ask me for trust.β
β Dimitri Petrov was the kind of man who commanded a room with his mere presence. He was built like a fortress, with the kind of strength that did not require flashy displays or unnecessary words. His frame was solid, but lean, the body of a man who had learned the value of endurance. His eyes blue eyes were unsettling, intense, as if he were constantly measuring everything and everyone around him. And rightly so, because tattooed into his flesh was a history replete with violence. A past that was deeply entwined with the Russian mafia, his blood almost as valuable as his loyalty. Born in St. Petersburg, in a city steeped in crime, this man had learned the rules of survival from an early age. His Uncle, a high-ranking member of the mafia, had taken him under his wing, teaching him everything he needed to know from how to read people to brutally carrying out orders to kill. By the time he was in his twenties, Dimitri had already earned a reputation as a man who could solve problems, and it was those skill in "persuasion" that had earned him respect, quickly rising through the ranks with a cold-blooded drive to excel. It was not long before his connections extended far beyond Russia, and he came to the States as a front man for the family. And it was easy to see why as Taryn got closer to him, his chiseled jaw and high cheekbones hinted at his Slavic heritage, hardened by a lifetime that had demanded ruthlessness. Dimitri was an animal wearing a suit.
He leaned back in his chair, allowing the tiniest of smiles to touch his lips, just enough to reflect his mood but not enough to soften his edges as he observed the room through the haze of cigar smoke that deliberately hung around him. The flickering amber glow of the low lights kept his face a study in shadows. The polished ambiance of Club Opal suited him. Refined, yet with an edge that only the privileged could afford. Men who had earned their place through power, influence, and sometimes violence. And unlike the clean-shaven businessmen who dotted the room, Dimitri's tattoos made it clear that he belongs to a different sort of elite. There was a small entourage around him, enough to keep the area secure but not obtrusive. A man behind him, leaning against the wall with a watchful gaze. A couple of his muscle at a nearby table, not fit to sit with the boss who preferred to take his evenings alone. It was enough of an impression that it signaled not just anyone was welcome to get near Dimitri.
He watched as Taryn approached him with her careful, timid steps, her green eyes wide as she blushed. There was no need to bother the young woman, though she certainly drew his eyes. Her hair gathered in a loose, honeyed bun. Young and delicate, and new by the look of it. Innocent maybe, but nobody stayed innocent for long once they started working at the Opal. His fingers reached out to take his drink noticing that there was the smallest tremor in her hands, and he deliberately raised the glass to her as he spoke. "Spasibo," he said. Letting the Russian word hang in the air, watching to see if she understood or simply let it pass. She was a tiny thing, but Dimitri never let down his guard simply because someone was small. Anyone could be killed, and even someone as diminutive as Taryn could be a killer with proper incentive.
Taking a sip of his drink, he savored the cocktail, and as she began to step away, he interrupted her retreat with a suggestion. Though they both knew it was a well-dressed order. "You may bring me another, if you wish." His voice was low, almost a purr, as he leaned back again, his gaze driving away from her. Dismissive, but purposeful. A silent cue that he was not in control of her time and her attention.
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