Chapter 32
Anton
Boris knocks twice before the door opens. He never bothers waiting for permission.
He steps in wearing a full tux: black jacket, crisp shirt, bow tie done right. It takes a second to recognize him. Gone is the hoodie, the smart-ass tech gremlin who lives on caffeine and sarcasm. Tonight, he looks like someone who belongs at a gala, not behind a keyboard.
“Package delivered,” he says. “Our girl’s inside.” The door clicks shut behind him.
I’m standing by the window of the Westside Hotel, eight floors up.
It’s 7:30 PM; the sky’s already gone dark, bruised purple fading into black.
Across the street, the Imperial burns bright, every chandelier, spotlight, and camera flash competing for attention.
The red carpet glows like a vein, a trail leading straight into the ballroom’s mouth.
From here, I can pick out faces: the valet line, a swarm of photographers, Caleb Whitfield smiling like he owns the city.
My heart does that thing it shouldn’t—just stops for a beat when I see her.
She steps under the awning, and the lights hit her—emerald satin, catching every flash like it’s made of water and fire. The dress fits her like it remembers her shape. She pauses for half a second under the cameras, calm face, steady hands, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.
Caleb’s beside her, smiling for the reporters, his hand hovering just a little too close.
I want to break his fucking wrist. Suka blyat.
He talks, she nods, but I know the difference between nerves and discomfort. From up here, I can read both.
Lev is at my shoulder before I register him moving. He’s bored for two seconds, then curious. He shifts to the window and leans in, eyes narrowing.
“Yeah,” he says, low. “She looks like a damn cover model.”
I turn away. Eyes back on what matters.
Dima’s on the couch loading a small pistol, checking the slide like it’s muscle memory. Lev’s sprawled backward on an armchair, chewing on a mint he stole from the minibar, already dressed in his tux but somehow still looking like trouble.
“How’s she holding up?” I ask.
“Shaky hands, but she’s smiling. Whitfield’s eating it up.
He walked her in through the red carpet entrance—press lights, reporters, the whole thing.
Security didn’t even blink.” Boris swipes the tablet.
“She’s wearing both signals. Bracelet’s transmitting clean, watch mic is live.
And the earpiece,” he taps his ear, “works like a charm.”
Lev steps away from the window, muttering something under his breath as he crosses to the minibar. He grabs the bottle of whiskey and pours two fingers into each glass like the silence is pissing him off.
“Guy’s hand was practically on her back,” he mutters. “You want me to shoot him before dessert?”
He’s not kidding. And it’s not just me.
Every man in this room would burn that ballroom to the ground if she said the word.
He walks over and drops one of the glasses in front of me with a soft thunk.
“You’re gonna need this.”
I sit down on the couch. The tux is tailored, but it still feels like a cage—tight across the shoulders, collar stiff against my neck. I’d rather be in black fatigues with a rifle on my back. But this is the part where we lay it all out.
Boris drops his gear case on the table, opens it, and starts checking frequencies.
“Ray Bishop’s team is in place,” he says. “Four unmarked cars around the block, two plainclothes inside the ballroom posing as casino reps. They’re waiting for the first digital transfer before moving in.”
I cut him off. “And our people?”
Dima answers before Boris can. “Fifteen on standby. Split between the service corridor, loading dock, and both exits. Two snipers across from the ballroom, four drivers ready for extraction. Everyone’s armed and waiting on my signal.
” He sets the pistol down, calm as ever.
“If Timofey’s men start shooting, we end it fast.”
I nod once. No questions needed. Dima’s word on security is final. Always has been.
“Which means,” I say, sliding my cufflinks into place, “we make sure the data gets through before Caleb’s system cycles the transfers.”
Lev’s already back at the minibar, one hand braced on the counter. He pours himself a second glass, slower this time, like the burn might take the edge off. He doesn’t look over when he speaks.
“You think Timofey already knows?”
I pick up the glass he left for me—whiskey on the rocks, sweating at the edges—and down it in one go. The ice hits first, then the burn. Sharp. Good. Keeps me focused.
“I think he’s known for a while that we’re protecting her,” I say. “The gala’s Caleb’s show, but Timofey’s hijacked it. He’s using it to draw me out—make it look like I’m part of whatever she’s carrying. He gets proof, he gets an excuse to pull the trigger.”
Boris scrolls the tablet, the live map flickering between feeds.
“And what he doesn’t know,” he says, “is that Ray Bishop’s team is parked outside waiting for Caleb’s transactions to hit. Once those accounts move, Ray gets his evidence—and Timofey’s stage turns into a crime scene.”
