Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
DINARA
I arrive with only a minute to spare for my training shift, breathless from speed-walking the last three blocks. I hate being late, but MTI’s campus is in Morningside Heights and the subway gods were not on my side today.
It’s the third week of the program, and honestly, I could teach most of these cybersecurity classes myself. The coursework is easy compared to what I’ve been doing for the Syndicate for years. But I show up to the labs and lectures anyway, playing the part of dedicated student.
The bouncer at Velour’s door is not the same one from my audition three days ago. This guy is younger, built like a boxer. He gives me a friendly smile and a quick up and down when I approach.
“Evelina Panova,” I say, pushing my glasses up my nose. “I’m here for training.”
He checks a tablet, nods once, and pulls the door open, ushering me inside. “Oksana’s expecting you.”
Velour looks different in the pre-opening hours.
House lights are on, stripping away the seductive shadows.
There’s no music pumping through the speakers, no trace of whatever dark magic transforms this place after sundown.
Staff are already busy, wiping down tables, restocking bottles, while dancers arrive in sweats and sneakers with gym bags slung over their shoulders.
Oksana is behind the main bar, her chestnut hair twisted into an efficient bun. She’s wearing the staff uniform of a fitted black dress that hits mid-thigh, sleeveless with a low neck. It’s simple, but on her tall, lithe frame with perfect dancer’s posture, she makes it look like haute couture.
“Ready?” she asks, stepping around the bar to meet me.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I push my frames higher on my nose. “I’m a bit nervous, to be honest.”
“Tonight is just training. You’ll be shadowing one of the more experienced servers. It’ll help you get the hang of it.” Oksana’s eyes travel from my combat boots up to my leather jacket and finally to the glasses. “You weren’t kidding about being a tech nerd, were you?”
I’m dressed in my street clothes: a white cotton T-shirt under a leather jacket I found at a thrift shop in Williamsburg, high-waisted vintage Levi’s, and my favorite chunky combat boots.
Thick, black-framed glasses are perched on my nose because I couldn’t be bothered with contacts after staring at screens for hours, and my hair is pulled back in a messy bun.
“To my very core.”
She smiles and gestures toward a doorway near the back of the club. “Change room is straight back there, down the hall, second door on the left. Your locker is number thirty-three. You’ll find your uniform inside, already had one in your size. You brought heels, right?”
I nod, patting my messenger bag. “The ones from my audition.”
“Those work.” She glances at her watch. “You’ve got fifteen minutes. There’s hair and makeup stuff in the change room.”
I laugh at her insinuation. “Don’t worry. I came prepared to transform myself for the ball.”
“Good.” She shoos me away. “I’ll meet you back here when you’re ready.”
Will I see Kirill tonight? Part of me hopes not. The other night was intense, too intense, and I’m not ready to face him again. Not when I’ve spent the last few days thinking about how completely he unraveled me.
Still, getting close to him is important. He’s a Baronov, after all.
The change room door is labeled “Staff Only” in simple gold lettering.
The space is nicer than I expected, with rows of metal lockers along two walls and a long counter with mirrors and salon-style lighting along the third.
Another wall has a few benches and hooks for bags and coats.
It’s clean and well-maintained, the smell of hairspray and perfume hanging in the air.
Locker thirty-three is open, with a small combination lock sitting on the shelf, the kind where I can set my own code. The uniform, a dress identical to Oksana’s, hangs inside. I’m not sure it’ll look half as elegant on me, but at least the fabric is soft and appears forgiving.
I strip out of my jeans and T-shirt, folding them carefully before placing them in the locker along with my jacket. I slide the black dress on, then turn toward the full-length mirror mounted on the wall beside the vanity.
Not bad.
It has thin crisscross straps showing off my shoulders and the upper portion of my tattoo sleeve, including my newest addition.
A peony and vine design that winds down my right arm.
Peonies were my mother’s favorite flowers, the ones she kept in a vase on our kitchen table in summer.
I had it done after the dreams started, and the memories surfaced.
A permanent reminder of what I’m fighting for.
The neckline dips lower than I expected, showing the curve of my collarbones and a hint of cleavage. The dress is definitely sexy on me. I’m built like my mother. Tall, with full breasts and hips that would have been fashionable seventy years ago. Not that I give a shit. I like my body as it is.
There’s a package of sheer black stockings on the shelf. I sit on one of the benches and roll them on carefully, smoothing them up my legs.
