Bratva Boss’s Secret Triplets by Bella King

Chapter One

MIA

My hands struggle blindly behind my neck as I reach for the stubborn zipper on the back of my tiny black dress, catching itself on my necklace and nearly breaking the chain. “Damn it!” I whisper harshly to myself. My blood sugar must be getting low, because my hands are unsteady and impatient.

I give up on the zipper for now, flopping on my bed and staring at the ceiling. Tonight is the eighth night in a row I’ve worked at the club. My feet are killing me, my skin is breaking out from the heat of the atmosphere, and I’ve broken bottles of liquor and champagne that are worth more than my life.

When I started, I knew the work would be rough.

“It’s not for everyone, you really have to know how to sell yourself to the patrons,”said the fat, bald manager who interviewed me.

I remember struggling not to roll my eyes at that comment. The Miami heat in June torments me, and none of the other girls have been kind enough to show me how to appear sexy and polished under the stress of serving so many people in such a noisy, crowded environment.

Something I noticed immediately upon my first day was that the types of people who frequent this club are… different from what I’m used to. When I worked in a different club on the other side of the city, the kinds of people we attracted were sloppy college students and sunburned middle-aged couples who were trying desperately to rekindle their terminal sex life.

These people are too rich to be college students, too young to be doctors, and too well-behaved to be trust-fund kids. I know there’s something else going on here, but I’m unsure what it is.

I’ve tried prying repeatedly for more information; I know that some of them are regulars and must have spoken with my coworkers on a number of occasions. How is it that nobody will tell me?

I sit up on my bed and fuss with the to my dress zipper again, finally closing it without getting my hair caught. My feet hurt as I place them on the floor slowly, dreading the moment I have to put on my black stilettos again. When I first started this job, I thought the uniform was so chic and cute. Now, I just feel silly wearing it, like I’m pretending to be a model.

I call for a taxi and wait, closing my arms over my abdomen self-consciously as men pass me on the sidewalk.

“Damn bitch, they let just anybody have an ass like that nowadays?” one brazen specimen from across the road yells.

I refuse to engage, staring blankly at the gun-speckled sidewalk until my taxi shows up.

When I see that my driver is female, I sigh heavily in relief, slipping into the back seat and savoring the temporary relief from the sweltering heat.

“You know I see those same guys almost every time I come to your apartment complex?” the taxi driver says. “It’s like somebody’s supplementing their lifestyle of harassing girls like you. Makes me want to fight,” she says, pausing for a sip of coffee.

“Yeah, I recognize them, but they probably see tons of girls like me during their stints at the bus stops. I’m fortunate that they can’t pick my face out of a crowd,” I reply, adjusting my dress a bit.

“Someone ought to strangle one of them. You know, teach them a lesson,” she says, sounding like she wants to do it herself.

Sometimes, I wish I were brave enough to do something so brash, but I’m not the violent type. I’m more analytical and reserved, but people mistake me as shy. It’s not shyness, per say, but an unwillingness to open up to people I don’t trust.

Is that what being shy is? I’m not sure.

As we drive, I gaze out the window at the city streets as the nightlife crowd begins to awaken and take over. Girls just like me can be seen leaving their apartments in their best clothes, no doubt planning on going out to fuck some guy who probably can’t even open a childproof pill bottle as long as he’s wearing the right cologne.

I see it every night at my job now, girls who look like they could be lawyers and accountants in the daylight drinking themselves into next Christmas and flashing their pussies at other equally drunk, equally desperate males. It’s embarrassing to see firsthand.

The driver pulls over to the curb in front of the huge hotel that houses the club I work in. “Good luck, sweetheart,” she says as I hand her some cash.

I smile and exit the cab, gazing up at the height of the skyscraper. At the top of the seventy-fifth floor is the penthouse where a huge patio bar and pool are, and also is my current assignment for the week. Apparently other girls get nervous being that far up, so they have trouble staffing.

Lucky me.

My heels tap the pavement assertively as I enter the building, the excessively shiny tile flooring blinding me as the setting sun reflects from it. A group of businessmen gathers around the elevator as I wait for it, and I immediately feel their eyes on me. They’re all in their mid-fifties or older, but I hold my breath waiting for the moment that they decide to shoot their shot anyway.

“Well, looks like you won’t have to worry about overheating, huh sweetheart?” one of them says, and two other men chuckle a bit.

I give him my least genuine smile as I enter the elevator, making sure to find a spot at the very front and refusing to lose my place. At my refusal to laugh at his insipid and unfunny comment, the man retreats into himself, muttering some nonsense about how people are offended too easily nowadays.

The men are let off at the sixty-fifth floor, which is thankfully only reserved for special meetings for exceptionally rich people who choose to do cocaine while they discuss their company’s annual budget. I have never even seen that floor, as I hear it requires special training.

I breathe out slowly as the elevator ascends further up the staggeringly tall building.

When I arrive at my floor, I can see that almost nobody has shown up yet, save for my coworkers Zayn and Kat. Kat has been training me for two weeks now, and while I feel like I would enjoy her company as a person, she stresses me out very much as a trainer. With her silky, long black hair, long nails, and wide hips, she attracts a lot of attention from the people we’ve serviced, and I contrast her heavily with my small frame, mousy brown hair, and freckled face.

One time somebody even asked if I was old enough to work here. I’m in my twenties, for god’s sake. It’s the small-town look that garners such questions, as though a woman from the sticks couldn’t be working alongside city people.

“Hey Mia, I need you to get started on cutting limes right away, okay? We ran out last night and goddamn Tiffany was probably too coked out of her mind to cut any. You know, it’s a workplace hazard and all, but try not to get too fucked up while you’re on the clock, okay?” Kat says, snippy and abrasive as usual without much need to be.

“Yeah, of course,” I reply, opting for a less aggressive response.

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