6. Ruslan
6
RUSLAN
The way Sienna howls as security drags her toward the waiting car reminds me of men I've seen dragged from interrogation rooms.
The same desperate, animal sounds of someone who knows they've lost but refuses to accept it.
I know that sound all too well.
Sienna continues her theatrical performance, all flailing limbs and screaming accusations to no-one in particular as they stuff her into the back of the car.
I straighten my cuffs, feeling the familiar weight of the tattooed skin beneath the expensive fabric. In another life, I'd have handled this differently. More permanently.
But that's not my job anymore.
"You can't treat me like this, Ruslan Dragunov!" she screams before the door slams shut. "I'll fucking ruin you!"
I almost smile.
As if she could.
As if anyone could after that blood-soaked night when I lost everything.
The car peels away. Already, my mind is turning to the collateral damage assessment: shattered glass, potential lawsuits from anyone hit by debris, repair costs, disruption to my club's reputation.
Inconvenient, but manageable.
The biggest concern weighing on my mind is the look I saw in Aurora's eyes when Sienna took her photo.
That was fear.
Real fear.
I take the stairs two at a time back to the VIP level, nodding curtly at guests who recognize me. Security parts to let me through the hallway. Something's wrong. I feel it in my gut, the same instinct that's kept me alive through territory wars and betrayals.
When I reach our private room, Alina stands outside, hands clasped nervously in front of her. Her eyes don't meet mine.
"Mr. Dragunov, I'm so sorry. Your guest... she insisted on leaving."
I keep my voice neutral though my jaw tightens. "When?"
"Just after you went downstairs. She seemed... distressed." Alina shifts her weight. "I tried to stop her, but she wouldn't accept no for an answer."
I dismiss Alina with a nod, maintaining the professional distance required from staff.
Alone, I step into the empty VIP suite. The broken window is letting in the throbbing bass that has resumed from below. Aurora's glass sits untouched. Her coconut scent still lingers in the air.
I feel a familiar emptiness. Not from Aurora's absence—though that stings more than I'd anticipated—but from the theatricality of it all.
Sienna's calculated rage, the predictable chaos, the cleanup that will follow.
I run my finger along the rim of Aurora's glass, examining the lipstick mark preserved on the abandoned glass like evidence. Those same lips had pressed against mine with unexpected hunger.
She intrigues me in ways I haven't felt in years. Not just her beauty. Beautiful women are Hollywood's most common commodities. But by her contradictions.
Startling boldness yet a very real fear about being seen.
Both of those qualities came to the surface when Sienna snapped that photo of her.
Something tells me this isn't the first time she's disappeared when cameras start flashing.
I walk to the bar, glass crunching under my shoes, and pour three fingers of vodka. Not the inferior American swill but proper Beluga Gold Line I keep stocked for myself.
I didn't see her exit through the front door where I'd been. Which means she found another way, likely through a bathroom window.
Clever. Resourceful. Frightened.
Most women I meet are transparent in their motivations: seeking status, money, connections, or the thrill of danger that surrounds men like me.
Aurora is different.
The way she spoke about the script and her innate understanding of trauma. The way she carried herself, simultaneously vulnerable yet fiercely independent. The hunger in her kiss that threatened to rip away the careful mask of control I keep around myself.
And her fear of being seen. Always that goddamn fear.
She's running from something.
Or someone.
I bring the glass up and take a sip, but the moment it touches my lips, I gulp the entire thing down. The burn feels right.
"What are you hiding, zarechka ?" I ask the empty room at her lingering coconut scent. "What makes you run when others would stay?"
I pull out my phone and quickly compose a message to Artyom, my head of security.
I need information on an Aurora Castellanos. Props department. Thorough but discreet.
I pause, considering, then add:
Possible identity change as well. Expand that search to anyone who popped up in the last seven years without a real history.
I delete this last part before sending.
No. Not yet.
If Aurora is hiding, then someone else must be searching as well.
Learning her secret means potentially intersecting with whoever is pursuing her.
I pour another glass and Pushkin's words rise to my lips:
" Ya ponyat' tebya khochu, zarechka." I want to understand you, little dawn. " Smysla ya v tebe ishchu ." I'm searching for meaning in you.
With that, I finish my vodka, already planning my next move. Aurora Castellanos might be gone for now, but no one truly disappears in this city.
Not from me.
People have always underestimated my patience. My willingness to play the long game. But I've survived this far by knowing when to strike and when to wait.
And for Aurora, I'm willing to wait.