Chapter 25 Mina
MINA
Rope looks the same from the street. Tall doors. Black glass. Music you feel before you hear it. Last time I stood here, I was a woman who had never seen a room like this. I was brave because I had decided to be.
Tonight, I have to be brave enough to be Vitaly’s assassin.
Roman steps out of the car, and the doors part without being touched. Faces turn. Necks tilt. The darkness opens because the room knows how to make space when a man like him arrives. He holds my hand, and I let his touch steady me. We walk through body heat and staggered breathing, all eyes on us.
The air inside is cool. It smells like clean leather, candle wax, sex, and money. Bass pulses under the floorboards in a steady line. The light is low but not hazy. Everything important can still be seen in blue and purple lights.
A woman in a black lace mask walks by with a leash in her hand and a man at the other end. A bartender flips a bottle and does not spill. A couple takes a slow kiss against a pillar. A rope rig hangs in the far room like a threat. Or maybe a promise.
Different scenarios play out in this space for public play.
There are private playrooms too, but voyeurs and exhibitionists have their fun in the main space.
A few bound submissives are spanked or fingered in a dark corner.
On the right wall, a man has his hands tied over his head, and people take turns tickling him. He is completely naked. And very erect.
Last time all of this looked like a storm I had to walk into without a coat. Now it looks like a set. I know the marks. I know the exits. I am not afraid of the rope or the mask or the crowd or their versions of fun.
I am afraid of one man and what he told me to do.
I scan the room without turning my head. Vitaly loves to be seen. He also loves to make you think you cannot see him until he wants it. He will not miss this. He will not miss the chance to watch his father die.
He’s waited his whole life for this.
We walk toward the throne. It sits on the same small black stage where I met Roman.
The steps up are shallow and wide. The seat is high-backed and plain from a distance.
Up close, there is filigree you only notice when you are inside the circle.
The button that lifts the walls is a pressure plate hidden in the arm.
Smooth black walls live under the floor and rise smooth when he requires privacy.
I remember the first time he pressed it and the sound the whole room made when we disappeared. A hush. A lean-in. A feeling like a lid closing on a jar. Luxurious, isolated, and private.
A royal room fit for a king to die in.
He squeezes my fingers once and lets go. He has a face he wears here. Command with a hint of indulgence and more dignity than needed. He sits and becomes the center of attention. I sit on his lap.
His plaything.
His doom.
Lighting warms by a degree. The DJ lowers the bass a little so he can hear the room. Security lines shift. The new head of security—Aldo—moves like a quiet dog that likes only one owner. The old ghosts do not stand in his line.
I feel their absence like a bruise. I know I am alive because men and women died for me. What brought them to that line of work? Money? A sense of honor? I’ll never know.
Whatever their reason, it’s not enough. No one should be in a position to die for someone else.
Yet, that’s exactly what will happen tonight. And I hate myself for it.
He touches my waist with warm hands. He kisses my temple and smiles at the room.
I smile back like the smile is for him. It is for the man I told myself I would betray if I had to.
It is for the man I am praying I will not need to hurt.
If he kills Vitaly first, I will throw the knife into the floor and go to my knees and thank every bad god who came to watch the carnage unfold.
I keep my eyes up without flicking. The mezzanine is a narrow ring with small tables. The stairs to it sit in deep shadow. If Vitaly came with a mask and a membership card, he could sit at the rail and no one would ask his name.
I look for a head that does not move when the music moves. I look for the absence of rhythm. That’s something he’s bad at—dancing, rhythm, blending in with other people. Vitaly Ekimov is many things, but normal is not one of them.
Roman’s mouth finds my jaw. He is careful with the line of my scar even now.
He knows I do not need that anymore. He gives it anyway.
The crowd watches without staring. This is theater.
Everyone is an extra until a spotlight hits.
He kisses me like a man who does not think he could die tonight.
He does it to sell a picture. He also does it because he wants to.
I let him. I sell it back.
If the knife is in the chair, I will feel it when I reach down. If it is not, Vitaly lied for sport. If it is not, he planned to kill everyone all along.
That thought eliminates all the others. I have to find the knife. I have to know he put it there. If he didn’t…if he planned to kill my family regardless of what I agreed to…
No. I can’t think like that. Not now. Not when this is so close to being over.
I have one job. I am supposed to make Roman feel private in public.
I am supposed to smile until the walls rise.
I am supposed to reach under and close my hand on a handle and make the world ripple.
