CHAPTER 10
SLOANE
"It's too much," I murmur, unbuttoning another button of my black blouse.
I look at myself in the full-length mirror in my room, evaluating myself with a critical eye.
The reflection stares back at a woman I barely recognize: hair down in artfully tousled waves, makeup heavier than I usually wear, the blouse revealing enough to draw stares, jeans fitting like a second skin, and heels that add four inches to my height.
It's not my style, but that's exactly the idea. I'm not dressing for myself tonight.
I button the blouse back up. Too obvious. I don't need to look like a hunter; I need to look like easy prey. There's a subtle but crucial difference.
It's been four days since my arrival in Las Vegas, and the only thing I've managed to confirm is that The Tsarina has as many security levels as a military base.
My Russian bodyguards follow me everywhere during the day, and the areas of the casino where I might find relevant information are more protected than Fort Knox.
I need a new approach. And my best option lies in the Molotov Lounge, the exclusive bar on the casino's main floor.
According to the info on Cooper's flash drive, that bar serves as a meeting point for executives and VIP clients, with direct access to the lower levels. If I can sneak in through there...
I dab a final touch of perfume on my neck and wrists.
It's stronger than what I usually use, but tonight I'm playing a role.
The lonely girl looking for company. The perfect gateway to access restricted places.
I'm sure those VIP clients have access to the lower floors, into the underworld.
I just need one of them to take an interest in me so I can tell him I want to play an underground poker game.
I thank God I know how to play poker so well.
I never thought it would be a useful skill.
I briefly consider the option of seducing Dimitri to get access, instead of a stranger.
The thought sends a treacherous shiver down my spine.
But I discard the idea as quickly as it arises.
That man affects me in a way I can't control.
If I tried to seduce him, I'd end up losing control of the situation.
And we'd probably end up killing each other.
.. or in bed. Neither option would help me with my mission.
Nor with the confusion reigning in my head.
It's better to find a simpler target. Some mid-level executive with access to restricted zones and an ego inflated enough to want to impress a girl.
I step out of my room just as Harper emerges from the master bedroom.
"Wow," she exclaims, her eyes scanning my outfit. "You look stunning. Going hunting?"
"I just need a little nightlife. Excitement," I reply, trying to sound casual. "I was thinking of going down to the casino bar, having a drink. You know, look at something other than law notes for a while."
Harper nods sympathetically.
"I get it. Sometimes this place can feel like a gilded cage." She pauses. "Want company? I could join if..."
"No, no," I interrupt quickly. "You rest. Besides, I'm sure Alexei will want to have you all to himself when he gets back."
A soft smile lights up her face.
"Probably. He's been in meetings all day."
Meetings . I wonder what kind of "meetings" a Russian mafia boss has.
"Don't wait up," I say, heading for the elevator. "I might be late."
The Molotov Lounge is exactly what you'd expect from a high-end casino bar: dim lighting that makes everyone look ten years younger, obscenely expensive leather furniture, glassware that likely costs more than my monthly rent in Brooklyn, and a clientele that oozes money from every pore.
I slide up to the bar, conscious of the eyes following me. Soft jazz vibrates at the perfect volume for intimate conversations. The scent of fine tobacco, expensive perfume, and aged whiskey permeates the air, creating an atmosphere of decadent exclusivity.
"What can I get you, miss?" The bartender, dressed in a vest and bow tie, materializes in front of me with the quiet efficiency of someone used to demanding clients.
"A Negroni, please," I reply, choosing something I can hold for hours without actually drinking. I need to keep a clear head.
While the bartender prepares my cocktail, I discreetly scan the room. It's an interesting mix: executives in expensive suits likely closing deals out of the office; VIP players celebrating wins or drowning losses; and a few overdressed women who could be high-end escorts or trophy wives.
My gaze lands on the hallway at the back, next to a discreetly positioned guard. An entrance to some private area, maybe. A potential destination.
The bartender places my cocktail in front of me, a perfect balance of deep red in a cut crystal glass.
