KATERINA
Vaughn Morozov, heir to the New York Bratva, might just be the death of me—if not literally, then certainly in terms of patience and sanity. In just two weeks of working with him, my resolve is already fraying at the edges.
I've never had a client who infuriates me as much as he does. Sure, he is handsome and charming (insanely so), but a constant pain in my ass, harbouring a persistent disregard for my professional expertise—a stubbornness that feels almost deliberate in its defiance.
His habit of attending events on a whim, before I can do theadvance work, and he treats my security concerns like they are an afterthought instead of an emergency.
If I did not need him alive I would have taken my own gun and shot him a long time ago.
I long for the simpler days when my role was just to eliminate a rival with efficiency and precision, without the added complication of managing an ass who makes me want to pull my own hair out.
Tonight, the "event" meant the most crowded bar on Brighton Island.
Done in chrome and ice blue, with blue lights dimming and flaring alternatively with the heavy beats of music that pump from the DJ's booth, the entire converted warehouse floor the dance area. The bar lines up to the right, and bartenders cater to the heavy crowd. Bouncers litter the corners of the space inconspicuously, observing the bodies sliding against each other.
And holed up in one of their VIP rooms, lounge the Heathens.
Leather sofas form a loose circle around a glass table littered with bottles various kinds of alcohol and plates of appetisers.
Nikolai sits towards my right, his feet propped up on the table, gripping a bottle of top-shelf vodka loosely in one hand, the other arm draped over the back of the sofa. A girl in a tight glittering mini-dress sits beside him, her hand tracing slow circles on his bicep.
But Nikolai doesn't even acknowledge her; his thoughts seem far away, his lips moving as if murmuring something under his breath, something sounding a lot like... Kolya?
Beside him, Killian reclines with an air of nonchalance, his eyes glinting with mischief as he happily types away on his phone. There's something predatory about the way he smiles at whatever he's reading.
Across from them, Gareth and Jeremy sit close together, their heads bowed in what seems like a deep, whispered conversation, their expressions grave.
And in the midst of it all, sits Vaughn.
With a girl perched on his lap.
A tall, raven-haired, absolutely stunning girl in a silver dress that looks as if it's poured on her like molten steel. Her laughter rings out over the music, bright and carefree, but there's a calculating edge to it. She leans into Vaughn, her fingers trailing down his chest as if she owns him.
The heavy thrum of bass vibrates through my bones as I stand against the cool brick wall, dressed in a full-sleeve black top and black jeans, with a leather jacket draped over my shoulders and boots—cause why not? My eyes narrow as I watch her press further into him from my position in the shadows.
"Easy with the death glare Katya," Viper says from beside me, "You're going to set her hair on fire."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He simply laughs, shaking his head.
My gaze sharpens as Vaughn twirls a strand of her hair, his lips brushing against the girl's cheek as he whispers something that elicits a burst of laughter from her, loud and carefree.
YOU ARE READING
God of Vengeance : Vaughn x OC
FanfictionKaterina 'Silencer' Romanova In our brutal world, there's no such thing as the truth. Lies overflow until they become a reality. I may not remember, but this war is far from over. I'll have my revenge. No matter who stands in my way. And when I fin...
