37
NAT
Irina’s back today and I’m not going to spin it to death—head or heart.
I stopped her in the hall and told her I need to talk to her this afternoon, no excuses.
I could bail. I’m tempted to ghost, pull the fire alarm, invent an urgent report, or declare myself the victim of explosive gastroenteritis.
I’m championship-level at excuses when panic hits.
But no. I promised Alaska, and when I promise her something, that’s Nat’s word.
It doesn’t break. We’re doing this together, one way or another.
Together, with a chorus. Vega signed on. When I told Rashel, she said she was coming too. Rashel has a weird effect: she looks at you and you hit the brakes. For Irina, one glance from her is enough to stop. Works for me. So here we are, the four of us, ready for whatever.
The place is La Sombra Dorada. No sign, no neon.
An unmarked door in a discreet alley, old wood, an iron frame, and a brass knob that gleams like a crooked moon.
The doorman scans us a second too long; no card needed, the guy files our faces in his mental cloud and opens up.
Inside, a charcoal-gray carpeted staircase curves down; it muffles footsteps and the music comes in soft.
The air shifts hard: cooler, just the right humidity, the smell of top-shelf whiskey and waxed wood.
The lighting is exact. Not a spotlight, not a cave. The clientele fits the place. So do I. Silent applause for good taste and for my ability to look like I belong.
From the bar comes a fine chime. Good omen: you drink well here and pay even better.
Behind the bar, bottles sorted by tone from amber to black; dustless labels; big, clear ice that won’t drown your drink in a minute; citrus cut clean, peels shining; a short menu with well-written classics and a couple of oddities for show.
A bartender with perfect hair stirs a mixing glass without theatrics.
In back, low screens and Japanese sheers falling just so. One gesture and everything’s covered; conversation safe, phones in opaque sleeves, watch covered, and deals that don’t walk out the door.
Security doesn’t stand out, but it’s there.
Two cameras camouflaged in ceiling rosettes, tiny lenses lost in the molding.
Discreet exit sign, emergency lighting just enough to keep you from tripping.
None of that corner-bar brawl energy. JARSI uses this place as neutral ground; nobody plays the brute, everyone gets paid what they want, and problems get solved with money or looks, not with punches.
Irina got here first. No visible escort.
She waits in a half-moon private nook, on a low black leather sofa with a small veined marble table.
She’s not staring at her phone or getting distracted by the scene.
She’s got the posture of a woman who just came back from wherever and is already back where she always is—her place, in control.
Light draws a blade along her cheek, a tell she’s tense.
She sees me and doesn’t smile, but she makes room with an inch of a gesture.
Alaska comes in behind me the way she does when she decides not to get in the way: black coat hugging her torso, high ponytail baring the nape of her neck that drives me crazy, face clean, not a speck of makeup—doesn’t need it, she’s perfect natural.
I look at her and my brain blanks; my body just reacts.
Behind her, Vega comes in strong, in her element. Jacket open; that sweet curve in her belly already shows under the silk of her blouse. She moves slower and sits carefully, hand to her belly.
And Rashel, bringing up the rear with her steady stride, neither fast nor slow, with that elegant air that’s her signature. She tips her chin to Irina, the smallest smile.
"Good evening, ladies," Irina says, her voice neutral, but her gaze is already scanning every corner, every person, every shadow.
"Evening," Rashel replies.
"Hi," I add, and it comes out thin. Fantastic, Nat, another round of applause.
Alaska sits to my left. Exactly where I know if I reach out, I’ll brush her. Vega sits on Alaska’s other side, her shield, and Rashel plants herself beside Irina. The perfect seating chart for my heart to go boom-boom nonstop.
The server appears without a sound. Impeccable suit, shoes that don’t make a noise, attentive gaze that doesn’t intrude.
He sets a leather coaster in front of each of us, dead center.
Irina orders vodka in a lowball, no ice.
Rashel, black tea, good and hot. Orange juice, no pulp, for Vega, and a beer for Alaska.
"Sparkling water," I say. Hydration and control; I don’t trust myself.
The waiter nods without writing anything down and disappears. Memory is part of the show, and the show is set up so nobody raises their voice.
I lock my eyes on the veining in the marble so I won’t pin them to the back of Alaska’s neck, adjust my bangs, and breathe through my nose.
My right leg trembles under the table; I cross my legs and shut it up.
