CHAPTER 23
DIMITRI
But this isn't the time for distractions. Tonight has a purpose.
"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" she asks, breaking the silence that had settled between us for the last few minutes.
I turn onto a side street, steering us away from the hustle of the Strip.
"Patience, Red," I reply, shifting gears with a fluid motion. "The best games aren't announced with neon signs."
The best games aren't held where I told everyone else, either. Only Alexei knows what I plan to do tonight. The official game is at Wong's mansion, but Sloane and I have a very different appointment.
When we finally stop, we're at the back of the Tsarina, in front of a nondescript entrance that looks like any old warehouse. No signs, no visible guards, nothing to indicate it's one of the doors leading to our underworld. We could've gone in from inside the casino, but I wanted to confuse her.
"Here?" she asks, genuinely confused.
"The best security is invisibility," I reply, killing the engine. "The most important places never look the part."
We get out of the car, and I guide her toward the metal door. I punch a code into the side panel and then place my thumb on the hidden biometric scanner. A metallic click indicates the system has recognized me. I push the door open, letting Sloane enter first.
"Welcome to the real Tsarina," I say as the lights flicker on automatically, revealing a concrete hallway that slopes gently downward.
Her eyes widen slightly; her breathing speeds up. She's nervous, but I can also see curiosity brimming in her gaze. Like a moth drawn to a flame, knowing it could burn, but unable to resist.
"What is this place?" she asks as we start descending the hallway.
"The game is on level three," I explain, deliberately vague. "It's a private area, only for very select guests."
I don't mention that "level three" means three floors underground. I don't mention that we're entering the heart of our illegal operations.
I want to see what she does. I want to confirm my suspicions.
The hallway ends at an industrial elevator. Unlike the one in the casino, this one has no pretensions of luxury. It's purely functional, designed to move cargo... and occasionally, problems.
When the doors close, the confined space amplifies her presence.
Her perfume—vanilla with a citrus twist that's become my personal addiction—wraps around me like a ghostly caress.
We're so close I can make out the racing pulse in her neck, the slight dilation of her pupils, the way she wets her lips with the tip of her tongue.
My body reacts instantly. The memory of our encounter in the dressing room, of her skin under my fingers, of her muffled moans against my hand, surges like liquid fire in my veins.
Focus, Dimitri. This isn't personal. It's security.
It's such an obvious lie I almost laugh at myself.
The elevator stops with a slight jerk. The doors slide open to reveal a lobby that contrasts violently with the industrial hallway: walls paneled in dark wood, warm ambient lighting, authentic Persian rugs.
To our right, two guards dressed in impeccable suits bow their heads slightly in acknowledgment.
"Mr. Morozov," one of them greets, his Russian accent thick like honey. "The room is ready."
"Thanks, Leonid. Miss Murphy is my personal guest. She has access to all areas tonight."
I catch the flash of surprise in Sloane's eyes, quickly replaced by something more calculating. She's grasped the importance of what I just granted her.
The trap is set.
I guide her through double doors that open into a room that makes the casino's look modest by comparison. Antique crystal chandeliers, furniture that belonged to Russian tsars, priceless Orthodox icons on the walls. And in the center, a single poker table surrounded by eight leather chairs.
Unlike last night, there are only four players already seated here. All men, all extremely dangerous, all with direct connections to the world we try to keep hidden.
"Dimitri Mikhailovich!" one of them exclaims, a Russian in his sixties with a face pockmarked by smallpox scars. "We thought you weren't coming."
"Korsakov." I greet him with a nod. "You know I never miss one of your games."
I make the necessary introductions, watching carefully how Sloane interacts with these men. Her smile is perfect, her posture confident but not defiant, her tone respectful without being submissive. An impeccable performance.
Too impeccable.
When we sit down, I discreetly pass her an envelope.
"Your buy-in for the night," I say quietly. "Remember the rules."
"What were they?" she asks with that defiant smile that makes me want to kiss her and strangle her in equal measure.
"Don't leave the table," I improvise, knowing perfectly well that's exactly what she's going to do. "Don't ask personal questions. And don't leave my side."
She nods seriously, but I can see the calculation in her eyes. She's already planning her escape.
