CHAPTER 18
SLOANE
The private poker room has transformed as the hours have passed.
The atmosphere, previously tense and formal, is now heavy with a mix of alcohol, fine tobacco, and testosterone.
The smoke from the Cuban cigars forms bluish wisps that dance under the dim light of the chandeliers, creating an almost dreamlike vibe.
We’ve been playing for over three hours. My stack of chips has grown considerably, to the surprise of many at the table. Especially Dimitri, whose eyes darken every time I win a major hand. I don’t know if he’s irritated or impressed. Maybe both.
My contact lenses with the built-in camera have been recording everything: the players' faces, the layout of the room, the business conversations blossoming between hands. Cooper will be ecstatic with the material I’m gathering.
But with every passing hour, an uncomfortable sensation grows inside me. These men are dangerous, no doubt. I’ve heard enough hints about illegal deals to confirm that. But there’s something about the dynamic that doesn’t completely fit with what I’d been told.
They almost seem… normal.
"Another round, gentlemen… and miss," the dealer announces, collecting the cards from the last hand.
As he reshuffles the deck, a young waitress approaches our table.
She’s beautiful, with Slavic features and a delicate figure encased in a black dress much shorter and tighter than mine.
She’s carrying a tray with fresh drinks.
I notice she’s trying to maintain a professional expression, but there’s something in her eyes—a barely contained fear, a tension in her smile—that feels hauntingly familiar to me.
"Your drinks, gentlemen," she says with a thick Russian accent.
Ivanov, the man who has been drinking whiskey like it’s water for the last two hours, turns toward her with a smile that makes my stomach turn. He reaches out, not for a glass, but for the girl’s waist. His fingers dig into the fabric of her dress, wrinkling it.
"You’re much more appetizing than any drink, gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice thick with alcohol. "Why don’t you put that tray down and sit on my lap for a while?"
The girl stiffens visibly but keeps her professional smile. Her eyes, however, fill with silent panic.
"I’m sorry, sir, but I have to attend to the whole room," she replies, trying to pull away subtly.
Ivanov doesn’t loosen his grip. On the contrary, he tightens it. His fingers crawl up the girl’s waist toward the edge of her neckline.
"Come on, be a good girl. I’ll pay double what they pay you to serve drinks," he insists, his voice lower, more threatening.
Something twists inside me. Indignation burns in my throat. I’m about to intervene when, suddenly, a hand closes around Ivanov’s wrist.
It’s Dimitri. His movement was so fast I barely saw it. One moment he was sitting quietly beside me, and the next, his hand is gripping Ivanov’s with a force that turns his knuckles white.
"Let her go," he orders, his voice so low it’s almost a whisper, yet charged with undeniable authority.
Silence falls over the table like a slab. All the players stop, watching the scene with varying degrees of interest. The tension is so thick I can almost taste it, metallic like blood on my tongue.
Ivanov blinks, surprised. He tries to shake off Dimitri’s grip, without success.
"Come on, Morozov," he says with a forced laugh. "I’m just being friendly. Don’t be so protective of the help."
Dimitri doesn’t flinch. His expression is completely serene, but there’s something in his eyes—a frozen fire, a silent threat—that sends a shiver down my spine.
"In this establishment," he says, every word clear and precise as the edge of a knife, "we respect all staff. Without exception. If you want female company, there are specific places for that. This isn’t one of them."
His thumb presses a spot on Ivanov’s wrist that makes the man gasp in pain. He immediately releases the waitress, who stumbles back a step.
"I’m sorry," Ivanov murmurs, rubbing his wrist when Dimitri lets go. "Didn’t think it was a problem."
"Now you know," Dimitri replies, returning to his relaxed position as if nothing had happened.
He turns to the waitress, his expression softening slightly.
"Natalia, right?" he asks. The girl nods, her eyes grateful. "Take a break. Send another colleague with the next rounds."
"Yes, Mr. Morozov. Thank you," she replies, with a bow of her head that creates much more than simple courtesy.
As the waitress retreats, I watch Dimitri with new eyes. There was nothing theatrical about his intervention. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. It was an instinctive, natural act. As if protecting someone weaker was as inherent to him as breathing.
It doesn’t fit the image of the ruthless mobster Cooper had painted for me. This man follows principles, lines he doesn’t cross. Even here, in the heart of his criminal empire, there are rules. There is honor.
He even shows it in front of these powerful men.
I’m left speechless.
The game continues, but my mind is elsewhere.
I watch Dimitri covertly as he shuffles the cards, his long, agile fingers mixing them with the experience of someone who has spent thousands of hours doing exactly that.
