Fatal Bonds

Chapter One

Lindsey

“You’ve never been to the Dungeon?” Claire asks, green eyes wide. 

Her freckled face looks stricken in the golden streetlights as we stand in the long line of people waiting to get into the nightclub. It extends around the corner of the redbrick highrise, reinforcing the reason for her disbelief—the club is clearly a popular one. 

Above us, the tracks for the Purple line cast long shadows across the sidewalk, making the bitter February night that much more frigid. I don’t know how she can look so comfortable in a stylish fleece-lined sweater while I’m shivering in my knee-length teal puffer jacket. I have the hood up to take the edge off the sharp, relentless Chicago wind, but it’s not enough. Beneath my heavy winter coat, my black suede over-the-knee boots, burgundy mini skirt, and three-quarter-sleeve crop top will work for the club, but right now, goosebumps prickle across the exposed skin of my thighs and I have to clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. 

“Lay off her, Claire,” Tommy insists, slinging his arm around my shoulders as he pulls me against his side, jostling my oversized ‘nerd glasses,’ as he calls them. “She’s not from around here, remember? Our little marketing genius went to Berkeley.”

I roll my eyes and give Tommy a playful jab in the ribs, forcing him to release me. I like my job, and I’m good at it, but I’m not some kind of savant or anything, even if he enjoys teasing me about it. 

I’m grateful that I like my coworkers. Landing my position as a marketing coordinator at Keen Edge Strategies and moving halfway across the country was a big leap. I’m lucky my work family took me under their wing, welcoming me right from the start. That made all the difference. I do still feel a bit like an outsider sometimes—even if I’ve lived here for nearly a year—but I’m okay with that. Why get attached unnecessarily? It’s easier to keep everyone at an arm’s length. Then they can’t disappoint you.

“Yeah, but everybody’s been to the Dungeon,” Claire insists. “You seriously haven’t, Lindsey? Please tell me you’ve at least heard of it.”

“Why would I have heard of it?” I look at the rather unremarkable entrance we’re slowly creeping toward. Only five people stand in front of us now, and I hope we make it inside before I turn into a popsicle. 

“Well, you know—” Her voice drops to a whisper as she glances toward the hulking bouncers, as if she doesn’t want them to hear her. “Because supposedly it’s where—”

“Leave it alone, Claire,” Annie cuts in, releasing a plume of mango-scented smoke from her vape pen with her words. “You don’t need to freak her out over some stupid rumor you heard one time way back when.” She gives me a wink. “Don’t worry, Lindsey, You’ll love it. I promise.”

Curiosity burns in my stomach at what Claire was going to say about the club. I came to Chicago looking for a fresh start, new experiences, and maybe a few unexpected adventures, and it sounds like tonight might be one, but I can’t get a word in edgewise to ask Claire because she and Annie start to bicker. The line inches forward, and when it’s finally our turn, I hand John my ID so he can pass the collection to the burly, tattooed bouncers. 

“Hand,” the dark-haired one demands, holding out a meaty palm when his eyes land on me, double-checking that my face matches my ID. 

His cold, impersonal gaze sends an involuntary shiver up my spine. He looks mean and strong enough to snap a person in half without a second thought, and I fight the instinct to flinch when his fingers briefly catch mine. Seeming oblivious to my reaction, he stamps the back of my hand, then brusquely waves me inside. I haven’t felt so nervous to get into a nightclub since I turned eighteen, and relief surges through me when the door closes behind me, blocking him from view. 

Warm air cascades down on me from the space heater above as soon as I step inside, and I glance down at this weekend’s stamp that I’ll have to scrub off my hand before work on Monday. A red devil smiles back at me, its tongue lolling from its horned head. I can’t decide if it’s cute or creepy but it definitely matches the vibe of the club so far. As I join my work friends at the bottom of the stairs, Mirabelle eyes my jacket with a hint of amusement, saying without words that I’m ridiculous for needing it. Something I’ve learned since moving to Chicago—the people who live here have a very different definition of what’s cold. They must be born with thicker skin or something.

“Coat check?” She tips her head toward the opening to her right, her wispy platinum-blond pixie cut forming a halo around her head as it soaks up the neon strip lighting. 

Reluctantly, I shrug out of my warm jacket and pass it to the raven-haired girl manning the coat room desk. Without a word, she hands me a numbered slip of paper, and I tuck it into my knee-high sock along with my ID, credit card, and phone so I won’t have to keep an eye on a purse all night. 

As we make our way farther into the club, music pulses through the floor beneath my boots, and my eardrums throb before we even make it down the hallway. The glossy black marble floors reflect the pinpricks of light that cover the ceiling like a million twinkling stars. Before entering the room, I had assumed the club’s name came from the Dungeon being in a basement, but as soon as we emerge into the massive open space, I see the real reason. 

