CHAPTER 17
DIMITRI
It's five to eleven and I'm already waiting at the Tsarina's main entrance. I hate excessive punctuality as much as I hate tardiness. It's one of my many contradictions.
The hotel lobby shines with its usual opulence: Italian marble beneath my feet, crystal chandeliers overhead, the constant murmur of tourists and gamblers creating a curtain of sound that allows me to think. Or at least try to. Because my thoughts are fixed on only one thing: her.
I'm wearing a black tailored suit, no tie, with several buttons of my shirt undone. A balance between the elegance necessary for my position and the informality the environment where we're going requires. My tattoos peek out slightly from my neck and wrists, a silent reminder of who I really am.
I check my Rolex. It's two to eleven.
I look toward the main stairs just as she appears, and time stops.
Holy Mother of God.
Sloane Murphy descends like an apparition, a vision that instantly makes my throat run dry.
She's wearing a black dress that looks like it was created by the devil himself to tempt me.
Ankle-length, but with a side slit that reveals her leg—her whole leg—with every step.
The neckline, although not excessively deep, frames tits that I dream about every night.
Her red hair falls in soft waves over her bare shoulders, and her lips are painted a red that makes it impossible for me to look away.
She's magnificent. She's dangerous. She's fucking explosive.
Several men in the lobby turn their heads as she passes, following her with looks I know too well. Looks that make me want to gouge their eyes out.
When she reaches me, I realize I've been clenching my jaw.
"Am I late?" she asks, with a smile that indicates she knows exactly the effect she's having.
I try to regain my composure. I fail miserably.
"You can't go like that." The words come out harsher than I intended. "You have to change. Now."
Her smile vanishes, replaced by that defiant expression I've come to know so well.
"Excuse me?"
"This dress." I gesture with a hand that encompasses her whole figure. "It's too much... Everything is too much."
"Too what, exactly?" She crosses her arms, which only succeeds in accentuating her cleavage. God help me.
"Flashy," I reply, lowering my voice. "Provocative. It's not suitable for where we're going."
"You said elegant but not too flashy," she replies, repeating my exact words. "And that is exactly what I'm wearing."
"That"—I point to the slit where her leg is peeking out—"is not 'not too flashy.' That is a fucking magnet for trouble."
Several passing guests begin to cast curious glances our way. Our argument is attracting more attention than I can afford.
"I am not changing," she declares firmly. "I spent two hours getting ready and it's the only appropriate clothing I have for... our business."
I stare at her, torn between frustration and a desire that gnaws at my insides. If I take her like this, every man in the room will devour her with his eyes. But if I insist, we'll create an even bigger scene.
"Fine." I finally yield, stepping closer until I can whisper in her ear. "But if I have to kill someone tonight for looking at you too much, it'll be your fault."
A visible shiver runs through her as she feels my breath on her neck. At least I'm not the only one affected by this proximity.
"Let's go," I say, offering her my arm. "And for the love of God, don't leave my side for a second."
SLOANE
His arm beneath my hand is hard as steel, the tense muscles revealing his inner agitation. Dimitri guides me through the bustling casino, cutting a path through the slot machines and gaming tables with the assurance of someone who knows every corner.
I feel powerful. Dimitri's reaction to seeing me was exactly what I expected. No, better. The way his eyes roamed my body, lingering on every curve, every inch of exposed skin... I've never felt so desired.
It's dangerous playing with fire like this, I know. But tonight I need every advantage I can get.
The contact lenses with the built-in camera feel strange in my eyes, a constant reminder of my true purpose tonight. Guilt threatens to infiltrate my resolve, but I push it back. I'm here for Harper. For the truth.
We stop in front of the guard watching the hallway at the back of the Molotov Lounge.
He's a man built like a tank with the expression of someone who's seen too much.
He nods briefly at Dimitri when he sees him and they exchange a few words in Russian, then his eyes land on me, sizing me up in a clinical, professional way.
Dimitri says something else, his tone suddenly hard. The guard looks away from me immediately, almost as if he were afraid.
"What did you say to him?" I whisper as we start walking again.