Irina gives me a sideways look and I straighten my spine another inch.
Okay, Nat, professionalism. Or an attempt.
I breathe, try to calm down, and count. Yep, the compulsive counter strikes again.
It’s that or bolt. Lamps: seven. Two with golden shades, one dusty, another one flickers and it pisses me off.
Exits: two obvious ones with heavy doors and a bored bouncer, and a third behind that ugly curtain no one looks at, my all-time favorite.
Protocol engaged: thumb on my collarbone, in for four, out for six, shoulders down.
God-tier, not to brag. And still, my lip trembles a little.
I can’t remember a talk that rattled me this much since…
no clue; selective memory’s protecting me.
La Sombra Dorada exists to let out what gets punished or denied outside. Here the walls can take it. And it’s also the only place where Irina doesn’t smash glasses. They’ve got her pegged; they give her thick glassware or straight-up plastic. Vital info for world peace.
I feel Alaska’s knee brush mine. Subtle, direct, electric. I return the touch, a little longer, a little bolder. Her perfume sticks in my nose. Her black nails skim the rim of the empty glass; she glances at me. Tonight. We’re going to tell her tonight. Together. No epic speeches—I know myself.
The waiter sets down the vodka carefully.
The glass sweats, the ice sings. Irina doesn’t drink; she leaves the glass there and looks at me with patience that comes with an expiration date.
Tense fingers, set jaw, foot tapping a drill-sergeant beat.
Nervous. I know. She’s in emotional-sniper mode, and I’m the target who painted a bullseye on her own forehead. Bravo.
I open my mouth. The sentence climbs onto my tongue with all its letters, no plan B, no net, no joke to lean on.
And then the fucking secure channel buzzes in my pocket.
Twice. Amber code. Never fails: life waits for me to inhale before doing its little number.
It’s Alpha. Anton, obviously. I fish out the phone without making a scene, flick my wrist like I’m just checking the time, and still my heart jumps so hard it knocks the air out of me. Short message:
"Change at the entrance. Familiar faces around. Under control. Recommend mirror room."
I look up and Rashel is already watching me. Eyes are enough for us, always. She dips her head an inch: "Easy." Irina doesn’t ask; she observes. Alaska stays still, like she promised. And Vega lifts a hand to her belly without noticing, a new tic since two weeks ago.
"Everything okay?" Irina asks, and it’s not small talk; it’s control.
"All in order," I say, professional tone, and flick my gaze toward the sheer curtain in the back, the mirror room with direct access to the kitchen and from there to the service exit.
The waiter gets it immediately, comes over with professional discretion, and offers to move us to our usual table.
Irina nods. We shift with team sync. No rush, no drama. The fabric parts and behind it is a silent cubicle lined in smoked mirror and wood. The table is small, the chairs comfortable, the light lower. From here, people see us only if we want them to.
I pull the curtain until it seals. I sit with my back firm, angled toward the door and the panel seam, so I can keep watch without making it obvious. My hands finally dry. My head doesn’t.
I look at Irina. At Rashel. At Alaska. The three of them framed in low light and varnished wood. I’ve got the sentence ready. I’ve got the order. I’ve got the reason.
Irina clocks me. She crooks a finger without a sound.
"Talk."
I inhale and open my mouth, but Vega cuts me off.
"I’m going to the bathroom, I can’t hold it, sorry." She touches her side. "And… fuck, I’m seriously hungry. I could eat a cow, and I’m vegan."
"Go," Irina says, without raising her voice. "I’ll order food while you’re gone. That way we don’t waste time."
Alaska gets up with her without looking at me.
A dull thud in my gut. The two of them move as a duo; I don’t think about it anymore, but I feel it.
The inside escort peels off his corner, two steps behind, clean distance.
I don’t move. I’m her head of security, Alaska’s shadow, the one who maps risks and routes.
Today I stay seated at the table where decisions get made.
The leather holds my back. It’s weird not to be glued to Alaska and, at the same time, I breathe easier not having to time their trips to and from the bathroom.
I save my energy for the line. The one that’s going to change the game.
Irina raises two fingers. The waiter appears instantly.
“Five burgers. One vegan. The others, medium. Fries on the side, extra crispy. Two green salads. Sparkling water, another round of tea, and one more vodka.”
“Make sure the mustard’s the house-made kind,” I add. “And small, warm buns.”