THE FIXER

Her marker moves. I watch until it stops and then zoom in. The Colony. It’s a popular Hollywood nightclub. Irrational jealousy still tearing at my throat, I call for a car and take it to the club, flashing a crisp one hundred dollar bill to skip to the front of the line that’s wrapped around the block.

The place is packed with beautiful people everywhere, bodies twining to pulsing music. I search the place for a particular redhead, fully ready to haul her out of there and show her the whip, but when I finally find her, my fury drains.

She’s not with a man.

She’s in a skin-tight red halter dress, sitting with a group of equally beautiful and scantily dressed young women. Probably her friends or roommates from college. They’re out on the town, having a good time, as beautiful young women should. As Sasha should, if she were a normal twenty-three year old.

One who isn’t an oil heiress in the Russian bratva with a hundred criminals after her fortune.

What stops me completely, though, is the smile that lights up her face. The group of them are sitting in a round booth, drinking cosmopolitans and laughing. Sasha appears completely at ease. At home. Her face is open and relaxed-full of life and joy.

It’s so different from the haughty, closed visage she’s given me since the day of our marriage. I’m suddenly ripped by guilt. Not that I think any of this shit is my fault-it’s Igor’s, without a doubt. But I feel sorry for Sasha and the position she’s been put in.

I’m sorry for myself, too, for being saddled with the responsibility of keeping her alive. Her money isn’t enough to sweeten the package. I was doing fine here without it. Ravil’s made millions in real estate, and I’ve started to build my own wealth as well. Nothing like Sasha’s or Ravil’s, but enough for me. If I hadn’t felt such a strong obligation to Igor, such a loyalty, I would’ve told him to find some other sucker.

I find a place to stand near the bar across the room. Somewhere I can watch to make sure Sasha and her friends are safe but where I won’t be noticed by her. I order a shot of Beluga and watch. I’ve been checking the surroundings since I arrived, looking for anything that looks off. Any man with tattoos like mine, anyone watching my wife.

Wife. That word still feels foreign to me.Ccontent © exclusive by Nô/vel(D)ra/ma.Org.

I don’t notice any threats.

A song comes on that makes them all light up with what appears to be a shared memory. There’s shouting and laughter, and they drain their drinks to get up and dance. I have to listen for a moment to recognize it. It’s the dance-mix version of “Chandelier” by Sia.

The young women undulate and move with the music, and their beauty and obvious enjoyment draws attention from the sharks around them. Men move in from all sides.

I grit my teeth but stay where I am. I’ll let her have her fun for now. As long as no one-

Oh, fuck no.

The moment some guy lays his hands on her hips, I’m out of my chair.

SASHA

AFTER DINNER at our favorite taco joint, my friends and I hit a club for dancing. I wear a tiny red dress and stilettos that I’d thrown in my giant purse. Out on the dance floor with my friends, I’m having the time of my life despite the sense of a ticking bomb about to go off.

Maxim hasn’t called or texted, which probably means he’s on his way or is already here. I have zero doubt he’ll catch up to me, which is why I intend to enjoy the hell out of myself until he does.

I’m tipsy, so it takes me a minute to notice that some asshole put his hands on my hips from behind. I’m about to tell him to step back when Maxim suddenly appears in front of me.

It only takes one glance to know he’s pissed. Not irritated, like he is going to throw me over his shoulder and carry me out, but lethally pissed.

I often forget, purposely, that my father’s men are killers.

I literally gulp.

“Get him off you, or his blood will be on your hands.” He speaks in Russian, so only I will understand.

I could elbow the guy away from me, but before the thought even forms, I arrive at a better solution. I surge forward and wrap my arms around the neck of the enemy. Maybe it’s the cocktails talking. Maybe it’s out of a sheer survival instinct. They say women don’t do flight or fight-we tend and befriend. Well, I’m bonding with my executioner.

It’s not a hug. I absolutely mold my body to his, gluing my hips against his legs, riding one of his thighs like a cowgirl on a bull, still undulating to the music. My breasts press against his ribs, my lips brush his neck.

He instantly bands one strong arm around me, his palm splaying at my lower back then dropping lower to cup my ass and help me ride his leg. After a few seconds, I sense the fury in him dissipate. His body softens against mine. He sways to the music. “That’s better,” he murmurs in English.

Thank fuck. I realize I’m trembling, and most of my intoxication has disappeared with the adrenaline. For a moment there, I thought it was me he wanted to throttle. But it wasn’t-it was the dickwad hitting on me.

At least, I hope so. I don’t sense the dangerous aggression in him anymore.

Knowing he’s dangerously possessive of me shouldn’t give me flutters of excitement, but it does. Part of me loves that he showed up to claim me. And I’m probably pushing my luck-I’m definitely pushing my luck, but considering how nice it is to be dancing with him, I don’t want to leave yet.