CHAPTER 22
SLOANE
The Tsarina Casino never sleeps. At three in the afternoon, when most businesses experience their lull, the giant establishment continues pulsing with artificial life: bright lights, electronic chimes, the occasional laugh of a lucky winner.
Like a living organism, it pumps money and adrenaline through its red-carpeted arteries, keeping its occupants in a state of perpetual, stimulated wakefulness.
I move among the slot machines like an intruder aware of her status. I don't belong here. I never have. And yet here I am, deliberately looking for the man I should avoid the most.
My bodyguards, Sergei and Yuri, dropped me off at the casino entrance after escorting me from the university.
I walk past a group of Japanese tourists loudly celebrating a minor victory, their faces lit by the innocent belief that fortune is smiling on them. If only they knew the house always wins, that every inch of this space is designed to methodically extract every dollar from their pockets...
"Excuse me." I approach one of the employees, a young man wearing a black jacket with the gold Tsarina logo. "I'm looking for Dimitri Morozov. Do you know where I can find him?"
His face automatically adopts a politely confused expression.
"I'm sorry, miss, but Mr. Morozov isn't usually in the public areas of the casino," he replies with a professional tone. "May I ask what you're looking for him for?"
"I'm Sloane Murphy," I say, noting how his expression subtly shifts. "A friend of Harper's. A guest in the penthouse."
Recognition lights up his face. My name clearly appears on some list of VIPs. Or maybe dangerous people.
"Of course, Ms. Murphy." His attitude changes immediately. "Let me make a call to locate him. Would you mind waiting in the Molotov Lounge? It's much more comfortable than standing out here."
I nod and head to the casino's exclusive bar. Unlike the last time I was here, the Molotov Lounge is relatively quiet at this hour. Some executives with late meetings, couples enjoying early cocktails, and the occasional solitary gambler drowning his losses in top-shelf alcohol.
I sit at the bar, ordering a gin and tonic I have no real intention of drinking. I need to keep my head clear for what I came to do.
Fifteen minutes later, I feel a presence at my back before I hear his voice.
"You looking for me, Murphy?"
I turn slowly on the stool. Dimitri is standing barely three feet away, imposing in his black suit with no tie, the top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned to reveal the start of his tattoos.
His face is a mask of studied indifference, but there's something in his eyes—a spark of curiosity, perhaps—that contradicts his apparent lack of interest.
"I need to talk to you," I say simply.
He examines my face for a long moment, as if trying to read my thoughts. Finally, he gestures toward a secluded table in the most private corner of the bar.
"After you."
I follow him, aware of the looks we're getting. Everyone here knows Dimitri, and everyone seems to have a respect for him that borders on fear. When we sit down, a waiter appears instantly, placing a glass of what looks like whiskey in front of Dimitri without him having to ask.
"Well?" he asks once we're alone. "What's so important that you came looking for me instead of waiting to run into each other?"
His scent envelops me even across the table: leather, wood, and a metallic hint that might be from freshly cleaned guns. So masculine and so him that it makes my body react instantly, a treacherous tingle racing across my skin.
"I want to go to a poker game again," I say directly, not beating around the bush.
Of all the things I could have asked for, judging by his expression, this is probably the last one he expected. He watches me closely, his gray eyes scrutinizing every detail of my face, looking for something I can't identify.
"Why?" he finally asks, his voice controlled, almost soft.
"I liked it," I reply simply, but holding his gaze. "I'm a good player. And a winner."
He takes a sip of his whiskey, keeping his eyes fixed on mine. He's evaluating me, analyzing me like a puzzle he can't solve.
"What are you really looking for, Sloane?"
My name on his lips sends a shiver down my spine. Not Murphy, not Red, not any of the distant nicknames he uses to keep me at bay. Sloane. Personal. Intimate.
I'm not going to let myself analyze how that makes me feel.
Does he know I have ulterior motives for what I'm asking him?
"Why does there have to be an ulterior motive?" I counter, trying to keep my voice steady. "Maybe I just like the risk. The adrenaline."
