Mia Condanna

November

Status: Single

Mikhail

I don’t have time for this. I never have time. But it’s my sister’s birthday, and I can’t exactly not show up for her. Anya is turning twenty-one; a big fucking deal. That's exactly why we are sitting here in this club surrounded by this god awful music and half of the college kids dancing around. I’d have preferred to rent it out, make it a private party, but she insisted we do this the normal way.

What even counts as normal when you’re the heir to the Bratva? Certainly not a birthday party at some Vegas club, surrounded by strangers trying to touch you, or worse; dance with you. Anya is my baby sister and what my sister wants, she gets, even if it's a night out in this loud as fuck club. You might think it’s weird I still call her that, but when you’re fifteen years older, you’ve earned the right to call her a baby for as long as you fucking please.

Three of my men are stationed around the room, keeping an eye on her and her friends. It might be a celebration, but danger always lurks.

I wrap my knuckles, around my glass of vodka straight and bring it to my lips. The burn is sharp, exactly what I need to endure another squeal from the group of women. How loud can they get? Anya’s out there dancing with her friends, laughing carefree, her . I’m here just trying to get through one night without shit going sideways.

“Unless you want to forgo your chance of ever having children, get your fucking hands off me.”

A loud voice cuts through the music, it's smooth with no hesitation, the tone leaving no room for negotiation. My gaze snaps up from my drink. The owner of the voice is standing with her back to me, some idiot gripping her hips, leaning in far too close. Unless he’s her boyfriend (which I know he’s not by the way she talks to him) he’s way too fucking close.

I don’t meddle in other people’s problems. Never have. Never cared. But I keep an eye on her, just in case things escalate. This is Anya’s night, and no one ruins it.

Anya glances my way, waving me over, but I raise my glass and take another sip instead. She rolls her eyes, probably thinking I’m boring. She’s right. I am boring. I don’t care.

From the VIP floor, I lean against the railing, watching the bodies move on the dance floor below. Someone else is getting too close to my sister. Before I can react, Dimitri’s already there, twisting the guy’s arm in a way that makes it clear he’s chosen the wrong person to mess with.

My attention shifts again, pulled by the raised voices behind me.

Now I’m simply annoyed. What’s the point of a VIP section if anyone can waltz in?

I turn, just in time to see the woman grab a man by the shirt, yanking him down to her height before slamming her forehead into his nose. Blood sprays, and the guy stumbles back, clutching his face. Another man steps forward to help him, but she pulls out a dagger, sleek, the handle matte black, the sharp edge glinting against the lights dancing around them as she levels to his neck.

“Go on, stronzo, play the fucking hero,” she utters calmly yet loud enough for everyone to hear her. Not even the music can stop me from hearing the Italian lilt in her voice.

I still can’t see her face, just the curve of her back; completely bare beneath a black scrap of fabric that barely qualifies as a top. A leather mini skirt clings to her hips, paired with thigh-high boots that give her a commanding presence. But it’s the dagger in her hand that holds the room hostage, the air around her crackling with tension.

This? This is the kind of recklessness that ruins nights. My sister’s night.

I move without a second thought to stop this madness before it turns into a bloodbath. Alexis picks up on the signal, and in two strides, he’s behind the man, gripping the back of his neck. When Alexis gets ahold of you, there’s no argument. You comply. He radiates menace like smoke from a fire.

While Alexis deals with the man, I step closer to her, my shoes heavy on the floor. “A dagger in a private club?” I question with a growl of disapproval. “That’s reckless.”

She stiffens but doesn’t lower the weapon.

“Care to lose it?” I add, my tone colder now, daring her to test me. She tilts her head back, craning her neck to meet my gaze without turning around making her hair brush my chest.  Her eyes; deep green, darker than I’ve ever seen lock onto mine, completely unflinching. I tower over her, but she doesn’t step back, doesn’t even blink.

“You own this place?” she asks calmly, laced with a subtle challenge.

“No,” I say, just as calmly shifting my jacket aside, revealing the cold steel at my hip. Her eyes flicker down to the Glock, just briefly, before returning to mine. Her lips curl, not in fear, but into a slow, knowing smile.

She slides the dagger back around her thigh, disappearing it beneath her skirt in one smooth, effortless motion. Before she turns, dramatically, her hair spinning with her.

“Two things I need to make clear,” she begins, her fingers combing through her hair. The light here makes it hard to tell its exact color, but her eyes—they’re unmistakable, deep green and utterly unreadable. “One, he asked for it. I gave him two warnings.” She gestures carelessly toward the idiot bleeding on the floor. Security rushes up the stairs, but she doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t acknowledge the commotion.

