2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Sergei
Five Months Later
She’s dead.
A suffocating sensation creeps over my chest, as it has so many times in the past five months. I try to draw a deep breath, but my lungs refuse to cooperate.
The conference room where I spend most of my days feels oppressively sterile—the fluorescent lights harsher than necessary, the temperature colder than comfortable.
Financial graphs are displayed, appearing like the erratic rhythms of an EKG, and I’m the surgeon expected to decide whether the patient is going to pull through.
I focus on my senses, attempting to block out the haunting thoughts, and listen to the voices around me.
For a moment, they appear muffled like the white noise in Misha’s bedroom.
I try to hold my attention on that, but my focus slips and the thoughts manage to sneak in like grains of sand after a trip to the beach.
I grasp the pen in front of me, rolling it between my fingers in smooth, deliberate motions.
“Describe what you’re sensing,” my former therapist, Dasha’s, words echo in my mind, as if she’s sitting right beside me.
The pen is cold in my hand, heavier than its sleek appearance might suggest. It’s one of those expensive pens I’m frequently gifted by inconsequential people.
I reach for the glass of water to my left, almost knocking it over.
The glass is equally cold. Everything feels so frozen in my hands, as if warmth no longer deems my body a suitable host.
She’s dead. It’s my fault.
People are talking around me. People are talking to me.
“Sergei?” I manage to focus on my assistant’s voice.
Nadia’s tone is gentle, as if she can sense the turmoil inside me, as if she can see how I’m barely present—barely hanging on.
I walk through my days on autopilot, knowing any attempt to regain a sliver of control over my body and mind will only bring a crushing collapse.
So, I don’t.
I stay on the moving sidewalk, automatically transported through my day-to-day, frozen in place. Because she’s dead. It’s my fault.
I killed her.
“I think the projections are as expected.” I surprise myself by speaking. My voice comes out distant and cold.
Like the pen.
Like the glass of water.
Like her dead body lying on the morgue tray.
I clear my throat. “The current revenue falls within the margin of error for a soft opening. Once we officially launch, the projections will stabilize.”
My certainty doesn’t come from guesswork. Opening a hotel at thirty-three without familial wealth or a trust fund is nearly unheard of. But years of hard work and shrewd financial investments yielded substantial returns, enabling me to fulfill my dream of building a hotel from the ground up.
The room falls silent as I take a long sip of water and stand up. “Are we done?” I ask rhetorically, turning to walk out of the conference room.
My footsteps are measured and muted against the dark carpet in the hallway. As I walk, I undo the collar of my shirt, hoping the small act will help me draw a deeper breath. It doesn’t.
It’s as if my organs are encased in a perpetual snowstorm, poised to unleash their fury on anyone in my path. I need to get a hold of myself. I need to...
Halting in my steps, I pull my cell from the front pocket of my jacket and text Dasha. She should be able to help me regain some semblance of control.
The scent of cigarettes fills the room as I stand by the floor-to-ceiling window, deftly fastening my cufflinks.
Las Vegas’s skyline stretches before me.
The Strip’s dazzling display and the Bellagio’s dancing fountains reflect the lights in a way that makes me feel like a child marveling at the fir tree decorations on New Year’s Eve.
“That was a pleasant surprise,” Dasha remarks, her Russian accent thick and warm. She lies on the bed, her body covered with a black sheet, disheveled bleached curls spilling over her shoulders. With a slow, deliberate drag from the cigarette, she releases a plume of smoke.
“I needed to clear my head,” I respond without glancing back at her.
Initially, our relationship was strictly professional.
Five months ago, I retained her as my therapist after a heated blowup during an investors’ meeting almost cost me the support of a major financial backer.
I couldn’t afford any more missteps, not with how I was feeling, or with how I was expressing—or failing to express—those emotions.
I needed to control when, where, how, and most importantly, to whom I showed them.
Dasha agreed to help me regain that control. She would sit in her plush, oversized white chair, her stare fixed on me as I sat across from her, trying to make sense of the chaos swirling inside.
It worked for a while, but after another incident of nearly losing my temper with Misha, the weight of hopelessness grew heavier than ever. When I decided therapy wasn’t for me, Dasha offered me something else.
