Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(66)

“She’s not really my type,” I say.

“Oh? What is your type?”

“The type that doesn’t cower from me in fear.”

Aristov laughs. “Ah, do those type of women exist? Most are afraid of their own shadows.”

I don’t entertain that with an answer.

He drags the waitress over to one of the couches, sitting and tugging her in front of him, shoving her down on her knees. He unbuckles his pants, not saying a word, and grabs her by her hair, pulling her face onto his lap as he pulls his dick out right in front of me.

The woman takes him into her mouth without putting up any sort of fight, and he lets out an exaggerated sigh as he smiles lazily, seeming damn pleased with himself.

Look, I’m not an idiot. This isn’t my first day on the job, if you know what I mean. I know he’s asserting his dominance or spraying his territory or whatever alpha male bullshit move you want to chalk this up to, a figurative pissing contest because I’m a rival lion who entered his den. So I get it, but the thing is, he doesn’t know me. He’s thinking this show will get under my skin, that it’ll make me uncomfortable, that I’ll cower, but that’s not happening.

I told Scarlet he didn’t scare me.

I meant that shit.

I will whip my cock out and measure that son of a bitch, right here, right now, if he pushes me. In the figurative sense, of course. Literally, my cock is staying right where it is.

“You sure you do not want a taste?” he asks, nodding his head toward the waitress blowing him. “You could f*ck her. I do not mind. She squeals like a little piggie when you fill her up.”

“I appreciate it, but I’m not f*cking any of your women.”

Or, well, hell, I might be.

I don’t know.

I’m still fuzzy on his history with Scarlet.

But regardless, as far as I’m concerned, she’s not his. She’s not Amello’s, either. She doesn’t belong to either of those *s.

Strolling over to the couch across from him, I sit down, relaxing back, sipping straight from the bottle of rum, not bothering to avert my eyes. Looking away toes a lie of cowering that I’m not even coming close to crossing.

I think he realizes it, that I’m not like the others he deals with. He could slit that woman’s throat and I wouldn’t flinch. I don’t have it in me to flinch. He stops prolonging things, gripping the back of her head and shoving her down, making her gag, as he bucks his hips a few times, f*cking her face until he spills down her throat.

As soon as he’s done, he yanks her away. “Get back to work.”

She runs from the room, shutting the door behind her. Aristov tucks himself back away, narrowed eyes fixed on my face. If anything, I think I’m ruffling him.

“Is there a reason you have come here?” he asks. “Since it seems to not be the appeal of my women, it must be the appeal of me, no?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type, either.”

He shrugs, chugging more vodka. “I do not cower.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You have heard?” He raises his eyebrows. “Earlier this week, you said you did not know me.”

“I didn’t,” I say. “Kinda got curious when you busted into the club, spewing bullets, so I asked around. Led me here.”

“So it was the appeal of me.” He laughs, drinking some more, damn near finishing off the entire bottle in just a few minutes. How the f*ck does he still have a functioning liver?

Hell, maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe that’s why he’s after Scarlet.

Maybe he needs a transplant.

Maybe they’re compatible.

I shrug, because in a roundabout way, what he says is true. I came because I had a sneaking suspicion I’d find Scarlet’s problem here. “Like you said, you don’t cower. Most people do. I’ve been in the city for a while, and I keep finding little boys who only talk the talk. So when I encounter someone who walks the walk, well, it gets me interested.”

He sits there, continuing to drink, as he thinks those words through. I can see as the liquor takes hold of him, his posture relaxing, eyelids drooping, and leg lazily moving.

“We used to do business with the Italians,” he says. “The families would come to us when they wanted something done but were too chicken. They had so many silly rules. Do not kill women, do not kill bosses, do not kill officers, but we do not have those rules. We were the loophole that kept their hands clean.”

“I don’t need loopholes,” I say, “nor do I care if my hands are clean.”

“That I have heard,” he says. “You have built a very big reputation in a very small time, Mister Scar.”

Mister Scar.

I can feel my muscles twitch when he says that, my body unconsciously reacting. I’d like to hit him, but I’d also like to walk out of here, and with my guys preoccupied with *, well, I’m not sure that would turn out to my advantage.

“Go big or go home, right?”

“Right,” he says. “Are you working with George Amello? Is that why you were at his club?”

I shake my head. “Someone has been robbing him. He accused me. I didn’t appreciate the insinuation, so I made an appearance to tell him how I felt about his finger pointing.”