"That if he looks at you like that again, I'll gouge his eyes out," he replies casually, like someone discussing the weather.
A shiver runs down my back. Not from fear, but from something much more dangerous. Arousal.
I've completely lost my mind.
The red-walled hallway leads us to the private elevators. Dimitri holds a card up, and the doors slide open silently.
"This elevator only goes down," he explains as we step inside. "Three levels underground. Only a few people have access."
The space is small, forcing us close together. His scent surrounds me: leather, spices, and something inherently masculine. I try not to breathe too deeply, not wanting to give myself away.
"Is there anything I should know before we arrive?" I ask, trying to focus.
He looks at me, his gray eyes studying me with intensity.
"Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't mention your last name. Don't ask what people do for a living. And above all"—his hand lands briefly on my waist, a possessive touch that sends electricity down my spine—"don't leave my side."
I nod, suddenly aware of the seriousness of what we're about to do. This isn't a game.
The elevator stops with a soft chime, and the doors open.
My God.
A lounge that looks like it's straight out of another era stretches out before us. Dark wood paneling, red crystal chandeliers projecting an intimate light, authentic Persian rugs. The scent of fine tobacco, expensive whiskey, and exclusive perfumes creates a dense, almost intoxicating atmosphere.
There are maybe twenty people scattered through the space. Men in suits that probably cost more than my rent for a year. Women with jewelry that could buy a Manhattan apartment. Everyone has that look of someone who knows they are where common mortals could never gain access.
Dimitri greets several people with discreet gestures as he steers me toward a side bar. I notice the looks I get: curiosity, appraisal, barely concealed desire. I also notice how Dimitri's hand tightens on my waist with each of those looks.
"A Macallan 18," he tells the bartender, an older man with an impassive face. "And for the lady..."
"Gin and tonic with lime," I finish, aware I need something I can sip slowly without getting drunk.
While the bartender prepares our drinks, Dimitri approaches an elegant woman seated behind a small desk. They exchange a few words, and then he pulls an envelope from the inside of his jacket. The woman counts the contents—cash, a lot of cash—and hands him a tray of colored chips in exchange.
When he returns to my side, he hands me the tray. Chips worth...
"Fifty thousand dollars?" I whisper, incredulous, mentally counting the chips. "I can't accept this."
"It's the minimum buy-in for the game," he replies casually, as if he were offering me pocket change. "Consider it a gift from the casino."
"Dimitri, I can't..."
"Either you play with this money, or you don't play." His tone allows for no argument. "It's your choice."
I look at the chips, feeling their weight, both physical and metaphorical. With my waitress salary, I could never afford this. It's more money than I've ever had.
But it's also my only ticket into the world I need to investigate.
"Thank you," I finally say, accepting the chips. "I'll pay you back."
A crooked smile appears on his lips.
"Don't bet on that. These players eat beginners for breakfast."
The bartender places our drinks in front of us. Dimitri takes a sip of his whiskey, and I do the same with my gin and tonic. It's perfectly prepared, strong but not excessive.
"The main game starts in ten minutes," Dimitri indicates, leaning in until his lips almost graze my ear. "Sure you don't want to back out?"
His proximity makes my heart race. His hot breath caresses my neck, and for a second I allow myself to imagine his lips on that same spot, like that day at the gym.
"I already told you, I never back out," I reply, looking him straight in the eyes. "Especially when the night promises to be... interesting."
His pupils dilate slightly. Score one for me.
"Let's go then," he says, guiding me toward the back of the lounge. "The main table is over here."
DIMITRI
The private poker room is the inner sanctum of the Tsarina's underworld.
Dim but strategic lighting over the table, leather seats, discreet and silent service.
On the walls, ancient Russian icons alternate with obscenely expensive contemporary art.
A contrast that perfectly reflects what we are: tradition and power, antiquity and modernity.
Sloane takes the seat I indicate, right next to me. The table is occupied by six other players, all men, all dangerous in their own way. I know every single one:
Viktor Petrov, a Russian oligarch with connections in the Kremlin.
Mikhail Ivanov, an arms dealer posing as an import businessman.
