20. Stefi
20
STEFI
T rue to their word, Q comes through with the guest list in record time. I look through it and quickly home in on the weakest link.
Borys Kawka.
Kawka is married to Zaworski’s sister, Klara, but their marriage is on its last legs. They’ve recently separated, and a bitter and contentious divorce is imminent.
Normally, Kawka wouldn’t be invited to the party, but unfortunately, Zaworski and his brother-in-law are in business together, so leaving him off the guest list isn’t an option.
Luckily for me, Kawka is also in the grip of a full-on midlife crisis. Last week, he brought an escort to his fourteen-year-old son’s birthday party. According to Klara’s best friend’s Facebook post, the scantily clad woman draped herself all over him and embarrassed his long-suffering wife. Klara promptly retaliated by taking up with a twenty-one-year-old bodybuilder.
Words were said, insults were traded, and from the hints both of them are dropping on social media, Zaworski’s party is going to be the next battleground in the couple’s acrimonious split.
Long story short: Kawka is most probably going to hire another escort for this party, and my best way in is to be that woman.
I spend the afternoon painstakingly studying Kawka’s social media history. He has a thing for supermodels—redheads in particular. I can’t be tall and skinny, but the hair I can manage.
I fly to Warsaw the day after my conversation with Q. Once I land, I check into the hotel that houses the nightclub where the party is going to take place. From there, I go straight to a busy fast-food restaurant in the heart of the city and walk into the washroom, where I change into a tight, faded T-shirt and a cheap pair of jeans and don the long red wig I bought in Germany.
Once I’m sure I look the part, I head to the escort agency Kawka uses to apply for a job.
The two-storied building is painted a nondescript gray in color. There are no signs on the outside, nothing that indicates what happens inside the premises. I ring the doorbell and a buzzer sounds, letting me in.
Two women greet me in the lobby. They’re both in their late forties or early fifties, carefully made-up and dressed as if they stepped out of the cover of a fashion magazine. I introduce myself and tell them I want to be an escort, and they look me over critically. “My name is Ivana,” the skinny blonde one says. “And this is my sister, Magda. Tell me why you want to work here.”
I’ve worked carefully on my cover story, that of a down-on-her-luck former escort who needs to get back in the game to be able to afford rent. “I was an escort three years ago, and then I met a guy,” I reply. “He wanted me to quit. But now he’s?—”
“Let me guess,” Magda cuts in, her expression knowing. “Once you became dependent on him, he broke things off with you.”
“Something like that.” I give her an appealing look. “I could really use the work.”
“Hmm.” She circles me, her eyes taking me in, and I do my best not to squirm under her pointed gaze. I feel like a piece of meat. “What color is your hair under that wig?”
“It’s red,” I reply truthfully. “Just shorter. I’m just wearing the wig to grow out a bad haircut.”
The two women exchange looks. “Okay. Leave us your number. We’ll call if we need you.”
They call the very next day and ask me to come back to the agency. “Wear something sexy and revealing,” Ivana orders on the phone. “You’ll be meeting a client.”
I show up in a mini-skirt and a low-cut top that leaves very little to the imagination.
Ivana greets me in the lobby. It’s just her today—Magda is nowhere to be seen. “Adequate,” she says, giving me a thorough once-over. “You’ll be auditioning for a VIP client. Do I have to explain what that means?”
“Let him do whatever he wants,” I reply, making my voice sound bored and jaded. “I know how this works.”
“Good,” she says, mollified. “Under normal circumstances, you’d have to work for us for six months before I even show you to our VIP clients, but Mr. Kawka is bored of our regular girls.” She rolls her eyes. “He says he’s never fucked a true redhead. Come.”
Yes! My strategy seems to have worked. Thank heavens for social media.
She drags me into a room where a half-dozen girls are waiting to be paraded in front of Boris Kawka. When it’s my turn, I sashay in front of the leering man and give him my best sultry look, the one I’ve been practicing in my hotel room.
I’m rewarded when he points at me. “This one,” he says. “She’s new, isn’t she? I’ll take her.”
