Chapter 1 #2
I spent the last few months learning everything I could about Velour and the Baronov Bratva.
But there wasn’t much online. The Baronovs are old school—paper ledgers, face-to-face meetings, nothing digital that could be traced back to them.
And since I couldn’t hack my way to answers, I moved here to infiltrate from the inside.
I’m studying the crowd when a prickle of awareness moves across the back of my neck—the honed instinct of being watched. Turning, my stare collides with a man descending the stairs. Pale blue eyes pin me in place, so intense my skin heats.
Kirill Baronov. The heir to the Baronov Bratva.
The photos I found during my research don’t do him justice.
He’s tall, at least six-two or more, with shoulders that fill out his dark suit like it was tailored for his frame.
Tattoos curl above his collar, and his hair is jet black, styled back from a face that’s all hard lines and brutal masculinity.
Two men flank him. His brothers, Matvey and Demyan, based on the photos I've studied. Their youngest sibling, Katya, is eighteen and kept far from this world.
Not that I can focus on any of them. Kirill is the one who holds the room’s attention without trying.
I never expected they’d be here. Figured they're too busy running a criminal empire to be around Velour much, but here they are, and I’m not about to waste the opportunity.
They own this place which means they can also hire me.
I set down my soda and rise from the table. Oksana’s head snaps up from behind the bar. Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head in warning not to approach them, but I’m already moving.
Oksana abandons the bar and steps in front of them before I can. She’s gesturing emphatically. Her words are lost to the distance, but I hope she’s pleading my case, trying to convince them I’m worth a few minutes of their time.
Kirill's attention snaps to me. That same intense focus makes my stomach flip. His eyes cut back to Oksana.
He glances at his watch and shakes his head. An obvious dismissal. He turns, moving toward the exit.
Fuck that.
Adrenaline floods my system, sharpening everything. With a few hurried steps, I close the remaining distance between us.
“That’s close enough,” a guard warns, stepping into my path.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I’m guessing most people don’t have the balls to approach a Baronov like this, but if I don’t take this opportunity, I may not get another one.
Kirill says something to the guard, and the hulking man steps aside. The air between us snaps with static as his full attention lands on me.
His stare rakes over me slowly—taking in the corset, the tattoos, the heels—before settling on my face with a focus that makes my skin hum.
He crosses his arms. “What do you want?”
My mouth is bone dry, but I force the words out anyway. “Danny invited me to audition as a dancer tonight.” I hold out the card, but he doesn’t look at it. “I know he’ll be gone for a while, and I need this job.”
Kirill’s thumb passes over the centerline of his lips as they tip up at the corner. It’s not quite a smile, more like he’s baring teeth. His brothers seem impatient to leave, but he doesn’t acknowledge them.
“As much as I’d enjoy watching you dance, I don’t audition the talent, and I don’t have time for this.” He waves a hand like he’s brushing away a fly. “Good luck on the job hunt.”
He turns away.
Desperation flares in my chest.
“Your dancers are good,” I say, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “But I’m better. Give me five minutes and I’ll prove it.”
That stops him. He turns back, eyebrows raised, as Demyan lets out a low whistle. The whole room seems to hold its breath.
“What’s your name?” His voice drops to something rough and intimate.
“Evelina. Evelina Panova.”
“That’s a very bold claim, Evelina Panova. Have you seen the girls who dance here? Are you sure you’re going to impress me when I’ve had the best exotic dancers in the world perform for me?”
I meet his stare without flinching. Growing up around Syndicate soldiers taught me never to show weakness when powerful men are testing you.
“I know what I bring to the table. I’m different from what you’ve got, and sometimes different is what people want.”
I’m talking a good game, and I pray the two months of private pole-dancing lessons I took in Moscow prove to be enough.
Matvey chuckles and elbows his brother. “I like her. But seriously, we don’t have time for this shit.”
In my periphery, Oksana shakes her head, probably convinced they’re going to find my limbless body floating in the Hudson tomorrow.
Kirill ignores his brother and steps forward until he’s only inches away. Close enough to reveal his dilated pupils, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the fullness of his lips. He smells like leather and the faint tang of cigar smoke.
His jaw locks, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far, if security’s about to drag me out by my hair.
Then he smiles. It’s a wolf’s smile, predatory and cold, sending a chill racing over my skin.
“Fine,” he says, voice deceptively light. “You want to audition so badly? Let’s see what you’ve got.” He leans in closer, his breath warm against my ear. “But I’m warning you now—if you’re wasting my time, you’re walking out of here and never coming back. Understood?”
My throat constricts, but I manage a nod.
Kirill turns to his brothers. “Get a head start. I’ll catch up.”
They both shoot me a weighted look before they nod and leave without protest.
Without another word, Kirill jerks his head toward the back of the club—the universal gesture for “follow me”—and stalks away.
Oksana’s stare drills into my back, but I can’t bring myself to make eye contact with her. She tried to help me and I acted like an asshole, not to mention, lied to her about not knowing who owned this club.
But I did what I needed to do.
Now I can’t fuck this up.