Eduardo Sánchez, the Sinaloa cartel representative in Las Vegas.
James Wong, the right hand of the Chinese syndicate on the west coast. And two regulars, legitimate businessmen with enough money and power to buy their entry into this exclusive circle.
Everyone turns their head when Sloane sits down. I can almost feel their gazes raking over her body, lingering on the neckline of her dress, the curve of her neck, her red lips. A wave of savage possessiveness washes over me, mixed with rage.
"Dimitri," Petrov greets me with his thick Russian accent. "I didn't know you were bringing such... charming company."
"The lady is my personal guest," I reply, my tone making it clear this isn't open for discussion. "And a formidable player."
"We're delighted to have her among us." Wong chimes in with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Does this beauty have a name?"
Before I can answer, Sloane takes the lead.
"Sloane," she says simply, with a confidence that surprises me. "A pleasure to meet you all."
The dealer starts dealing the cards. No-limit Texas Hold'em. The first hand is always tense, everyone sizing each other up, looking for tells, weaknesses, patterns.
I watch Sloane out of the corner of my eye. Her face is a perfect mask of concentration. She looks at her cards with a skill that makes me wonder how much of what she's told me about herself is true and how much is fabrication.
The first few rounds go by without big surprises. Sloane plays conservatively, winning a few small hands, folding on the big ones. She's learning, watching. She's smart.
And fucking sexy when she concentrates.
An hour later, the atmosphere has changed. The whiskey is flowing, Cuban cigars permeate the air, and the stakes get higher. Sloane has accumulated almost double the chips she started with. It's not luck. It’s skill.
"Looks like you brought a shark, Morozov," Sánchez comments after Sloane wins another hand. "Where have you been hiding, gorgeous?"
"In Brooklyn," she replies with an enigmatic smile. "We learn to play hard there."
Something in her tone, in the way she holds my gaze as she says it, makes a familiar heat spread through my body. This woman knows exactly what she's doing.
The game continues. At some point, everyone except Sloane, Petrov, and I have folded. The pot is obscene. More than two hundred thousand dollars in chips piled in the center.
Petrov shows his hand: a flush of hearts, an excellent hand. I have a full house, aces over kings. A better hand. I look at Sloane, waiting for her to fold.
Instead, she flips her cards with devastating calm. Straight flush. The best possible hand.
The table goes silent.
"Looks like tonight is my night, gentlemen," she says, dragging the chips toward her with a smile that would make the devil himself blush.
Petrov laughs, a harsh sound, but genuinely amused.
"An exceptional player," he comments. "I bet you could win much more than money tonight, if you wanted."
The insinuation hangs in the air, heavy, explicit. I feel my blood boiling in my veins.
"The lady isn't interested," I reply before Sloane can speak.
"Shouldn't she decide that herself?" Petrov asks, not taking his eyes off Sloane.
To my surprise, she leans slightly over the table, a playful smile on her lips.
"I might bet something more... personal," she says, her voice low, provocative. "Although I'm afraid I'm not wearing any panties to bet."
The revelation sends an electric shock straight to my crotch. The image of her, with nothing under that dress, hits me like a punch to the gut. I can feel how every man at the table reacts the same way.
I lean toward her, my mouth almost brushing her ear, my voice so low only she can hear me.
"If you want every man in this room to keep his eyes, I suggest you stop provoking them like that," I whisper, my tone a mix of desire and warning. "Because if they keep looking at you the way they are now, I'm going to have to gouge them out."
She turns slightly, her lips now dangerously close to mine.
"Are you jealous, Dimitri?" she asks, her breath mingling with mine.
"I'm about to lose my mind," I admit, surprising myself with my honesty. "And believe me, you don't want to see me lose control."
Something flashes in her eyes. Fear? Arousal? Both?
"Maybe," she whispers, "that's exactly what I want to see."
The dealer announces another hand, breaking the spell momentarily. But as the cards fly across the table, I can't help thinking that, of all the dangerous games played underground in Las Vegas, the one Sloane and I are playing might be the deadliest of all.
And the worst part is that we both seem determined to see it through to the end, no matter the consequences.