He sets the tablet down and flips a switch on the signal hub. Lights blink green across the board.
“I’m patching us in,” he says. “Watch mic’s live. You’ll be able to hear her. And she’ll hear us—once you say the word.”
I nod once. “Do it.”
He taps his earpiece. “Comm check—three, two—”
Static clears.
And then—
“…must be Mary Sullivan.”
That voice.
My spine straightens. Not because I’m surprised—because I recognize it.
Timofey.
Calm. Polished. Snake-oil smooth. Like always.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” he says. “You’re even more beautiful in person.”
A pause, then Mary’s voice, lighter than usual. “Um. I’m sorry, who are you?”
My hand curls around the glass.
“Timofey Volkov.” Smooth. Too smooth. Like he’s introducing himself at a networking event instead of circling prey. “I’m an associate of Mr. Whitfield’s. We’ve been working together on some… investments.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Oh.” Mary’s voice is careful. Polite. “That’s… nice.”
There’s a shift in background noise. Fabric rustling. Footsteps closing distance.
The way his breath hitches. The way the mic picks it up. He’s leaning in.
Then I hear it.
Not the kiss. The inhale before it. The pause predators make.
I know that sound.
He fucking kisses her. And smells her while he does it—like he’s taking inventory.
That fucking creep.
Then his voice, right against her ear, barely a murmur: “You don’t know me yet. But I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”
And that confirms it. He knows.
Lev exhales. “There it is.”
We go quiet. Static fills the gap for a second, then through the feed comes a tight, sharp inhale—Mary’s. Short. Forced. Like someone holding a match too close to a fuse.
She swallows. You can hear it, small and hard, over the mic.
When she speaks again, the calm is gone. Her voice is clipped, careful. “I… should find Mr. Whitfield.”
“Of course.” Timofey’s voice is smooth again, like he didn’t just threaten her. “Enjoy your evening, Mary.”
The glass in my hand cracks. A single fracture running down the side, whiskey seeping through my fingers.
My jaw clamps hard enough to ache. Heat crawls up the back of my neck, that dangerous edge I keep buried, scraping at the surface. I never let it show. Not in front of anyone. But right now, every man in this room knows I’m seconds from putting a bullet through his skull.
Lev catches it, smirking without humor. “Relax. She’s fine. Timofey won’t make a move with all those cameras around. Not yet.”
“Not until he gets what he wants,” Dima adds.
“Which is?” Boris asks.
“Us,” I say. “He wants proof I’ve been protecting her. He wants a reason to pull the trigger.”
No one argues. The silence that follows is the kind that comes before storms.
I reach for my holster, check the safety, slide it beneath my jacket.
“We stick to the plan. Dima, you and Lev stay by the service elevators. No one gets out through the back without your eyes on them. Boris, keep Ray updated on movement and make sure those uplinks don’t crash. I’ll move in later, once the speeches start.”
Lev grins. “You planning to crash the party or play the mysterious investor card again?”
“Whichever gets me close enough to shoot if things go bad.”
Lev snorts. “Romantic.”
I stand and walk back to the window. The Strip hums below us, loud and alive. Across the street, the Imperial’s mirrored tower glitters under the lights. The reflection hides everything—the lies, the money, the people waiting to die if this goes wrong.
“Let’s finish this,” I say.
Dima stands. Lev cracks his neck.
Boris taps the last keys, eyes skimming a wall of code like it’s a grocery list.
“Earpiece is on. She can hear us and talk back.”
Lev grins, that feral kind of excitement creeping in.
“Sweet. Been dying to see that ublyudok get what’s coming.”
Dima stands, picks up the second pistol from the table, and slides it across to Boris without a word. Boris catches it, tucks it into the side holster under his blazer, eyes still on the screen.
“Ten minutes till the speeches start. Cameras’ll be fixed, lighting drops. Good time to move into position.”
Dima nods once. “We’ll be in place before the lights dim.”
Lev rolls his shoulders, grinning. “Someone play the national anthem. I’m feeling patriotic.”
Then—
A soft crackle in the comms. Barely a breath.
Then her voice. Tentative. A little shaky. Like she’s not sure she’s supposed to be talking.
“Hello… um… can you hear me? Over.”
The room stills.
My jaw tightens.
We can’t see her anymore—not from here. But hearing her? That’s worse. It’s raw. Immediate. Like she’s inches away and I still can’t touch her.
Everything in me pulls tight. Controlled. Dangerous. Ready.
I answer, low and even. “We hear you.”
And I start moving.