Her focus is on me.

“And two,” she steps forward, while counting with her fingers in the air. She’s tall, thanks to the heels, but I still tower over her. Her voice lowers, and her eyes narrow, a challenge glinting in their depths. “I’m not backing off because of...” She gestures toward my piece, dismissively. “You can’t intimidate me with that.”

Her smirk is infuriating, the kind that begs you to prove her wrong.

Security finally reaches us, but they stop dead when she turns to them. “Ma’am,” one stammers, his voice oddly deferential. “We apologize. We’ll handle this for you.”

She waves them off with a flick of her hand, like the entire situation is beneath her notice.

I should leave it at that, go back to my drink, but something about her, the beauty mark above her heart-shaped lips, the way she hasn’t so much as blinked since locking eyes with me, keeps me rooted.

Anya waves at me again, motioning toward the woman with an exaggerated gesture that asks, Who is she? I shrug, indifferent on the outside, but my curiosity is burning now.

Before I can turn back to my drink, it’s gone. Her slender honey-colored fingers adorned with golden rings on almost every one of them, wrap around my glass and lift it from my hand. She downs it in one motion, her throat bobbing as she swallows.

I don’t take my eyes off her.

Alexis is back, his presence at my side a silent question. I flick my wrist, and he stops. The silver bracelet on my wrist catches the light, drawing her attention briefly before she turns her focus back to me.

“You sure look intimidating,” she says to Alexis, her tone almost mocking. “Thanks for taking care of the trash.”

Alexis nods once, retreating to his post without a word.

“That’s my glass,” I say flatly.

“You don’t say, Sherlock,” she quips, smiling as she sits herself down in my booth. My glass is still in her hand as she reaches for my bottle, refilling it like it’s hers to start with. She crosses one leg over the other, the movement smooth. My eyes are drawn to the curve of her thighs, her skirt barely covering much of anything.

“Eyes up here,” she snaps her fingers.

I raise my gaze slowly, dragging them deliberately over her body, a very nice body, soft curves, toned thighs, yes definitely a nice body. “Nice legs. Now get out of my booth.”

She leans back, one hand settled in the sofa, the other still holding my glass. She twirls her drink, completely relaxed and looking unbothered.

“That your wife? Fiancée? Girlfriend?” she asks without pausing  while nodding toward the dance floor, where Anya is now openly staring, her face alight with mischief.

“Sister,” I bite out.

Her head tilts, curious. “Doesn’t look like you at all. She looks... sweet. You...” Her eyes rake over me now, starting at my shoes and climbing all the way back to my face. When our eyes meet again, her teeth catch her bottom lip as she leans forward.

“You look dangerous,” she says softly, her lips curling into a smirk. “Definitely trouble.”

“Definitely,” I deadpan.

“Totally,” she nods, playing along.

“And how would you know?” I ask, holding her gaze.

She smiles now, wicked and amused. “Because I wouldn’t be flirting with you if you weren’t. That’s the thing about me.” She leans even closer, her voice dropping just slightly.

“My biggest red flag?” Her smirk deepens. “I love dangerous men.”

“That’s you flirting?” I ask, tilting my head as I wave over a server for a new glass.

She doesn’t miss a beat, propping her chin on her palm and keeping her gaze locked on mine. “Oh, I’m just getting started,” she quips, her lips curling into a sly smile.

The guys laugh, their amusement filling the booth. I’m not amused.

“I’m not interested,” I say flatly, finally getting a new glass. I take my bottle back from her grip—she doesn’t fight me on it—and pour a drink.

“Are you married?” she asks, ignoring my disinterest like it’s nothing more than a speed bump in her way.

Before I can answer, Niklaus does it for me. “He ain’t. Single. Not even a girlfriend.” He leans forward, grinning. “Go for it. Five hundred bucks says you can’t win him over.”

Her head tilts, a wicked gleam lighting up her eyes. This isn’t going to end well. “Five thousand says,” she counters smoothly, “I’ll be wearing his last name.”

The booth erupts in hollering laughter. One of the men slams his hand on the table, shaking the glasses. Two others yell in Russian, egging her on. “Go on, boss, make it easy for us! Let’s win five thousand!”

They all know me too well. I don’t flirt. I don’t date. I don’t play games.

“You’re wasting your time,” I say, turning away.

She doesn’t take the hint.

Instead she stands, stepping in front of me, walking backward as I move toward the stairs. Her hands are clasped casually behind her back, keeping a respectable distance, which I can appreciate; I hate people crowding my space. But her confidence doesn’t waver.

