What the fuck was he doing here again?
Maybe he’d rethought that whole “I’m just here for information” thing. Sergei knew what he’d seen—there was more in Maisano’s eyes than just a need to know what had happened three weeks ago.
Then a memory flickered through his mind of grabbing the cash out of Maisano’s hand.
Shit. Had he come back for his money?
Well, that could get… awkward…
Sergei quickly focused on entertaining the men below him. Maisano hadn’t tried to interrupt him so far, hadn’t made a scene, so maybe he’d wait for Sergei to finish here. He’d waited last time. Of course, last time, he hadn’t been there to collect money he’d been unexpectedly relieved of.
Well, whatever had brought him back, he could wait until Sergei had finished his business unless he wanted to be escorted out by grizzly-sized bouncers. And hopefully that would be enough time for Sergei to figure out a strategy for dealing with him.
As he danced, Sergei ground his teeth, hoping his customers were focused on his body and not his expression. He didn’t like Maisano coming here, especially for the second time tonight. This was his turf. Mafiosi only came here when it was business, and—
Fuck. What if it was business? What if he knew who and what Sergei was, and he’d come here for that?
“You took my money,” he could hear the bastard snarling, “so now you’re going to earn it.”
Son of a bitch. How many times had he told himself he’d never, ever give the Mafia an advantage over him in a business dealing? He should’ve left the money in Maisano’s hand. He’d had plenty of control over that conversation, and still, fucking with the nervous wise guy had been irresistible. Stupid, but irresistible. At worst, he’d stolen from him. At best, he’d screwed him—taking far more than offered and giving back much less than demanded.
Shiiit.
The song changed. The regulars knew what that meant—the table dance was about to become a lap dance for whoever ponied up the most money and got Sergei’s attention. Three guys waved twenty dollar bills at him, but they lowered them when two others started flashing hundreds.
Ignoring Maisano’s looming presence as best he could, Sergei grinned down at each of them, eyebrows up and head tilted. That all you got, baby?
More money came out. They eyed each other, digging into their wallets. Each time one brought out a hundred, the other did too. Sergei’s favorite kind of night—when he had two men equally willing to pay up, and they happened to be sitting right next to each other.
The first was hot—probably mid forties, with a few lines and some gray around the edges. A wedding ring too. Bet his wife had enough expensive cars and trinkets to turn a blind eye to his extracurricular activities. The other was older. Early sixties, at least. He may have looked like Hugh Hefner, but he also appeared to be loaded like the Hef, so… fine.
Sergei plucked the money out of each of their hands, and leaned back to drop it in the center of the table. The bouncers would make sure nobody tried to grab it.
Then he stood over his two customers. “Turn your chairs. Face each other.”
They exchanged wary glances, but did as they were told. As Sergei lowered himself onto the edge of the table, a large shadow moved in his peripheral vision, and he glanced up to see Maisano standing just a few feet away. He had a bottle in his hand—water, maybe?—and stared at him over it.
Sergei tore his gaze away from that unsettling presence. He had work to do.
He sat in Hef’s lap, straddling him, and Sergei hoped the man’s cardiologist was okay with whatever happened when he started rubbing his groin on his chest. Sergei wrapped his legs around him, then leaned back so his head was in the married guy’s lap. With practiced agility, he slid from one man to the other, teasing each in turn and making sure both got their money’s worth.
As he moved from Hef to the married man, he glanced up.
Maisano was watching.
Intently.
If he’d come here for money, he was at least distracted for the moment—his lips were apart, and his eyes were round.
Staring right back at Maisano, Sergei ground his ass against the married man’s rock hard dick. Over the pulsing music, he heard the guy beneath him whisper, “oh God.”
Sergei tilted his head back, making sure his lips brushed his ear, and murmured, “You haven’t had any attention in a while, have you?” He wiggled his ass, and the man groaned. “Such a shame.” He ground harder, and then turned around and did the same on Hef’s lap, squeezing the married man’s waist with his ankles as he made Hef whimper and moan.
From the sidelines, someone else breathed, “Holy shit.” He had his hand over his own crotch. Fine, let him feel himself, as long as he didn’t whip out here in the lounge.
Sergei got them all—the two men paying him and the half dozen watching—riled up and panting, and then he stopped, lifting himself to his feet. “So who wants that private dance?”