Chapter 13 Roran
Roran
Another night in Konfetki. The music booms against my skull, the bass vibrating through my chest like a warning pulse.
Colored lights sweep across the room—red, purple, and gold—casting fleeting shadows over glittering surfaces.
The scent of spiced alcohol and perfume mingles, heavy and clinging, a haze I’ve learned to navigate without flinching.
Bodies sway around me, moving with the rhythm, some lost in their own worlds, others watching, calculating. Glasses clink. Laughter and shouts slice through the beats. Even the floors seem to hum underfoot, sticky in spots, cool and slick in others.
I’ll take it any day. All of it. Every sensory assault keeps me and Diana out of father's direct sight, giving us the slight reprieve we can’t find anywhere else.He knows I’m the best at running this shithole.
As much as the men here are the lowest scum on earth, none of them would dare mess with me.
Especially not when staying on my good side means better girls, same low prices, and extra perks.
They get what they want.
And I get the personal—almost—safety it brings.
I slip in through the back staff door behind the main round bar. The bright lights of the kitchen and dressing rooms area make me blink a few times after the dim haze of the bar.
I walk past the kitchen’s metal counters, keeping my head down, ignoring the three old Russian women prepping light dishes and desserts.
The music fades behind me as I reach the corridor leading to the back dressing rooms. I head for the last door, the one decked out with Tatiana spelled in pink glitter letters—I smirk.
Three years of working here every single night—no breaks, no vacations—and she still manages to look like she’s got life left in her, and apparently, it’s full of glitter and vibrant diva colors.
These days, she only takes VIPs. Higher pay and bigger demands, but also… creepier requests. Very disturbing ones. But I don’t judge. I never do.
I know exactly where they came from, and it’s an upgrade for them—I just keep my head down and keep Diana safe.
“Tatiana,” I call, opening the door and holding up my clipboard with tonight’s reservations. “You’re up next. No VIPs tonight—the stage is yours.”
She stretches her black string panties higher up on her hips until they’re barely visible, then turns to me with a raised eyebrow.
“No VIP? It’s the last day of the month. Daniel always reserves this day for at least three hours in the private suite.”
She tugs up her nipple covers—what we jokingly call the bras here—leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
I sigh, carefully starting with, “Let it slide.” However, it comes across more as a plea than a warning.
“He took Natasha today—”
“He did what?” Her furious screech cuts me off.
“That cheap shit! One time, I told him his special request would cost him extra, and now he’s punishing me?”
Her high-heeled boots click furiously against the floor as she storms to her dresser, shoving out her long black glossy jacket—the one she wears on stage before she sheds it for the hungry bastards outside.
“I’ll take the stage tonight,” she mutters, frowning hard. She knows it’s a lost fight, but she’s not going to stay quiet once Natasha comes back.
“But make no mistake—” she points a finger straight at me, the anger not really directed at me, but I’m used to being the punching bag when needed. “I know Natasha’s been trying to steal Daniel from me for months. You’re giving me Rex and Novax next week.”
Oh no.
The two VIPs who are loyal to Natasha.
This is going to start a full-on war between them.
“You know I can’t promise that,” I try to reason. “It’s the client’s choice.”
She straightens, planting a smug smile across her face. “Leave their choice to me. You just approve it when they request it and keep Natasha away.”
I take a deep breath, running through every worst-case scenario in my mind. But I need Tatiana on stage tonight. I can’t afford to fight both of them at once.
I raise my hands in surrender.
“Fine. If they call for you, I’ll approve it.”
Her grin widens as she ties her white blonde hair up in a tight bun, securing her short purple wig on top. She tugs her butterfly-shaped black silk mask into place beneath it, pinning the straps under the wig so it won’t fall off when she’s spinning.
“Knew I could count on you.” She waves casually and struts out of the room like a diva, her heels clicking away down the hall.
I glance down at tonight’s reservation sheet, tracing the client nicknames with my finger.
Daniel—marked.
The 10 p.m. show—marked. ‘Tat’ scribbled next to it for her bonus later tonight.
“Here you are,” my sister’s voice chirps behind me.
I turn to find her sweaty and breathless, messy bun barely holding together, wearing the loose black sweatpants and oversized T-shirt I bought for her—anything to keep her hidden from the wrong kind of attention.
If that ever fails, we have Bobo—the girls' guard for emergencies. She knows how to call him. She knows where the emergency buttons are hidden across the bar.
She’s prepared.
“I just finished cleaning the last private room available,” she says, “and I got a message from Solas’s man. He said Solas is dead—”
My gasp cuts her off.
“Solas is dead?”
I stare at her to make sure I’m not hearing things wrong.
She nods and hands me her cracked phone.
I told her to cut contact with that man. Clearly, she didn’t listen. But right now, I’m too stunned to argue. I snatch the phone from her, scrolling through the recent messages until I find it.
Kroshka, Solas is dead. Something to do with Maleciandro Spallo, the Italians. My visit will be delayed a few days. I’ll deliver everything to Fedor on Wednesday.
10:05 p.m.
My grip tightens around the phone, white-knuckled.
“Why is he calling you ‘Kroshka’ like you’re his little toy?” I spit, fury boiling over. “And why the fuck did you keep talking to him after I told you not to?”
The words slam out of me too loudly. Her hand shoots out, grabbing my arm and yanking me into the dressing room. The door slams shut behind us with a bang that makes my chest jerk.
Oh, shit. I was too loud.
Every nerve screams. We can’t afford to be overheard. Especially not here. Nobody knows we’re Fedor Morozov’s daughters.
“You’re being unreasonable!” she hisses, digging her fingers into my arms. “I’m getting you that medicine whether you help me or not. I don’t care if he thinks I’m his or that I’m flirting. The second we figure out what’s in that medicine you need, we’re gone.”
I swallow, pulse hammering. The anger I felt a second ago tastes like ash in my mouth now, mingling with the sick spike of panic.
“Di,” I try to keep my voice calm, but she beats me to it, frowning hard.
“You’re not pushing me out of this. I’m in it just as deep as you are. I’m not losing you. Or Mom.” Her words hit like a blade straight to the chest. I have to breathe through it. I can’t break in front of her.
“I can’t help you once you meet him, Di. I can’t bear to lose you.” My voice cracks. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the tears.
“I know the risks I’m taking. And now that Solas is dead, Dad’s going to move the wedding up to gain more manpower. We can’t waste any more time. We need that medicine.”
She stands taller, straight-backed. She’s only fifteen, but she’s already—almost—catching up to my five-foot-seven height. Already too grown.
“If it’ll make you feel better, let’s plan it together.” She tries to meet me halfway, offering peace.
“You can come with me.”
I stare at her, searching for any sign that she’ll back down.
She won’t.
She’s stubborn.
I made her this way.
“Okay,” I say at last. “But I make the plan.”
Finally, a smile breaks across her face. But before she can get too excited, I add—
“If things go wrong, and we don’t get it—you leave, Di. You leave me behind. He won’t kill me. I’m promised to Ivan. He won’t touch me.”
She looks like she wants to argue. I see the defiance spark.
But she presses her lips into a tight line—and nods. “Agreed.”
I let out a long, heavy sigh. “Now go get Svet’s dressing room ready. She’ll be here in an hour.”
She snorts. “She’s always late. You don’t have to worry.”
“I know.” I huff. “That’s why she’ll need everything ready.”
I shake my head as she runs off.
The girls here are in it for the money.
But half of them already act like they own the place.
Maybe they do.
Maybe we all do.
At least until the real monsters come calling.