“One night,” she presses. “A few drinks. I flirt, and if I can’t get you to like me, you can tell me to fuck off by the end of the night. Either way, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

“No,” I repeat firmly.

She checks her pace as we reach the stairs but doesn’t back down. “What have you got to lose? A few hours?”

I don’t answer. I just keep moving, and so does she, side by side, unbothered by my silence.

When we reach the dance floor, I stop and glance at her. She’s got soft features, delicate, almost; but her eyes are sharp, bright with mischief. Her hair is dark, but it’s hard to tell if it’s black or brown under the club lights. Not that it matters.

I step past her, ready to end this, but Anya intercepts me, smiling that knowing smile I’ve come to hate. She turns to the woman, her curiosity practically glowing.

“I’m Anya, Mikhail’s sister,” she says, yelling over the music as she extends her hand.

The woman smiles, confident and unapologetic, and takes Anya’s hand. “I’m Sera,” she replies smoothly. Then, with a glance in my direction, she adds, “Mikhail’s future wife.”

Anya’s face lights up, her grin wide and full of amusement. She turns to me, eyebrows raised, waiting for my reaction.

I sigh, jaw tightening. The guys in the booth are probably dying with laughter right now, and this woman—Sera—is standing there, basking in her victory like she’s already won something.

This night is going to be a long one.

“Do you need to tell me something, big brother?” Anya teases, her tone laced with mischief as she glances at the beauty standing to my left.

I rub my face, sighing. How do I get rid of this woman without actually getting rid of her? I glance at her, still smiling, still radiating confidence then back at Anya.

“Nothing of the sort,” I reply my tone flat. “She’s just trying to fuck with me.”

Sera places a hand on her hip, unbothered, her sharp green eyes dragging over me again, up and down. “I’m 100% serious,” she counters smoothly. “One night. And not the sexual kind. Just drinks. I’ll even cover the tab.”

Anya bursts out laughing, the sound high and amused. “I like her,” she says, switching to Russian while turning to me, her grin wide and taunting. “Come on, Misha,  you’ve been sitting here drinking alone with all those men. At least she’s pretty to look at.”

The comment earns Sera a raised brow from me, but she jumps on the opening immediately.

“I hope you’re telling him how gorgeous I am,” she says, her voice teasing but confident, “and how lucky he’d be to land a catch like me.”

That sends Anya into another round of laughter. She’s leaning on me now, using her small frame to push me toward Sera. Not that it makes any difference; I don’t budge.

“Anya,” I warn, but she’s still grinning, still enjoying this far too much.

“Come on,” she says, her laughter bubbling up again. “One night. It won’t kill you.” One night could actually kill me, I can’t let my guard down. Never.

I glance at the infuriating woman again, taking her in. She’s still smiling, and I swear the glint in her eyes has only gotten brighter, like she’s enjoying this as much as my sister is.

“Are you afraid you might actually end up liking me?” she asks, leaning in slightly to speak over the music. Her voice is warm, almost daring, and close enough to feel her breath against my ear.

This woman. She’s challenging me, and I don’t back down from challenges.

“One night,” I say finally, my voice sharp, decisive. “But if you can’t get my number by the end of it...”

I pause, letting the weight of the moment stretch, considering her punishment. She watches me, her smile never wavering, waiting for me to finish.

“If you can’t win me over, you’ll owe me,” I say, my lips curling into a faint smirk. “And I’m not cheap.”

Her grin widens, victorious. “Deal,” she says instantly, extending her hand.

I glance at her hand but don’t take it. Instead, I lean down, keeping my eyes locked on hers as I reply, “You’ll regret wasting my time.”

“Or maybe,” she counters, her smile tilting into something sly, “you’ll regret underestimating me.”

Anya claps her hands, thrilled by the exchange, and Sera straightens up, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “Now, Misha,” she says, testing the name like she already owns it. “Let’s get to work on that drink.”

I motion back toward the VIP booth, but she shakes her head, playful and defiant, swaying side to side like this is some kind of game.

“Oh no,” she says, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “We’re doing this privately. Just you and me, without all your friends.” Her gaze flicks to the booth behind me, lingering on the men. “They look like they could star in a crime movie any minute.” She twirls her finger in the air before pointing it at me with a grin. “And my best game? It’s just you...” She points to herself. “...and me.”

Anya nods encouragingly, barely hiding her amusement, and tells me in Russian, “Go on, have fun. Dimitri’s here.”

Fun. Right.

I don’t trust this, but I sigh and rub the back of my neck. This is going to be a pain. Sera is already leading the way, her stride confident. My eyes follow her instinctively, and I notice the way she glances at two men at the bar. They shift, like they’re about to approach her, but she shakes her head; subtle, barely perceptible and they freeze. One small gesture, and they stop dead.