"Courtesy of the house," he says with a slight bow.
I arch a brow.
"Does the house treat every woman who's alone?"
The bartender gives me a professional smile.
"Only Mr. Morozov's special guests."
My pulse races. Dimitri? Or Alexei?
"And which of the two Mr. Morozovs should I thank?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light.
"The establishment belongs to Mr. Alexei Morozov," the bartender replies, diplomatically evasive. "Enjoy your evening, miss."
He's barely finished speaking when I notice a presence beside me.
"Is this seat taken?"
I turn my head to find a middle-aged man, perfectly coiffed graying hair, a suit that screams custom-made , and a smile he's practiced in the mirror.
"Not right now," I reply, neither inviting him nor rejecting him.
He takes that as an invitation, of course. He sits and orders a whiskey neat before turning to me with the confidence of someone used to getting what he wants.
"First time I've seen you around here," he says, his eyes roaming my body with a boldness intended to be flattering. "I'd remember."
And so the parade begins, I think, mentally bracing myself for the game.
For the next hour, it's like I'm a magnet for men with worn-out pickup lines and practiced smiles. The graying executive is replaced by a professional poker player, who in turn yields the floor to a tech entrepreneur who won't stop talking about his startup.
I keep the smiles polite, the answers vague, the casual touches on their arms when they say something "funny." But my attention is divided, always returning to the back hallway. I've noticed a few people speak to the guard and then not return. I need to find out what's back there.
The most frustrating part is that none of my suitors seem to have access to that area. They're wealthy clients, but not part of the inner circle.
And the worst part: I realize I'm not in the mood for this.
The idea of flirting with these men, of feigning interest to get information, suddenly seems exhausting.
Every fake smile, every polite laugh at their mediocre jokes, every time I have to suppress a yawn while they talk about their cars or investments. .. it's slowly killing me.
Focus, Sloane. It's part of the job.
But I can't help wondering: what would Dimitri say if he saw me now, surrounded by these men? Would he care? Would he be jealous? Or would he just walk past, indifferent?
The thought irritates me. I shouldn't care what that Russian brute thinks.
Finally, after politely declining an invitation to "go up and see the presidential suite," I decide I need a new approach. No one is offering me access to the area I need, and I can't keep drinking ice water pretending it's vodka all night.
"Excuse me," I tell the Wall Street trader who's spent ten minutes explaining his investment strategy. "I need to use the restroom."
I stand up, conscious of his gaze following the sway of my hips as I walk away. The restrooms are at the beginning of the guarded hallway, which gives me the perfect excuse to get closer.
The music grows fainter as I move away from the main bar area.
The hallway leading to the restrooms is elegantly decorated with black and white photographs of old Las Vegas.
I walk past the guard, who gives me a brief nod.
I push through the door to the women's restroom, making sure he sees me enter.
The restroom, like everything at The Tsarina, is ridiculously luxurious.
Marble, gold, Egyptian cotton towels. I wait patiently, counting down the minutes.
When I calculate that enough time has passed, I peek out.
The guard is speaking into a small device on his wrist, distracted. It's now or never.
Instead of returning to the bar, I turn in the opposite direction, venturing deeper into the hallway. My heart hammers in my ears as I move with quick but silent steps. The floor muffles the sound of my heels, and I'm grateful the dim lighting helps me go unnoticed.
The hallway widens, revealing an elevator bank with security panels.
Bingo. This isn't for regular guests. Adrenaline floods my system as I approach, feigning a confidence I don't feel.
Will I need a key card? A code? I start searching the sides of the elevators to see if I can figure out how to activate them.
I never get to find out.
"Care to explain what you're doing here?"
The deep voice, with that unmistakable Russian accent, freezes me in place. A shiver runs down my spine—a mixture of fear and something else I refuse to acknowledge.
Slowly, I turn around, coming face-to-face with the last person I wanted to find me in these circumstances.
Dimitri Morozov, in a black suit that looks made to intimidate, watches me with a mixture of suspicion and... desire?
I am officially screwed.