Surrogate for the Billionaire Mafia

MAEVE

The last octave of my song rattled the chandeliers in the ceiling of the club, earning whistles and yells of approval from my audience.

The audience was mostly made up of all types of moral deficit, violent, and mentally unstable rich men. Most of whom were doing sketchy and criminal business in the cover of the shadows. The only women among them were either held against their will, or sex workers slithering between tables to earn their next paycheck.

Of course, there was the occasional lady with dark makeup and fur coats who ran her own dealings and was as vicious as any of the men, but that was a rare sight in this shady world the club catered to. Here, we ladies were considered nothing but eye candy.

As a lawyer, my thoughts on that are obvious, but as long as they're getting my bills paid, I couldn't care less.

The music ended, and cheers followed. I stood straight, with a derisive curl of my lips, soaking in their praise. In 7-inch heels, on the raised platform, I looked down my nose at the hungry expressions on their faces. Their lustful eyes roamed my bare legs through the slit in my skimpy red dress, the cleavage I was sporting, and my obvious lack of a bra.

I loved keeping them hungry, because that meant more money for me, more anticipation for the next time I would perform, and the willingness to impress me in the hopes of catching my attention.

I smiled, and turned away from the stage, stepping over the stacks and racks of cash littering the floor. But they would never get that chance, as I don't entertain clients.

I stepped through the curtains, mentally calculating my share of cash for tonight —that was a damn lot of money on the stage, after all, these things were hard to come by these days— but a cold hand grabbed me.

“Maeve, the boss wants to see you,” It was one of the strippers, Nevada, her eyes were even more bloodshot than usual, “In the office, right now.”

“Why?” I frowned.

She shrugged, letting go of my arm to fix the collar around her neck. She was trembling, and her hand had felt deathly cold, like that of a corpse excavated from an iceberg. I had always tried to mind my business, but tonight, she looked like she could actually collapse on the job.

The last time that had happened, the ruthless enforcers had taken her behind closed doors, and all anyone could hear were her screams.

“You okay? Want to sit out this shift?” I suggested.

She scoffed, “Not everyone has the same privilege you have of deciding when not to work, Maeve. I'm not scared of the damn enforcers. They want to work me to death to pay up my drug debt. Fine. A few snorts of coke, and I'll be gobbling those crooked and tiny dicks in the VIP sections, as usual.” She winked, stumbling away, “The stolen jewelry and watches are always worth it anyway.”

I watched her frail, pale body in her stripper’s costume and shook my head. She would have been better off strictly dancing, instead of letting the enforcers control her with her addiction to drugs.

Still, none of my business.

I made my way up to the office and knocked.

It took some time for the door to be opened, mounting my agitation. It was odd enough that I was called to the office, they didn't have to put me through more suspense. Fuck.

One of the enforcers opened the door, his stony face half-covered by the black aviator sunglasses. He looked me up and down and moved sideways for me to step through.

Inside the office, sat a woman in the massive swivel chair, her blood-red lips curled around the rim of a champagne flute. I hesitated in my steps, alarmed by this unfamiliar face, and the three other enforcers standing in the shadows. The club manager stood by her desk, meeker than I had ever seen him. And he was a scary man.

She was the boss of this establishment. It was clear now, even if she never showed up here.

“Move forward, singer.” The enforcer behind me growled. It was the same tone they all used to bully the girls, unfortunately for them, its effect was lost on me. I merely ignored him, glancing at my surroundings with suspicion.

What would the boss want from me?

“Kazimir,” The woman gracefully handed her champagne flute to the manager, “Take the men outside, and leave us.”

“At once.” He stiffly nodded at the enforcers, and they all filed out of the room. One of them knocked me forward with his bulging arm, calling me a female dog, under his breath in guttural Russian.

In the silence that followed the click of the door, the woman eyed me slowly, her blood-red fingernails stroking the black cat I had initially not spotted, purring on her lap. I stared back at her, at her calculating blue eyes and ink-black hair that rippled down her expensive furs.