After swapping my combat boots for heels, I settle down in front of the big vanity.
I start by applying eyeliner, blush, and a swipe of a deep berry lipstick that complements my skin tone and makes my lips stand out.
The woman looking back at me wants attention, which is funny considering I’ve spent most of my life avoiding it.
I’m applying a final coat of mascara when the door swings open and female voices pour in.
“I’m telling you, she has to be something special. Kirill doesn’t even look at the staff usually, let alone…” The speaker, a pretty blonde in an identical black dress, stops mid-sentence when she sees me. Her eyes widen. “Oh. You’re her.”
I meet her gaze in the mirror, wand still in hand. “That depends on who you think I am.”
Two more women file in behind her. One is petite with dramatic kohl-lined eyes and a pouty mouth. The other looks like she walked off a catwalk, all flowing red hair and endless legs.
All three study me like I’m a specimen under glass.
The blonde moves to the vanity, pulling out a makeup bag. “You’re the new girl, right? Evelina?”
Jesus. Word travels fast.
“Yep. This is my first shift.” I cap the mascara, turning toward them.
“I’m Klara,” the petite one says, hopping up to sit on the counter near me. “That green-eyed monster over there is Rada, and that’s Yeva. She’s a dancer here.”
She points to the taller woman who moves to a locker at the far end and starts changing out of her clothes with zero self-consciousness.
Tank top over her head, jeans sliding down those long legs.
Maybe it comes with the territory of being a stripper or maybe she knows her body is a work of art and is happy for the admiration.
Either way, good for her.
“I’m not jealous,” Rada spits, like being jealous of me would be the ultimate insult. “I just want to know what you did to get hired by Kirill Baronov.”
If she only knew. “I don’t know. Guess you’ll have to ask him.”
“Don’t mind her.” Klara leans against the counter, applying a wine-red lipstick in the mirror. “She was hoping for a marriage proposal from one of the brothers.”
Yeva slips into a silk robe, tying it loosely at the waist, and joins the conversation.
“Oh, come on. Every girl who works here is trying to land a Baronov. They’re like the holy grail of eligible bachelors.
Rich, hot, and apparently they fuck like gods.
” She shrugs, unbothered. “I certainly wouldn’t say no. ”
A sharp pang of something uncomfortably close to jealousy hooks under my ribs and pulls tight.
Rada huffs out a breath and examines her nails like they’re suddenly fascinating. “I was making progress with Kirill. We had a vibe last time I served his table. I could tell he was close to asking me out.”
“Really?” Klara tips her head. “I heard he doesn’t mess around with staff.”
“He also doesn’t hold auditions or get involved in the day-to-day of Velour.” Yeva smirks, adjusting her robe. “But he made an exception for you.”
All of them turn to look at me like they’re trying to figure out what I have that they don’t. Whatever he saw in me, desire doesn’t follow logic.
The electricity crackling between us was undeniable and explosive, the kind of thing that could become a serious problem if I let it.
But I won’t.
“Danny promised me an audition, but he had that family emergency. I suppose Kirill took pity on me.”
Rada’s laugh is more of a scoff. “Right, because Kirill’s the charitable type. An everyday Mother Teresa.” She crosses her arms and narrows her stare. “I’d like to know exactly what you did during this audition.”
“I danced. Same as every other woman who auditions here, I assume.”
I give Rada a hard glare because I’m getting tired of her territorial bullshit. If she knew the truth, I’m sure her head would explode.
That’s why it’s good she’ll never know what really happened. No one will.
Klara’s eyebrows rise toward her hairline as she blots at her lipstick. “Wait. You auditioned for Kirill as a dancer, but he gave you a job serving drinks?”
I shrug. “I guess there was an opening for a server, not a dancer.”
“I don’t want you dancing for anyone else.”
I won’t read too much into his possessive declaration. I’m sure it was post-ejaculation promises, the kind of thing men say when their brains are still flooded with sex endorphins.
Rada shoots me the hardest glare her Botoxed forehead will allow. “Just so you know, I’ve been vibing with Kirill the last few months. Everyone here knows we’re going to hook up; it’s only a matter of time.”
I’m starting to get it now. Kirill Baronov is the prize every woman here is competing for, and I won a round without even knowing we were playing. But the only thing I want from Kirill, or from any of the Baronovs, is information. And maybe revenge.