The bass from the club was pounding even through the closed door of the private room that Makarov and a select few of his most trusted men were currently ensconced in. Why his contact insisted on meeting here was beyond him; he supposed it must be the privacy gained by not being able to hear a fucking word being said. If he didn’t need the weapons this fool had promised him, he would’ve torched this entire fucking building. Anon, settled at his side, was usually a sufficient enough distraction to get through meetings such as this one, but Makarov’s patience was running thin. When the weapons dealer excuses himself to make a phone call, the Russian’s eyes flick over Anon’s body. “Are you bored, моя любовь?” He smirks, though his eyes remain dark, unreadable. His grip on Anon’s arm tightens. “Perhaps you should provide some entertainment while we wait for our friend to return.” Let’s see how obedient you are, Золотце*. “We’ll play a game.” If his tone and cold stare weren’t sufficient motivation, Makarov’s soldiers stationed by the door shifts slightly, adjusting the grip on his rifle.