Tufted white leather booths line the walls, curving around luxurious private tables, and separating each seating area is a narrow catwalk with a brilliantly lit floor. Bars encase each strip of walkway like a cage, and behind those bars are scantily clad women with bare-chested men—two or three to an enclosure. The thin strips of clothing they do wear are made of black leather, and my skin warms at the erotic way they dance together. My heart skips a beat when I realize some dancers are blindfolded, others gagged or bound in various ways that restrict their movements, though they still manage to interact with each other in shockingly provocative ways. 

Leaning toward Annie, I raise my voice so she’ll hear me. “Is this some kind of sex club?” My voice cracks, and I hope the loud music manages to drown that fact out. I wouldn’t necessarily mind going to a sex club, but I’ve never been to one before and don’t exactly know that I’d prefer to do that with my coworkers—even if they are friends. 

Annie laughs, her dark eyes dancing in the dim lighting. “No. The dancers are just for ambiance. Come on.” 

She grasps my hand, pulling me deeper into the club as John and Tommy take the lead. The boys manage to forge a small pathway through the crowd to look for an available booth. The place is already so packed, I doubt we’ll get that lucky. Personal space seems to be a secondary consideration as people bump and jostle me along the way. I’m grateful for the body heat at least. With so many people dancing and drinking, the club’s temperature is slowly thawing me. 

The golden lighting beneath the dancers’ feet and along the bar fades into a cool blue as we make our way through the crowd. Then it shifts to a sinister red, the slow transition almost imperceptible until I catch the glow on Annie’s bare shoulders. I keep my head on a swivel as I take in the club’s chic yet edgy decor—the lighting behind the bar that illuminates the shelves of wine and martini glasses from beneath. The wall along the back of the dance floor is animated with colorful swirls that move in rhythm with the music. 

As we reach the far side of the club and still haven’t found a table, my senses are on overload from so much stimulation. Tommy spots a high top where a couple of guys stand with drinks, their eyes sweeping the crowd. Compared to the other tables, this one’s not nearly as overloaded.

“Mind if we join you?” he asks, pulling Mirabelle along with him. 

The guy gives her a sweeping gaze and grins. “Sure! I’m Ben. This is Jackson.”

John manages to get the table a pitcher of some neon blue cocktail he calls Sex in the Driveway and pours us each a glass. As soon as the drink hits my tongue, a burst of sickly sweet flavor invades my senses, and I shiver as I swallow it down. That’s a hangover in the making.  

“I’ll get the first round of shots!” Mirabelle shouts over the music, and a moment later, her petite frame vanishes into the crowd. 

With a few shots in me and the music surging through the club, my muscles start to unwind, and I can loosen up. Rather than joining the mass of people on the dance floor, we form our own little party near the table, avoiding the crush of the crowd and the humidity of collective body heat that tends to fog up my glasses. It doesn’t take long before I’ve worked up a sweat, and I pull my long hair—the natural dirty kind of blond, rather than Mirabelle’s bleached platinum—up into a ponytail to get it off my neck. 

“I think we need more shots!” Annie shouts, leaning over the table from where she’s dancing up against our new friend Jackson. 

“It’s my turn to buy,” I say over the music.

“You want help carrying?” Claire offers. 

“No, I’m good!” I spent most nights and weekends of high school and college working at restaurants and bars to pay my way through school, so I know how to carry drinks.

What I could use help with is getting close enough to the bar to place the order. The Dungeon has gotten even more crowded since we arrived, and a solid wall of towering clubbers separates me from the bar running the length of the dance floor. Five bartenders work the space, constantly in motion as they sling drinks, but the line never seems to die down. Every time a person leaves, three more take his place. I consider elbowing my way through the crowd, but at five foot three and a hundred twenty pounds, I doubt that I’ll be a match for anyone I try to move. 

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I look around the crowded club, wishing I could find a better alternative—and my eyes catch on the VIP area that sits off to one side. Its designated bar is much smaller, manned by just one bartender, but he actually looks on the brink of being bored with less than ten people crowding his space. 

A velvet rope blocks the stairs. The sign standing next to it very clearly designates the area as VIP Only. I look back at the wall of people between me and the main bar, and know I have to at least try sneaking up to the VIP area—it’s just to order shots. I’ll be in and out before anyone notices I’m not where I belong. 

My pulse kicks up a notch as I approach the stairs, my stomach quivering with the thrill of knowing I’m about to break the rules and could get caught. The music fades as I walk, unleashing the faint ringing sound I regularly wake up to on Saturday mornings after a night at the clubs. I resist the urge to pop my ears now that they’re no longer being assaulted, and I try to act like I belong as I reach the red velvet rope. 

