Chapter 18
Constance
The car drops me off a block away from Club Metron just before nine.
The air is so cold I can see my breath. The thin wrap I threw over my dress does nothing to keep the wind from cutting through me.
The bass from inside the club vibrates through the air, the pavement, even my teeth as I join the line of people stretching down the sidewalk.
I pull my wrap tighter, my heart thudding rapidly.
The fury that’s been boiling inside me since the night of the fire keeps forcing hot bile into my throat.
I’m not afraid, or even nervous, though. I’m eager.
The bomb is set to go off at ten fifteen. I have over an hour to find Kirill.
As I wait in line, I force myself to look bored instead of tense.
Ten minutes pass before one of the doormen, big and barrel-chested with a shaved head, comes down the line, scanning the crowd like he’s shopping.
His gaze lingers on me, then he jerks his chin toward the door. “You,” he says. “Come on.”
I step out of line, hesitating for a moment as he calls out two more women just behind me. We follow him past the glaring people still waiting and into the heat and noise of the club.
Inside, it’s a blur of strobing lights, pounding electronic music, and bodies pressed together tightly on the dance floor.
The air is thick with perfume and sweat.
I drift with the crowd, letting the beat carry me closer to the raised VIP section where a cluster of men in tailored suits and glinting watches are holding court.
Kirill Volkov sits at the center like a king.
He’s handsome in a cold, cruel way, and surrounded by women who look like they’ve been chosen for their beauty and nothing more.
Kirill’s gaze snags on me for one long second, too long, like he’s been expecting me, before he thankfully looks away as if I’m no one at all.
There’s no way past all the guards blocking the stairway to the VIP section. Time is ticking away from me. I’m still frantically trying to figure out how to approach him when large fingers clamp down around my arm.
“You’ve been summoned,” a voice shouts in my ear to be heard over the music. The hand on my arm tightens, while another one goes to work patting me down.
Once he’s satisfied that I’m not armed, the man leads me through the crowd and up into the VIP lounge.
Kirill’s eyes light up the moment I stand before him. He leans forward to set his drink on a nearby table then spreads his arms in a welcoming gesture.
“Well, well,” he says in heavily accented English, leaning back in his chair and throwing his outstretched arms over the women beside him.
“Robert Monroe’s daughter, Constance. I’ve heard a lot about you since that nasty incident at your father’s restaurant.
You’ve been busy since he passed, you and your associate…
Maximo Luciani.” A block of ice settles in my stomach as he speaks.
The bastard knows me. He knows I’ve been working with Maximo. He knows too fucking much.
Kirill continues to smile at me, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Seems Maximo’s been keeping you close. That makes me wonder. Does he value you? If he does, he hasn’t been taking very good care of his valuables, now, has he? Certainly, he shouldn’t have let you wander into my den alone.”
He gestures to the seat beside him as he waves one of the women away. “Sit. We’ll have a drink.”
“I didn’t come here to drink with you, you son of a bitch,” I spit.
The guard who escorted me still has his hand on my upper arm, and I feel it tighten painfully.
The pressure immediately eases, though, as Kirill bursts into laughter.
“Then what did bring you here tonight, princess? Did you intend to seek revenge? Maybe lure me close with that very impressive body of yours, and then… what, strike while my guard was down? A foolish fantasy, for a foolish woman. But let us not speak of water under the bridge. Let us speak of what comes next for you, Constance, and your friend Maximo.”
I need my gun. I need a plan. I need thirty fucking seconds without his eyes on me.
“I need to use the restroom first,” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady.
Kirill chuckles. “Of course you do. But you won’t go alone.” He nods to the man behind me, whose vice-like grip still chains me. “Take her and stand outside the door.” To one of the girls, he adds, “Go with her and watch her.”
This motherfucker…
As I turn to leave, Kirill calls out, “And make sure she doesn’t pull a gun from the toilet!”
The girl frowns and blinks at him. “What?”
“The gun in the toilet, like in the movie The Godfather,” he repeats.
“I’ve never heard of it,” she replies.
Kirill’s smile slips and he sighs heavily. “Forget it. Go.” He waves us away.
The guard practically drags me to the bathroom, then stands outside as the girl follows me in. She leans against the sink to check her makeup, completely ignoring me as I step into a stall, dismissing me as a threat.
I lock the door, then turn my attention to the vent grate located down by my ankles. I quickly spin the loose screws out and pop them free, then pull out the Glock Enzo’s crew stashed for me. My racing pulse steadies as my fingers close around the grip.
That’s when the fucking bomb goes off earlier than it was supposed to.
A loud whump shakes the walls, and a second later smoke pours from the vents. Screams erupt outside, audible even over the thumping bass that continues unabated.
The girl at the mirror and every other woman in the bathroom bolts out the door. I shove as much of the gun into my handbag as I can but keep my grip on it as I push out into the smoky corridor. The guard is unfortunately, still dutifully waiting. He reaches for my arm as soon as he spots me.
“Come with me…” he starts to say.
“Not tonight,” I reply, firing the gun into his leg. His scream tears through the smoke, raw, animalistic, and instantly swallowed by the crowd.
Luckily, the mass of screaming patrons pressing in on me drags me along toward the exit.
I keep the gun hidden inside my bag, even though the bullet tore a hole through the bottom.
It’s not obvious I’m holding a weapon, thankfully, and the sound of the shot was lost in the ensuing pandemonium.
I try to spot Kirill in the crush of people, but he’s gone, likely slipped out like so much smoke from the vents before I can get near him.
The fact that he knew my name still feels like a stain on my skin.
I stay with the crowd and get caught up in the bottleneck by the exit.
Fortunately, the police are there, trying to keep order and guiding people quickly out of the front double doors.
As I’m swept past the officers, hands catch me from behind.
I spin around, ready to fire again, but this time it’s Enzo, his face grim.
“Move,” he barks, hauling me toward a waiting car. “Kirill went out the back. We have to get out of here.”
Enzo practically tosses me into the waiting SUV before jumping in beside me and slamming the door. We peel away from the curb, and the club recedes into the night as we merge into traffic.
My hands won’t stop shaking. Not from fear but from fury.
I’m still trembling from the rush of adrenaline and having to fire the gun. The cold realization of our failure does nothing to ease my nerves. We haven’t killed Kirill Volkov. Not even fucking close.