Chapter 5 #2
Yeva snorts and elbows her friend. “Come on, Rads. He’s probably engaged to some mafia princess and has a rotation of women on the side. He lives in a different stratosphere than us. The man doesn’t even touch the strippers, and our tits and ass are in his face every day.”
The image of Kirill with a revolving door of women sends a flicker of irritation through me that I have no business feeling.
As I’m gathering up my things, Oksana pushes through the door. Her attention shifts from me to my little welcome committee.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I breaking up your little party here?”
Rada’s smile is brittle. “Nah, we were explaining the lay of the land to the new girl.”
Oksana groans. “Her name is Evelina, and I know exactly what you were doing. Staking your claim on Kirill.”
Rada lifts a shoulder. “It’s not my fault we have chemistry.”
“Dream on, girl. Keep telling yourself that.” Oksana’s gaze lands on me, giving stern-but-kind teacher energy. “You ready?”
I nod and wave to the group. At least Klara and Yeva seem nice.
“Don’t mind Rada,” Oksana says, as soon as we step out of the change room.
She’s moving at a brisk pace, and I have to quicken my steps to keep up.
“She only works here to meet a rich husband. And of course, the Baronovs are the biggest prize. She’s jealous.
You’re new, you’re pretty, and you caught Kirill’s attention, something she’s never managed to do. ”
An odd wave of relief washes through me.
“I wasn’t trying to get Kirill’s attention for anything other than a job.”
“And you did, so let’s make sure you know how to do that job.” She leads me behind the bar and brings up a screen on the tablet mounted near the register. “Ready for the grand tour?”
“Absolutely.”
Nerves flutter in my stomach. I’m usually tucked away behind a computer in a dark room, fingers flying over keyboards, invisible. This whole serve, smile-and-be-charming thing is outside my comfort zone.
But hell, if I can crack military-grade encryption, I can figure out how to carry a tray without dropping it.
Oksana jumps straight in. “This is the POS system,” she explains, pointing at a sleek touchscreen display built into the bar. “Pretty straightforward. You’ll enter orders here, assign them to table numbers…”
She keeps on talking, and I nod, but she’s moving too fast for me to absorb everything.
“Drink orders get sent to the bar. I’ll make them, set them up on this ledge, and you grab them. See these table numbers?” She points to small plaques on the ledge. “Match the drinks to the table. Simple.”
“Right,” I mutter. “Match the drinks to the table.”
She taps the screen one more time, then looks up at me to make sure I’m following.
“VIP section upstairs has its own system, but you won’t be up there tonight.
Main floor only for now.” She produces a small notepad from her apron and hands it to me.
“Some girls use these if they don’t trust the system, but honestly, use the tablet. It’s faster.”
I take the notepad, gripping it tightly. All that time practicing pole work and perfecting my cover story, and I never thought to learn the basics of waitressing.
Oksana continues, not pausing for breath. I swear she must have gills.
She covers tipping, security, and how to deal with handsy customers.
I’m trying to keep track of everything she’s saying, but it’s like drinking from a fire hose.
“Am I throwing too much your way?”
“It’s a lot to take in,” I admit with a grimace.
She gives my arm a squeeze. “First night’s always rough, but you’ll get the hang of it. You’ve waitressed before, right?”
My lips press together while I figure out how to break this news gently.
“That would depend on your definition. I’ve thrown dinner parties before, but in terms of doing this professionally…” I swallow. “No, not so much.”
Oksana exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “How the hell did you end up with a serving job?”
“You’d have to ask Kirill.”
“That man,” she mumbles. After a moment, she claps her hands together and says, “It’ll be fine. Why don’t you take a quick break? Bathroom’s down the back hallway, second door on the left. Splash some water on your face, breathe. We’ll figure out the rest as we go.”
“Thank you.” I grab my bag and head down the hallway she indicated. The bathroom is dark tile and industrial fixtures, chic despite the stripped-down aesthetic. I lock myself in a stall and take a breath.
I can’t fuck this up. This job is my only path to answers, to getting close enough to the people who know what happened to my mother.
When I step back into the hallway, my head is so full of Oksana’s rapid-fire instructions that I walk straight into someone. Strong hands catch my shoulders, keeping me upright.
“Easy there.”
The voice is deep, authoritative, with the faintest trace of a Russian accent underneath the polished English.
I look up, and the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. Ruslan Baronov.
He is instantly recognizable from the photographs I’ve studied, but seeing him in person is different. He’s distinguished, with hair dusted silver at the temples and a stare so much like Kirill’s.
“I’m sorry,” I manage to say. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“No harm done.” His hands fall away, but his focus stays fixed on my face. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new here?”
“Yes, sir. Today’s my first shift. Evelina Panova.”
“Evelina.” He rolls the name around like he’s tasting it. “I’m Ruslan Baronov, but I sense you already know that?”
I swallow hard and nod. “Oksana ensured I was well-informed.”
He nods, satisfied by this. “I detect a Russian accent. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. I recently moved here from Moscow.” My English is good after all the private lessons Pavel arranged and the American media I consumed growing up, but I’m not surprised he can hear the subtle inflections in the way I speak.
“And what brings you to New York?”
“School. Adventure.” I smile. “The chance to try something new.”
His head tilts and a faint crease appears between his eyebrows. “There’s something familiar about you. Have we met before? Maybe in Moscow? I’m there often.”
Cold dread pools in my stomach. Does he recognize me? The Belov Syndicate and the Baronovs operate in different spheres, and I’ve always stayed behind the scenes, but what if he saw my face somewhere? It’s unlikely, but nothing in life is impossible.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ears, acting flattered that he thinks he might know me. “I don’t think so. I would remember meeting you.”
“Hmm.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Perhaps you simply have one of those faces.”
“Perhaps.” I blink, trying to reconcile the man making small talk with me with the pakhan who auctioned women and probably did much worse.
He carries himself like a CEO closing a deal, not a crime lord once involved in auctioning human beings. He’s polished in a way that feels entirely calculated.
“Well, then, Evelina Panova from Moscow. I’m off to Russia tomorrow, actually.” He steps aside, clearing the hallway. “Welcome to Velour. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
“Thank you, Mr. Baronov.”
I move past him, careful not to rush or do anything that screams guilty conscience. But the weight of his attention follows me as I walk away.
Has he seen me before, or am I being paranoid? I’ve been so careful to stay anonymous, to strip any trace of Dinara Potapova from the world. It’s part of the job—hackers need to stay in the shadows.
It’s also possible I just have one of those faces like he said.
Still, the pakhan noticed me, and as much as it costs me to smile and make small talk with him, he’s my ultimate target.