One thing is clear: This woman isn’t just a party girl. She has an entourage, she’s a weapon on her, and something tells me this whole situation could be a mistake.

She glances back over her shoulder, her green eyes catching mine under the glow of the lights. “Come on, Misha, I have to show you my best work,” she says teasingly and far too confident.

The temperature has dropped significantly as we step outside, the sharp desert night air cutting through the noise of the strip. I glance at my watch, a Richard Mille, polished steel and bulletproof. It’s already 1 a.m.

“Oh god, I should’ve worn a jacket,” she mutters, rubbing her arms. But it doesn’t slow her down. She pulls her car keys from the crossbody bag slung across her chest and gestures to the VIP lot.

Her car is parked right next to mine. A fucking Tesla.

I arch a brow. “Not a chance.”

I unlock my Mercedes AMG—armored, bulletproof, ready for war. Not that she’ll know any of that. “We’re taking my car,” I tell her, my tone leaving no room for negotiation.

She stops and turns to me, the neon signs above casting a sharp glow over her. It’s the first time I see her clearly.

Her hair catches the light; a mix of rich brown and golden streaks, like whiskey swirling in a glass. Not too dark, not too bright. Just warm enough to make you look twice. Her skin has that golden undertone that makes it clear she’s not your typical American. Italian? Latina? Maybe Spanish. Definitely not the average Vegas tourist.

Her eyes are big, framed by perfectly arched brows, and her lips—full, heart-shaped—curve into a knowing smile. There’s a beauty mark just above her upper lip, the kind some would call classic, but there’s nothing soft about her. She’s the kind of beautiful that makes men reckless.

And then there’s the tattoo.

A delicate script inked just under the swell of her breast. The words curve against her skin, sharp and elegant. “La vendetta è un’arte." Violent, beautiful, and very, very Italian.

“Can I drive then?” she asks, her tone light but daring. The audacity of this woman.

I let out another sigh, already irritated. How many times has she aggravated me tonight? I don’t even bother answering. Instead, I walk to the passenger side, open the door, and hold it.

“Get in,” I say, my voice cold, clipped. “I don’t have time for your games.”

She doesn’t argue. She steps forward, one hand holding the strap of her bag—the strap that cuts between her breasts, drawing my attention for longer than it should. Her top, if you can even call it that, hides nothing. Her toned stomach is on full display, the shadow of her belly button visible under the lights.

I force my gaze up, away from the tattoo that marks her as trouble, and fix it on her face. This is a mistake. I already know it.

“A gentleman. That’s unexpected,” she teases as she slides into the car.

I shut the door behind her, rounding to the driver’s side. By the time I get in, she’s already messing with the GPS, her nails tapping the screen as she inputs an address.

“Ten-minute drive. That’s not far, is it?” she says, flipping down the visor to check her makeup. She’s rummaging through her purse now, pulling out a pencil and redoing her eyes right there in my car. This woman is unreal.

“You sure you want to leave this place with a man you don’t know?” I ask, my tone flat.

She glances at me briefly, finishing the sharp line around her eyes. The black liner only makes the green pop more, sharp and vivid in the dim light. “Because you’re packing?” she replies casually. “That’s fine. I am armed too, remember?”

She buckles her seatbelt and shoots me a playful smile, completely unbothered. I don’t respond, just pull out of the parking lot, the engine rumbling as we head toward the Strip.

After a moment of silence, I finally ask, “Why are you armed?”

She doesn’t look at me, too busy running her fingers over the buttons on my console, testing what they do. I don’t like that.

“I’m a girl alone in a club. I need to know how to protect myself,” she says simply.

I let out a humorless laugh, low and sharp. “You weren’t alone in there.”

Her hand pauses briefly, but she doesn’t look at me.

“Two bodyguards,” I continue. “At least. I didn’t check for more, but I’m sure you had at least two with you. What I don’t understand is how they let you leave with me.” My tone shifts, laced with sarcasm. “Daddy dearest must be very worried about his little princess.”

She doesn’t rise to the bait, just moves her hair from one shoulder to the other in a smooth motion. Her scent (a mix of something floral and vanilla?) lingers in the air.

“Oh, my daddy knows I can take care of myself,” she says, her voice calm, confident. She glances at me now, her lips curling into a faint smirk. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

I glance at her briefly, but her expression doesn’t change. She’s not wrong; what I saw back there made it clear she’s not some helpless party girl. Still, something about her doesn’t add up, and I’m not sure if that’s intriguing or just annoying.