Perfect.
SLOANE
This place is a labyrinth of sinister opulence.
While I pretend to focus on my cards, my senses absorb every detail of the surroundings.
The gambling hall, with its luxurious finishes and artwork that probably belongs in museums, is just the tip of the iceberg.
Through the cracked doors, I glimpse other rooms: a lounge with screens showing what look like security systems, a room with armored glass display cases containing. .. are those antique weapons?
I'm in the heart of the Morozov empire. It's not the same place as last time. This is where the real business happens. Right where I wanted to be. Right where the FBI sent me.
So why do I feel like a traitor?
I curse myself. I need to take advantage of the opportunity.
The game drags on. The men around me speak in English heavy with diverse accents, occasionally slipping into Russian when emotion takes over.
Their conversations are fascinating fragments of a world I never should have known: transport routes, unspecified "merchandise," family names that sound vaguely like criminal organizations.
Everything Cooper would want to hear.
Dimitri seems strangely relaxed, playing with nonchalance, drinking whiskey, allowing me to exist at his side without his usual predatory surveillance. He's too relaxed.
What's going on?
After a few hours, when alcohol has loosened tongues and attention spans, I decide I have to seize the opportunity. I might not get another one, and I need answers about Dimitri.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," I say, standing up with a polite smile. "I need to use the restroom."
"Down that hall to the right, my dear," Korsakov indicates, pointing with his cigar.
I look to Dimitri for his approval and see him nod. Perfect. I feel Dimitri's eyes following me as I walk away. He says nothing. Just watches me, unperturbed.
It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but not for the reasons it should.
In the hallway, instead of heading to the restroom, I keep walking. My heart hammers in my chest as I move down the dimly lit hallway. Each step takes me deeper into unknown, forbidden territory, each door promising secrets that could confirm or deny everything I've been told.
The first door I try is locked. The second, too. The third opens silently.
I must have lost my mind to dare do this.
The room looks like an accounting office, with metal filing cabinets and a computer on an austere desk. Too mundane for the setting. Which makes it suspicious.
I approach the desk, conscious of the ticking clock. I open a drawer: folders labeled with numerical codes. Another drawer: records that look like financial transactions, but with encrypted names.
Money laundering , I think immediately. The proof Cooper craves so much.
I leave the room and continue my exploration, pushing deeper into the complex. The hallway becomes more utilitarian, the lights colder, the atmosphere more oppressive. No more pretense of luxury here.
A metal door with a small observation window catches my attention. I peek in cautiously.
My blood freezes.
It's an interrogation room. Or something worse. White tiled walls to facilitate cleaning. A drain in the center of the floor. A metal chair with straps. A table with instruments I prefer not to identify.
A torture chamber. There is no other possible explanation.
Reality hits me like a fist to the gut. Everything the FBI told me was true. The Morozov brothers aren't simple casino owners. They're criminals, torturers, probably murderers.
Dimitri is exactly what Cooper warned me about.
How could I have doubted? How could I have let myself be carried away by physical attraction, by moments of apparent humanity, by my own stupid hope?
I keep moving, now with renewed urgency. I need to see more, confirm everything, get evidence.
The hall ends at another metal door, heavier than the previous ones. I push it, and to my surprise, it gives.
I enter what can only be described as a cell block. Small rooms with bars, like modernized dungeons. Most are empty, but there are signs of recent use: a crumpled blanket, drag marks on the floor, a dark stain I prefer not to analyze.
I'm so absorbed in my discovery that I don't hear the footsteps until it's too late.
"Interesting, isn't it?"
Dimitri's voice, dangerously soft, startles me. I spin around to find him leaning against the doorframe, blocking my only exit. His posture seems relaxed, but I recognize the controlled tension in his shoulders, the alertness in his eyes.
He's a predator about to pounce.
"Dimitri." My voice sounds firmer than I feel. "I got lost looking for the restroom."
A humorless smile curves his lips.
"Of course. The restroom with cells and bars. A classic in interior design."
He pushes off the door and advances toward me with measured steps. Instinctively, I back up until my back hits the cold wall. He's playing with me, allowing me to feel the fear, enjoying my vulnerability.