Chapter One #3
I took a breath, one, two, then forced myself to sweep the floor like I was just another Tuesday night worker. As I did, I spotted Parsons coming up behind me, his face calm, one hand smoothing his jacket. He was good. He could have been a cop, or a pastor. Or both.
I turned, angled toward the far end of the club, where the private tables were. I needed cover, something to wedge between me and the rest of the night.
I was halfway to the booths when I ran straight into the lap of a man built like an oil spill in a bespoke suit: Vadim Miroslav. The man himself. The owner.
It was like tripping over a bear trap, only the teeth were teeth.
His section was on a raised platform, velvet rope and everything, so my misstep had all the grace of a puppy falling into a pothole.
His glass was half-full. He caught it with one massive hand before it could tip, then looked at me—really looked—and set the glass down with deliberate care.
I was close enough to count the stitches on his cuff. Or the scars, if I’d looked higher up. His other hand rested lightly on my hip, like he was deciding whether to return me to sender or keep me as a tip.
“You seem lost,” Vadim said.
Not a question.
I tried to play it off. “Sorry—busy night. Slippery shoes.” I pushed myself upright, fast, and felt my ears go red. “I’m supposed to—uh—get back to the bar.”
Vadim let me go, but not all the way. “You were running.”
It was a statement, not accusation.
I had no idea what to say to that. The rules didn’t cover this scenario.
I glanced back and saw Parsons at the edge of the platform, just outside the rope. He was watching, as ever. Eyes locked.
Shit.
Vadim followed my gaze. His expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room did. The guards flanking his booth tensed, but didn’t move. Vadim leaned back, then, and gestured to the seat beside him.
“Sit,” he said.
My body decided to obey. The chair was colder than I expected. I tried to cross my legs, realized I was still in the mesh shorts and tank, and gave up on dignity.
Vadim turned his head just a bit, enough to address the guards. “No interruptions.”
The guards nodded, then faded into the background like expensive shadows.
He looked at me again. “Tell me.”
I hesitated, then decided that whatever came after this was better than being cornered in a hallway by a man who quoted Leviticus at you after hours.
“There’s a guy,” I said. “He’s been coming in every week for a couple of weeks. Tuesday nights. He—watches me, leaves notes, business cards with bible verses on them.”
Vadim’s eyebrows didn’t move. “He touched you tonight?”
I nodded. “Grabbed my wrist.”
Vadim considered this. “Why not report it?”
The answer was obvious, but I said it anyway, “Management doesn’t care, as long as he pays his tab. The other guys think I’m exaggerating.”
Vadim smiled, but it wasn’t nice. “They always do.”
Parsons had drifted closer, still outside the rope, but now within earshot. Vadim turned toward him. The motion was subtle, but it was enough.
Parsons stopped.
For a long, cold second, nobody said a word. Then Vadim asked, “You want him gone?”
The way he said it didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like a simple menu option: would you like the fries, or would you like the salad?
I hesitated. “I just want to do my job. That’s all.”
Vadim nodded. “You’re good at it.” He didn’t say it as a compliment, more like a man confirming the authenticity of a dollar bill. “But you’re not safe here.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to say that I was safe enough, that I knew how to take care of myself, that I’d done it for years, but the words got stuck in my throat.
Vadim looked at Parsons again, then flicked his fingers. Parsons didn’t flinch, but the two guards re-materialized at either side of him. They didn’t touch, didn’t speak. They just stood there, close enough to make the air feel smaller.
Parsons watched me the whole time.
Vadim said, “Stay here. I’ll have someone escort you home.”
I wasn’t sure if it was an order or a suggestion.
Either way, I nodded.
He stood, towering, and adjusted his cufflinks as if he was about to deliver a TED Talk and not whatever came next. He stepped off the platform, moving with a lazy, predatory calm.
The guards followed, and Parsons backed up, step by step, to the door. They all vanished, leaving me alone in the booth.
I let out a breath and tried to unclench my jaw. My pulse was still high enough to register as a federal emergency.
The bartender brought me water. “On the house,” he said, and winked.
I drank it. It tasted like tap, but it was cold and I needed something to do with my hands.
I looked down at the bar, at the little pool of water where the glass had sweat onto the lacquer. I stared at it, at the way it trembled, until I could make out my own reflection. I didn’t look scared. I looked alive.
I sat there for a while, listening to the thump of the music, the laughter, the cash register ring. I watched the bodies on stage. I thought about the price of safety. I thought about Vadim, and the way his eyes never asked questions, only answered them.
And I wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to be something worth protecting.