The first time with her was rough and quick, the opposite of control—like a teenager’s first time in the backseat of their parents’ car. Dasha didn’t mind my ferocity. She might have even preferred it.
After our relationship turned sexual, a new sense of control washed over me—something I hadn’t experienced in months.
It lasted two weeks before the darkness began to resurface, its claws scraping at the edges of my consciousness.
After that, I found myself back at Dasha’s apartment, seeking refuge once again.
“I’ll be away next week. A conference in New York.” She takes another drag from her cigarette, puffing the smoke to the side.
I turn toward her as she gracefully rises from the bed, purposely letting the sheet fall to the ground.
Her face bears subtle signs of disarray, and I notice a fresh bruise already forming around her neck—the imprint of my fingertips.
Her body, sculpted by some of North America’s top surgeons, is flawlessly sensual, designed to conceal her flawed and tumultuous insides.
She hands me her cigarette. For a moment, I’m tempted. I told myself I was done with that old habit nearly four years ago. But with a quick glance at Dasha’s flushed face, I decide it’s wiser to keep my vices limited to one.
“I shouldn’t.” I gently decline the offer and head down to the car.
Sitting in the backseat of my Lexus LX, the familiar buzz of my phone vibrates against the leather seat beside me. Pavel, my driver, glances at me through the rearview mirror and promptly lowers the volume of the classical symphony, allowing the quiet hum of the city outside to creep in.
I nod in acknowledgment, my fingers gliding over the cool, smooth surface of my phone as I bring it to my ear. “Da?”
“I know it’s late, and you’re probably home.” Nadia’s voice comes through, hesitant and apologetic.
“Almost home,” I confirm.
“But I just learned that Raymond Rivers is at Mick’s card game tonight.” She pauses. “We’re struggling to get that last signature for the liquor license, and—”
“That’s fine.” I rub my forehead, the pressure in my neck steadily intensifying. “Have Anton bring the papers there. I’ll get the signature.” I signal Pavel to turn around.
As we pass my apartment building, I hang up the phone. Casting a fleeting glance upward, I imagine Misha’s bedtime routine unfolding, realizing that, once again, I’ll be missing it.
Lately, home has felt like an increasingly abstract notion, so foreign that I might not recognize it if it stood before me in a neon orange vest, waving glowing batons like an airport marshal guiding planes to the runway.
They say home isn’t about a place but the people, a concept I’ve never grasped.
Maybe I do see home as a place—otherwise, why would I work so hard to create it for strangers in my hotel?
As we approach Caesars Palace, the towering Roman columns evoke a sense of stepping into the past while embodying a vibrant modern energy. The hotel holds a special place in my heart, as it was where I first stayed upon arriving in Las Vegas. It was also where Alessia and I got married.
Pavel hands the valet the keys with a warning glare that frequently adorns his face.
His imposing six-foot-five frame, combined with his intense, purposeful gaze, serves as a formidable deterrent.
I’ve always valued Pavel’s threatening energy.
It complements the respect I aim to command from those who meet me, deal with me, and especially from those who think they can outsmart me.
When we exit the elevator on the penthouse floor, I spot Anton waiting outside the suite.
“Hey Shef,” Anton says, using the old nickname I grew tired of years ago.
Despite Anton and Pavel being brothers with a similar build, Anton is a few inches shorter.
The scar across Pavel’s left eye, a relic of a forgotten past, further distinguishes them.
“I think you should offer him a free stay or a visit to one of the restaurants. He wants to be wined and dined, and—” Anton starts.
“I’m not going to chase him any more than I already am,” I interrupt, taking the papers from his hands and nodding toward the door.
“As you want,” Anton mumbles, stepping aside.
The suite is as luxurious as one would expect.
Several poker tables are set up, crowded with players.
A long, narrow table displays an array of gourmet offerings, from foie gras and artisanal cheeses to an assortment of decadent desserts.
At the back of the suite, a makeshift bar stands, every detail meticulously curated to evoke sophistication and indulgence despite its temporary nature.
“Sergei!” Mick Lasater calls out as I step into the suite, Pavel and Anton flanking me like my own pair of colonial columns.
“Mick.”