With a quick glance to make sure no one’s looking in my direction, I snatch the hook, and in one fluid movement, I slide past it, reaching behind me to reattach it without drawing attention to myself. Then I slip closer to the first landing where a bachelorette party is in full swing. The girls cheer wildly as the bride dances in her white mini dress and costume veil, getting sloshed on champagne. The rest of the girls are dressed in black to ensure she stands out on her big night—in my dark attire, who’s to say I don’t belong with them?

With that mindset, I move quickly up the stairs, passing four more landings of VIP parties before I reach the bar. As I near the top, I catch a pair of blue eyes following me, and my stomach flip-flops. Did he notice me sneak in? It’s better to keep pretending I belong unless someone says otherwise, and I quickly focus my attention on the bartender, avoiding the sharp blue gaze. 

Pressing my glasses further up the bridge of my nose, I lean my elbows onto the edge of the bar and give the bartender a flirty smile to hide my tension. But as I wait my turn, my fingers go to my ponytail, and I twirl a lock of hair—my go-to fidget when I’m nervous. 

“What can I get you?” the lean clean-shaven bartender asks, planting one hand and an elbow on the gold-streaked black marble counter so he can look me in the eye. 

“Eight shots of tequila please.” I release my hair, tossing it back over my shoulder as I force my smile a bit brighter.

“What kind?” he asks, his gaze openly assessing me.

“Oh, uh, the house brand is fine.”

I know I’ve messed up as soon as his eyebrow quirks. Obviously no one drinking in the VIP section would settle for shots of house tequila. I should have thought of that sooner. 

“I mean, whatever you would recommend,” I throw in, waving my hand like I don’t know my liquors. Please just don’t give me Clase Azul or anything else that expensive. I make good money at Keen Edge, but I’m not ready to be shelling out hundreds of dollars for eight people to take one shot. 

“Sure, can I just see your VIP wristband?” 

His dark eyes flick toward the hand I just waved, and my stomach knots. Shit. I’m busted.

“Oh, yeah. I, uh, think I left mine at the table—” I hedge, taking a step back.

“That’s alright, Aleks. She’s with me.” 

The deep masculine voice is thickly accented—Russian if I had to guess—and it sends a shiver down my spine, releasing goosebumps across the back of my neck. 

Whoever stepped in must be important, because the bartender straightens quickly, his expression immediately compliant. “Of course, khozyain.”

As he turns to make the order, I release my breath, relief rushing through my chest. I turn to face whoever came to my rescue, and my heart skips a beat when my eyes meet the same sharp blue ones that were watching me on the stairs. They belong to a man at least fifteen years older than me—nearing his forties I would guess, based on the hint of gray at his temples. The white stands out against the rest of his black hair, which is cut short and swept back from his face. Even dressed in a crisp charcoal-gray suit, something about the man looks rugged, almost dangerous. His chiseled features match his strong jaw covered in salt-and-pepper stubble. The sharp tips of a tattoo peek out above the collar of his black dress shirt and crimson tie, adding to the edge I sense even if his style is clean and polished. Only his lips are soft and full, and they quirk into a subtle smirk. 

Heart lodged in my throat, I swallow hard as I force my gaze back up to his. “Thanks for that,” I say, trying to keep the breathiness out of my voice. “I’m Lindsey.”

“Maks.” His smile spreads further as he accepts my hand, nearly swallowing it in his large, warm one as he shakes it. 

Heat licks up from my belly into my chest as a jolt passes between our palms, and I quickly withdraw my hand. I’ve learned my lesson about picking up guys at clubs. It only ever leads to a one-night stand, and while that was fun for a little while, I’m trying not to make a practice of it. Not that I’m looking for anything serious either. I just don’t want to make casual sex a habit when I usually regret it in the morning. 

“I thought your name was Cozy-an,” I say to take my mind off the electricity racing across my skin. My tongue stumbles over the name the bartender used, because I’m two shots in and I’ve never heard it before. 

Maks chuckles, the sound low and throaty, and as he steps closer to lean against the bar by my hand, I catch the warm scent of vanilla and tobacco on his clothes. 

“Now, why would I lie about my name?” he asks playfully.

“Well, probably because you don’t belong here,” I tease, leaning in to stage whisper conspiratorially. I don’t make a practice of flirting with older men, but I can’t see the harm when he just saved my ass and I need to wait for my drinks anyway. 

His dark eyebrows rise, his eyes twinkling beneath the club’s starlit ceiling. “But you do.” 

It’s not a question. He states it like a fact, and my stomach flutters.

“Good thing, too,” he adds casually.

“Oh? And why’s that?” Another shiver races up my spine. 

“You see those dancers?” He gestures toward the cages below that I’ve had a hard time taking my eyes off of for longer than a few minutes at a time all night. “That’s what happens to people who go where they shouldn’t in this club. And I would hate to see you locked in one of those, dancing for the masses.” His gaze would say the exact opposite as it roams boldly down my body before returning to my face.