He leans slightly over the table, closing the distance between us. His presence becomes almost suffocating, encompassing my entire field of vision, my entire space.
"Because everyone has ulterior motives," he says, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "Especially in this business. Especially people like you."
"People like me?" My eyebrow arches automatically. "What kind of people do you think I am, Dimitri?"
His name leaves my lips with a familiarity I shouldn't allow myself. It's a privilege I haven't earned, but I take it anyway.
"People who watch too much," he replies, his gaze intensifying. "Who ask too many questions. Who seem to be looking for something more than a simple card game."
We stare at each other across the small table. The tension between us is almost palpable, an explosive mix of mistrust and desire. His pupils are dilated, devouring the gray of his irises. The pulse beats visibly in his neck, an accelerated rhythm that betrays his apparent calm.
"I'm not the only one with secrets here," I say finally, my voice barely a whisper. "Or are you going to tell me you're just a casino security chief?"
The question hangs between us, dangerous, challenging. It's the first time I've insinuated I know, or at least suspect, there's more to his business than meets the eye.
"We all have parts of ourselves we hide, Murphy," he replies, dodging the direct confrontation. "The question is what you're willing to risk to discover them."
My gaze doesn't waver for a second.
"Whatever it takes."
Three simple words, loaded with meaning. I don't know if I mean discovering his secrets or letting him discover mine. Maybe both.
He leans back in his seat, creating distance between us. The tension remains, but there's a subtle shift in his posture, as if he's made a decision.
"There's another game this Saturday," he says finally, his voice returning to a more casual tone. "If you really want to come, I'll pick you up at eleven, like last time."
"Perfect." I nod, and a slight smile curves my lips before I can stop it. "I won't forget to wear panties this time."
The comment sparks a flash of something primal in his eyes. A rush of guilty satisfaction runs through me knowing I can affect him with a few simple words.
"See you Saturday, Morozov," I say, standing up.
As I walk toward the exit, I can feel his gaze following me, as tangible as a caress. I don't look back, but every step I take is charged with awareness of his presence.
I go up to the penthouse with my mind reeling.
Dimitri Morozov is hiding something. I'm absolutely sure of that. The question is what. And more importantly, what am I willing to do to find out?
Part of me, the undercover civilian, the woman on a mission, tells me I must maintain emotional distance, gather information, do my job.
But another part, one that grows day by day, wants to believe there's something real between us. Something beyond the cat-and-mouse game we're playing.
Whatever it is, this Saturday will be crucial. I'll go to that game and keep looking for answers.
Because I need to know if Dimitri Morozov is really the monster the FBI described to me.
Or the man I'm starting to desire with every fiber of my being.
DIMITRI
I watch Sloane walk away—the curve of her waist, the natural sway of her hips, the strength in her posture. She doesn't look back even once, but I know she feels my eyes on her.
I take a final sip of my whiskey, savoring the heat sliding down my throat. I need this liquid fire to counteract the one she's ignited inside me.
I grab my phone and call Viktor. My cousin answers on the second ring.
"I need you to investigate someone," I say without preamble. "Thoroughly. Past, present, connections, everything."
"Name?" Viktor asks, direct and efficient as always.
"Sloane Murphy."
There's a brief silence on the other end of the line.
"Harper's friend?" His voice reflects genuine surprise. "Why? Did she do something?"
"Not yet," I reply, my eyes fixed on the door where she disappeared. "But she's looking for something. And I need to know what it is before she finds it."
"I'll get on it," Viktor says, and I can already hear him typing. "Should I inform Alexei?"
"Not yet," I decide after a brief pause. "Let's see what we uncover first."
I hang up and stare at the empty glass. Sloane Murphy is hiding something. I feel it in my bones, in that instinct that's kept me alive all these years.
The question is: is she a danger to my family? Or just to me?
Whatever it is, this Saturday I'll take her into the true depths of our kingdom. Where I can see what she does when she thinks no one is watching.
And then I'll know if Sloane Murphy is a threat I need to eliminate.
Or a woman who could be my undoing.