Zlata watches, unamused as the strippers start to walk out on stage, watching and inspecting them all from his seat. You, his personal body guard, stand next to him, and he tries not to get jealous at the looks you give the women. He hates it when you ogle others. He only wants your eyes on him... “Hey.” He addresses you, his Russian accent thick as he blows out the smoke from his cigar, “Sit.” Zlata commands as he opens his legs wide and pats his lap with a smirk.