“Bullshit,” I blurt, then bite my lip at calling him out so bluntly.

He gives another dark chuckle, the sound vibrating through my body like an earthquake as his amusement grows. “Join me.” 

Another statement, not a question, and I get the impression that he’s not used to giving people an option—or hearing the word ‘no.’ I catch a glimpse of several more expensively dressed men sitting at the VIP table where I first noticed Maks. They look almost as intimidating as he does, though maybe not quite as muscular beneath their tailored suits. 

“I can’t. I’m here with friends,” I say quickly, brushing off the invitation. I can’t quite keep the hint of regret out of my voice, and it catches me by surprise to realize I might genuinely want to stay and flirt. 

“Then at least let me buy you a drink,” he presses.

He’s close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating off his body, and I’m tempted to lean into it. I have no doubt this handsome older man with the sexy Russian accent would know plenty of ways to keep me warm tonight. My cheeks flush at the dirty thought, and I swear Maks can read my mind as his smirk grows. 

But I have a rule, and I intend to keep it. “Sorry, I don’t accept drinks from strangers.” Not even incredibly attractive ones who might tempt me to break my rule just this once. 

“Pity.” Maks doesn’t look discouraged, though, as his eyes rake appreciatively down my body once more. 

Sudden nerves make my stomach quiver, and I nearly jump out of my skin when the bartender slides a small tray of shots in my direction. 

“Eight shots of tequila,” he cuts in. 

“Thanks,” I mutter, bending to fish my credit card out of my over-the-knee boot.

Maks watches the movement, his gaze lingering on my breasts, and heat pools in my belly as he makes my position feel intensely more sexual than I considered before I did it. Quickly straightening, I slap my card down onto the bar and push it toward the bartender. 

“It’s on the house,” he says, pushing the plastic back in my direction.

“Really? I mean—thanks.” Flustered from my exchange with Maks, I’m not ready to read into it, though this is the first time since I moved to Chicago that a bartender has given me anything on the house. Mission accomplished, I scoop up the tray of shots, ready to get the hell out of here before I get myself in the kind of trouble that would land me in a certain sexy Russian’s bed. “Nice to meet you, Maks—and thanks again,” I add as I turn to quickly make my escape. 

“Lindsey.” 

Heat pools in my belly. My name sounds entirely too sensual when he’s saying it with such command, his accent wrapping around it like a caress, and I don’t have to look to know it’s Maks calling me back. Without consciously deciding to, I freeze in place. 

The warm scent of vanilla and tobacco reaches me moments before Maks does, and our eyes catch as I glance over my shoulder. 

“You forgot your card,” he says, holding it up between his middle and index fingers. Then he slowly leans in, his eyes never leaving mine as he hooks a finger around the top of my suede boot, his fingertip trailing against my thigh. 

I feel the rough brush of plastic sliding into my knee-high sock, and my mouth goes dry, my stomach knotting as the temperature in the room spikes. “Thanks,” I whisper as Maks straightens, that cocky smirk back on his face.

“You’re welcome.” After a tangible pause, he gestures for me to carry on with my night, and I practically sprint down the stairs, slinging my leg over the velvet rope rather than unhooking it in my desperation to run away.

“Oh my god, were you just talking to Maksim Yashkov?” Claire asks, her green eyes wide with disbelief once again as I slide our tray of shots onto the table. 

“Um, I’m not sure—” I glance back over my shoulder to find those captivating blue eyes still watching me. My heart skips a beat. “Come on, let’s take the shots.”

“Can I point out the fact that our girl just waltzed into the VIP section and actually came back with drinks?” Tommy toasts as we raise our shot glasses.

I slam mine, resisting the urge to cringe as the tequila burns down the back of my throat, settling in my stomach. A moment later, its warmth seeps into my veins, helping me relax. 

“Yeah, whoever he is, tall, dark, and handsome is still eye fucking you,” Annie observes, looking over my shoulder as she ogles him appreciatively, Jackson completely forgotten behind her. 

Breath catching in my throat, I glance back to find him watching me, one eyebrow raised, and my stomach does a nervous flip-flop.

“I mean, if they all came in packages like that, I might spend the night with an older man,” Mirabelle quips with a giggle as all eyes from my table turn to look at Maks.

“Are you kidding me?” Claire asks. “That’s not just some hot older man, you guys. He’s the owner of the Dungeon.”

“I thought you said it belongs to the mob,” Annie counters, her tone playfully skeptical. 

My pulse quickens as I watch Maks watching me. Could he be some kind of mobster? The air of danger that surrounds him makes me think it’s possible. Licking my suddenly dry lips, I turn to take a sip of my sickly sweet drink.

When I sneak a peek over my shoulder, those sharp blue eyes are gone, and I can’t help the sinking disappointment.