His tattoos peek out from his wrists when his shirt sleeves move, symbols of a life I don’t know but am increasingly intrigued by.
Who is Dimitri Morozov really? The brutal mobster the FBI described to me, or the man I just saw defend a waitress with the same fierceness he would use to protect a family member?
Doubts pile up in my mind like chips in a risky bet. The mission that seemed so clear a few hours ago is now shrouded in shadows of uncertainty.
A short while later, the game begins to break up.
Some players retire, taking their losses or winnings.
Petrov has lost a considerable amount to me, but he seems more amused than annoyed.
Wong says goodbye with a formal bow. Sánchez shoots me a final appreciative look before disappearing down the hall.
Ivanov, notably more sober after the incident, approaches Dimitri before leaving. To my surprise, he apologizes again, this time with more sincerity.
"Didn’t mean to disrespect your establishment, Morozov," he says, extending his hand. "It won’t happen again."
Dimitri accepts the handshake with a brief nod.
"The girls are off-limits, Mikhail," he replies. "Always."
When we’re finally alone, I start collecting my chips. I’ve won almost double what I started with. One hundred thousand dollars. A sum that makes me dizzy just thinking about it.
"Leave them," Dimitri says, stopping my hand with his. "We’ll cash them out upstairs."
His touch, casual but firm, sends electric sparks up my arm. He slides a hand onto my lower back, guiding me toward the exit. The heat of his palm seeps through the fabric of my dress, branding my skin like hot iron.
As we walk toward the elevator, his proximity wraps around me like a cloak: his scent—leather, whiskey, that indefinable personal touch—the rhythmic sound of his steps synchronized with mine, the heat radiating from his body.
"You impressed everyone tonight," he comments while we wait for the elevator. "Not many rookies can beat players like Petrov."
"I told you I knew how to play," I reply, unable to hold back a satisfied smile.
"You certainly proved that," he agrees, watching me with an intensity that makes my pulse race. "You’ve also proven to have a special talent for getting into trouble."
The elevator arrives with a soft ding. The doors slide open, and we step inside. The enclosed space intensifies his presence, as if the air itself is charging with electricity. I lean against the opposite wall, needing distance to think clearly.
"About the panties..." he begins, his voice deeper than usual.
"It was a tactic," I interrupt quickly. "To distract them."
"It worked," he admits, with a crooked smile that makes my stomach flip. "Too well."
We stare at each other as we ascend, neither willing to look away first. There is an internal struggle on his face that mirrors my own: desire against reason, instinct against control.
When the doors open on the main casino level, the spell breaks. The noise, the lights, reality—it all comes rushing back.
"I’ll walk you to the penthouse," he says, returning to his professional tone.
As we walk through the casino, my mind goes back to the moment he defended the waitress. The decision crystallizes inside me like a diamond forming under pressure: I won’t hand over the recordings. Not yet. I need to know more. I need to be sure of what I’m doing.
The FBI will have to wait. Harper seems genuinely happy with Alexei. And Dimitri... Dimitri is an enigma I need to solve for myself.
"You’re very quiet," he observes when we reach the elevator leading to the penthouse.
"Just tired," I lie, avoiding his inquisitive eyes as we go up. "It’s been an intense night."
When the doors open into the penthouse lobby, we stand still, looking at each other. I know I should go in, say goodnight, get away from him and the confusion he causes me. But my feet seem anchored to the floor.
"Thank you," I say finally. "For tonight."
He arches a brow, his expression indecipherable.
"For what exactly?"
"For what you did with that waitress," I reply, holding his gaze. "Not every man would have intervened."
Something shifts in his face. A shadow of vulnerability, so brief I might have imagined it.
"It’s nothing," he says, his voice suddenly rasping. "Just keeping order in my house."
"It’s not just that," I insist, taking a step toward him, closing the space between us. "You have principles. Lines you don’t cross."
For a moment, he looks thrown, as if I’ve caught him off guard. Then, his expression hardens again.
"Don’t idealize me, Sloane," he warns, my name sounding like a rough caress on his lips. "I’m not a good man."
"Maybe not," I reply, holding his stare. "But you’re not the monster you pretend to be either."
I clear my throat and take a step back, stepping out into the lobby. It’s my cue to leave. To put distance between us before I do or say something I might regret.
"Goodnight, Dimitri," I say, walking toward the penthouse door and opening it quickly, but I make the mistake of turning around to look at him as I close it.
I see a glint in his eyes. A spark of something beyond desire or irritation. Something remarkably similar to fear.
And I wonder if what he fears is that I might see through his facade, right down to the man hiding beneath it.
Maybe I’m afraid to see him, too.