All of Zaworski’s security measures, undone by one careless man who can’t keep it in his pants.
“She is,” Ivana confirms with an obsequious bow. “Excellent choice, Sir.”
“She needs a gown. Something tight and low-cut.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Good.” He comes up behind me and spanks my bottom. “I love redheads.” He presses his crotch into my ass. Ugh. “Nice and tight,” he says approvingly. “See you Saturday.”
My entry secured, I turn my attention to the next part of my plan—how to kill Zaworski and get away with it. After pouring over the blueprints of the building, I decide on smoke bombs. I’ll set them to explode when the party is in full swing and be able to stab Zaworski in the resulting confusion.
On Friday night, I make it a point to attend the club and ‘accidentally’ leave my phone there. Saturday morning, I show up at the door right after Zaworski’s security team has completed a sweep of the premises. The venue is deserted apart from the solitary guard blocking the door.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, batting my eyelashes at him. “I lost my phone last night, and I think I might have left it here. Would you mind if I take a quick look?” I put my hand on his arm. “Please?”
He lets me in without searching my bag. Mistake. It only takes me a minute to unscrew the grill over the women’s bathroom vent and stash my knife there. Another minute to hide the smoke bombs inside the planters that hold the lush tropical plants dotting the room, then I retrieve the phone I hid in one of the stalls and make my way out again.
I take the elevator down to my room, my heart racing in anticipation. The bombs are in place, and tomorrow, once I get inside the party, I’ll be able to retrieve my knife. That’s all the advance prep I can do.
With any luck, it’ll be enough.
Two hours before I’m supposed to meet Kawka, I show up at the escort agency to get ready for the event. When I arrive, Ivana hands me a surprisingly nice red dress. It’s skimpy, of course, and reveals an astonishing amount of cleavage, but it fits perfectly, and the silk feels amazing against my skin. “It’s a loaner,” Ivana says when I admire it. “If you damage it, I’ll take it out of your pay.”
I’m getting the hell out of Poland the instant I kill Zaworski, so I’m not going to get a chance to return it. But then again, Ivana won’t have to pay me for tonight. I figure that’s a fair trade. “I’ll be careful,” I promise her.
“You better.”
She hands me a pair of red shoes next. The heels are high—stupidly so. Making a face, I slip into them and take a few experimental steps. It’s not good. My feet slide around in them, and I’m not going to be able to run without risking breaking my ankle. “They’re too big,” I complain.
“I don’t care,” she retorts. “Stuff tissues into them if you need to.” She stares at my face, her expression thoughtful. “Bright red lip,” she says aloud, handing me a tube of lipstick. “Smoky eye. Can you do your own makeup?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I don’t know if she believes me. “I want every man’s eye on you tonight,” she warns. “But you cling to Borys, do you understand? He wants to make his wife jealous, and I pride myself on giving the customer everything he wants.” She fixes me with a long, pointed look. “Are we clear, girl?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say once again.
I’ll follow instructions. Until I’m within sight of Varek Zaworski.
After that, all bets are off.
At eight, I walk into the party on Borys Kawka’s arm. We’re fashionably late, and judging from the poisonous look Klara sends us, it’s intentional.
Borys smirks at her. “Come on,” he says to me. “Let’s get a drink.”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I murmur. “I’ll just be a second.” I detach myself from Kawka’s grip and slip away into the restroom, wait for it to empty, and retrieve my knife. I strap it on my thigh and immediately feel safer.
I rejoin an impatient-looking Borys, drape myself all over him, and ignore the fact that he’s pinching my ass. As we weave through the crowds to get to the bar, I scan the room as discreetly as I can.
Where is Zaworski? It’s his party; he should be here by now. I can detonate the smoke bombs with a remote trigger, but they’re also outfitted with an automatic timer. One way or another, I have less than twenty minutes before they blow.
That’s when I feel a gaze sear into me, as hot as fire. The room seems to hush, the noise of the party receding into the background. I look up and meet Joao’s gaze. He’s staring at the proprietary arm Borys Kawka has around my waist, and his eyes snap back to me. . .
And he’s furious.