I consider the option of my knife in his throat and the option of throwing the vodka I’d purchased him in his face, and weigh them as Yuri looks at me dumbly.
“This is good information,” he insists. “Listen.”
“I don’t want to hear about Obelensky,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “I know all I need to know about him. I asked you fornewinformation.”
“Thisis,” Yuri insists, reaching into his pocket. “Look.”
He unfolds a photo, pushing it across the table towards me. It’s a poor copy of one, actually, but in color, so I can see more details of what’s in front of me.
What’s in front of me, however, makes no fucking sense.
It’s a picture of a woman–a stunningly gorgeous one–in gold lingerie with her back against a stripper pole in the middle of a stage, her hands stretched above her head to grasp it. Her dark hair is wild around her face, her eyes wide as if with stunned pleasure, her back arched deeply, her lips parted. She’s a statue of lust, a work of lewd art cast in poorly taken photographic form, and the moment I see her, I feel a deep bolt of arousal that I haven’t felt in some time.
My cock twitches in my jeans, hardening instantly at the sight of the dark-haired woman. I do my best to ignore it, although it’s difficult. I haven’t been with a woman in a while, too caught up in my search for information and my reticence to bring anyone back to my shithole of an apartment, and the perfect figure of the woman in front of me arouses every slumbering primal instinct I have all at once.
In fact, I can’t recall having been this turned on byanyone. Certainly not a grainy photo.
“Who the fuck is this?” I ask irritably. “I ask for information, and you bring me an ad for an escort?”
“A stripper, at a club in another part of town,” Yuri corrects me blandly. “And she’s Obelensky’s daughter.”
He lets that last bit of info land on the table like a mic drop, reaching for his vodka with the barest hint of a victorious smile. “I told you it was good.”
I stare at him as if he’s lost his mind, which he absolutely fucking has. “That’s not fuckingKonstantin Obelensky’sdaughter,” I tell him flatly, laughing. “You’re out of your goddamned mind. Natalia Obelensky disappeared right after the break-in at Obelensky’s compound. Besides, that woman isn’t her.”
“It is,” Yuri insists. “I wouldn’t have brought it to you otherwise. Knowing your–temper.”
I shove the photo back towards him, grimacing irritably. “This isn’t her. Natalia Obelensky was a blonde and notoriously vain. And even if she did decide to dye her hair and masquerade as someone else, she’d never set foot in a place like that.”
Yuri frowns. “Take a closer look,” he insists, pushing the picture back towards me. “Look. It’s her. My information is good. I’m sure of it.”
I lean forward, peering closer at it in the dim light, trying to keep an open mind. “This is ridiculous,” I mutter, but I try to see what someone else might have noticed, if there could be a grain of truth.
Natalia Obelensky is–or was–the only legitimate heiress to a massive Bratva fortune, the daughter of a vicious and powerful man, a woman who lived her life surrounded by luxury. A prima ballerina with multiple accolades, classically trained, beautiful and accomplished, and desired.
The idea that she would so much as set foot in a club like that at all is insane, let alone that she mightdanceat one.
But as I look closer, I can see a hint of possibility.Very slender, small-breasted, not your typical exotic dancer. Lithe, muscled legs, though that could be from the pole.Classic features, except for the dark hair.
What stands out to me the most, though, is her bearing. I’ve been to many a strip club, from seedy to the most expensive and luxurious, the kind where only a thousand men hold exclusive memberships for themselves and a guest. In all that time, all those clubs, all those dancers, I’ve never seen a stripper with the kind of bearing this woman has.
She looks like a goddess, a statue, poised and perfectly posed, her entire body holding the most graceful of movements the instant the photo was taken. She looks like nothing I’ve ever seen.
She looks like a ballerina.
At that moment, a hint of doubt enters my mind.
I need to find out for myself.
I glance up at Yuri, narrowing my eyes. “Where was this taken?”
He grins, holding his glass of vodka towards me in a mock toast. “See! Yuri’s information is good,da!”
I grit my teeth. “The name of the club.”
“TheCat’s Meow. Kind of a shithole, to be honest. I was surprised a girl like that would work there. But then again, that makes sense, right? No one would expect to find her there.”
I don’t want to let Yuri know that I’d had similar thoughts. No sense in letting his ego get too big. “I’ll look into it.”
I push his envelope of cash discreetly across the table, sweeping the photo off of it. Yuri pulls a distressed face as he watches me fold it up.
“Aww, no,” he complains, even as he reaches for the money. “I was going to take that with me.”
“I don’t want to know what you’d planned to do with it.” I tuck the photo away, and as I do, I think of another folded photo, another woman with lighter hair and a sweeter smile.
You’d better hope I don’t believe you’re Natalia Obelensky, whoever you are.
Because when I get my hands on her, Natalia Obelensky is fucking dead.