“Maeve Ivanov.” She tasted my name, “An excellent performer, one popular among the patrons of my establishment. I hear that over the years, your voice alone has bewitched more men than the strippers combined. Still, with all their advances and attention, you do not cater to their lust. A very useful quality.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Of course not,” She laughed, “Far from it, in fact. I want to reward you for keeping yourself intact, that's very rare in this line of business. But first, it's only fair if you know who I am.”

Her cat hopped off her thighs to the desk, hissing at me. She merely smiled, and leaned further into her seat, “I’m Marina Romanovich, wife to the notorious and deadly Maruska, a very wealthy and powerful man…who I'm sure you've heard of.”

“It's common knowledge that even the grass of his lawn is made of gold,” I said simply.

She laughed heartily, waving her hand dismissively, “A funny exaggeration, but he isn't that ostentatious. Oh, I have a feeling we'll get along so well, Maeve. You're a smart girl.”

All of this was disturbing. The hungry way she kept eyeing me down, the glint in her eyes, she wanted something from me. But what? This entire interaction had grown a hundred times worse from her revealing who her husband was.

Of course, how else would she have come to own such a wealthy and famous club with all of these influential men? It wasn't her they respected. It was the man she was bound to.

Maruska Romanovich, Megan to some, tyrannical billionaire, also known as the harbinger of chaos among men of the underground. The mere whisper of his name struck fear in the bravest of hearts. The atrocities he has committed would put even the devil to shame. Even the world leaders dared not turn their attention on him, because of his deep-rooted connections within the dangerous Russian government.

His influence on other business tycoons and billionaires all around the world, pulled everyone to his side, out of fear, respect, or greed. Not only was he revered in the Bratva, but in other mafia syndicates around the world. Even the Japanese Yakuza, according to gossip, were trying to ally with him.

A single trickle of sweat rolled down my spine.

“I have a proposal for you.” Marina broke the heavy silence, “First, every word I utter to you is confidential. I trust that you will keep it to yourself.”

Or else… The unspoken threat hung in the air.

“I will.”

“Good. I need to give my husband a child, urgently. However, I cannot conceive, and Maruska knows nothing of my infertility. If I waste any more time without producing his heir, I risk losing my status, my wealth, my lifestyle…my marriage.” She smiled at me, “But that won't happen. Because I have you.”

I froze. “What?”

“You will sleep with my husband, get pregnant for him, and vanish immediately from your everyday life. Don't fret, I'll take care of everything to last the entire pregnancy. In exchange, I will offer you the sum of twenty million dollars.” She looked smug, “One year of your life in service to me, Maeve, and become rich overnight.”

I stumbled back, eyes wide. A second later, a small, nervous laugh escaped me. Was this a test? These mob wives were mentally deranged, testing their poor workers to see if the girls would ever sleep with their husbands.

“I would never betray you by having anything to do with your husband—”

“Oh, shut it, this isn't a test.” She scoffed, “Do you think my husband keeps his dick in his pants? He sleeps around, and that is why you'll be able to get pregnant for him before some random whore does so first. You're respectable and worthy of carrying my future child.”

I began shaking my head, utterly appalled. “I can't do that. I can't have a child this early in my life—”

She slammed her hand on the table, “Don't be stupid, girl. The child won't be yours. Plus, you have student loans and debts to clear, don't you? Do you think whatever measly pennies you make here would solve your life problems? I thought you were smart, perhaps I was hasty in judging you.”

That felt like a slap on the face.

I decided I wasn't going to stand here and let her step all over me further. What did she think I was, a baby machine? It was unreal.

“I'm sorry, Marina, but I can't accept your proposal.”

“Why don't you take some time to think about it, dear? This is an opportunity you might never get again.” She motioned to the door, “Go on.”

I left the office, half-upset. I made my way out of the club, fishing out a cigarette from between my breasts. Some random guy handed me a lighter, nearly drooling over my cleavage. I brushed past him, and stepped out of the door, trying to light my cigarette…when I saw it.

The monstrous, black motorbike parked right in front.

It was my ex-boyfriend’s bike. This meant that obsessive, abusive creep was here looking for me again. Zhenya Sonchev, that fucker who couldn't just accept that I wanted nothing more to do with him.