I am supposed to do all of this without giving away that I am counting my own breaths so I do not pass out.
I put my lips to Roman’s ear and say the only thing I can say without lying. “You look good.”
“You look like the reason this place exists.” It would be a line if it came from any other man’s lips. But he means it, and that is worse.
Every compliment, every kiss—it’s all poison to my conscience.
He lifts his hand, and the room changes posture.
People turn their bodies toward us by a degree.
That is all it takes. They want to be seen being seen.
He makes a small motion. Two men move a velvet rope and slide a low table away from the steps.
No one approaches the stage unless invited.
People like to think it is fear. It is design.
He built this room to teach people how to behave in it.
My eyes catch a flash of white near the upper rail.
Not a shirt. A bandage. The head above it has hair cut close.
The posture is a story I know too well. I do not let my face change.
I do not move my head. I keep my mouth on Roman’s and my hand on his tie and I let the corner of my vision do the rest. The man turns and the bandage vanishes.
It could be a trick of light. It could be nothing.
It could be everything.
Vitaly would have a reason to wear a dressing.
He would have earned it this week—too many fights, too many chances for someone to get a leg up on him.
He’s never been afraid to get hurt. According to him, scars make a pakhan look more fearsome, so he welcomes them.
It’s why he lets anyone get close enough to hurt him.
Underworld marketing.
My chest tightens. I loosen it by force.
Roman’s hand slides under my hair and cups the back of my neck.
He is still selling the picture. He is also checking my pulse.
He can feel when I stiffen. I relax against him before he can read it as panic.
I mouth his throat and think about nothing for two counts. Then reality rushes in again.
I try to put myself in Roman’s mind. He says he will kill his son. He says he has no choice. I believe him because I have seen his beliefs turn into action without a pause. I also know he is a father.
I try to imagine lifting my hand against my own child. My brain stops. It is like trying to breathe under ice. The body pauses and then thrashes. I cannot do it. I know I cannot. I would die for them. I could never harm them. The thought makes my stomach turn.
The thought of Roman not doing it makes my stomach turn worse.
“Slow,” I whisper into his skin. “Take your time.”
He hears the words I say and the ones I do not. He slows. His hand firms on my hip. He knows exactly how to make four minutes feel like twenty. He knows how to make a son who thinks he is smarter get impatient.
The slower we move, the longer this takes. The longer this takes, the more likely Vitaly will act out.
We fool around. I keep it within the bounds of what I can live with in front of all these eyes.
Each kiss is guilt and love and sex in one bite.
I put my mouth near his ear and talk without words.
I move my fingers down his tie and stop where it is decent and then move back up.
He slides his hand under the hem of my dress and rests it high on my thigh and leaves it there. The room reads the rest.
I am grateful for the light. The light protects me from my own fear. Darkness would swallow me whole right now. And privacy would be the death of Roman.
I think about the hidden knife. Tucked and waiting. It has to be there. There is no alternative. Something simple that would not be spotted in a sweep if the sweep was for what men expect. Vitaly likes to think he is a magician. He’s a boy with a trick he learned from watching other men.
I slide my palm down the outside of the arm as if I need to steady myself. My fingers drift under by a hair. Wood. Metal. Nothing else. Not yet.
Where the fuck is the knife?
A waiter glides up the left side of the stage with two glasses. He keeps his eyes down. He does not look at me. He sets the glasses on the small table by the step and vanishes. The drinks will not be touched. We are not here to drink.
I force myself to look away from the rail where I think I saw white. I scan the floor again. Two men by a St. Andrew’s cross. One looks up too often. One never looks up. That pair is nothing.
A trio by the bar leaning in. The woman in the lace mask returns with her man and ties him to a low piece of furniture I cannot see from here. They are here to forget the outside world. They are not my problem.
A couple waves at the throne and waits for their wave to be returned. Roman does not oblige. He nods once. They look relieved. They will talk about that nod for a week.
I breathe and slow my own pulse. I try to thread a needle. If I draw this out too long, Roman will decide to raise the walls because that is how this play goes. He will do it for theater and to bait a killer.
If I rush, we will lose the only chance to take Vitaly while he watches. I need him to reveal himself. I need Roman to keep the walls down until then. I also need him to press the button at the exact right second if he is not going to kill his son in front of everyone.
I reach under the left arm as I shift my weight once more. This time, I find a knobby handle. I resent the relief I feel as I grind on my husband’s hard-on.
I hate this plan. And I hate that it’s the only one I’ve got.