Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
DINARA
Every table’s full, the bar’s drowning in orders, and I’m moving faster than I knew I could in three-inch heels.
The shift started slow. Klara and Yeva were gossiping about our night at Apollon and all the drama that ensued.
Rada kept shooting me cold looks whenever anyone mentioned Kirill’s name, her territorial vibe cranked up to eleven.
Not that she has any idea what went down between us.
She only has a vague sense he followed after me.
I ignore her, focus on my work, and try not to think about the fact I haven’t seen Kirill in days.
Not since he drove me home in silence and made it crystal clear I meant nothing to him.
I’ve spent days digging into the Voronins. Surveillance photos, intelligence reports, breadcrumbs of their business, but nothing that explains what happened to my mother.
When I return to the bar, an order for eight custom cocktails is waiting. As far as I can tell, these guys are traders celebrating an acquisition. When Oksana sees the order, she looks ready to snap.
“Christ,” she mutters, grabbing bottles with both hands. “Tonight won’t quit. And of course a server had to call in sick.”
I start loading empties into the dishwasher. “How can I help?”
She hesitates before grabbing a bottle of amber liquid and placing it on my tray. “I hate to ask this, but the VIP bar ran out of Pappy Van Winkle. Some high roller upstairs is asking for it. I’ll keep an eye on your tables if you can run it up.”
“Where do I go?”
“Hand it to the bartender in VIP. Jordy. Big blond guy, can’t miss him.”
I work my way through the crowd and up the stairs to the VIP floor, a thrill pulsing through me with each step.
The main lounge is maybe half the size of the ground floor but feels more exclusive.
Velvet couches arranged in intimate clusters.
Low tables with champagne chilling in silver buckets.
Men in expensive suits with women draped across laps or perched on armrests, fingers trailing over shoulders, mouths whispering in ears.
The dancers up here are topless, moving between groups with practiced sensuality, as if being half-naked with men twice their age is how they want to spend their evening.
Little alcoves line the walls where dancers perform shows that are more like appetizers before moving to the private rooms. The room is intimate, boundaries looser, air thick with possibility and money.
A few glance my way as I pass. I return the interest with a practiced smile, but I’m scanning their faces, cataloging features, looking for anyone I might recognize from my research.
I recognize the type even if I don’t know the faces. Men who traffic in power, who come here because Velour offers discretion alongside pleasure.
I approach the bar, and as Oksana described, a tall, skinny guy is mixing drinks. He barely glances up, his hands in constant motion.
“Hey, Jordy. I have the Pappy Van Winkle,” I say, setting the bottle on the bar.
“Thank God.” He doesn’t stop working. “Listen, would you do me a massive favor? Take it straight to the Obsidian Suite, blue hallway on the left. I’m drowning here.”
“Uh, sure.” I should get back downstairs, but what can I say? Curiosity gets the better of me. The more I can look around up here, the better.
He adds four crystal glasses to my tray. “Door’s labeled. And thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”
I navigate the lounge carefully. Dropping eight-hundred-dollar whiskey would be a disaster.
The blue hallway is quieter, doors lining both sides with discreet brass plaques. Crystal Room. Red Room. Diamond Suite. Sapphire Lounge.
Private spaces for private business.
My mother might have walked these halls. Was she brought to one of the rooms? Displayed for men to evaluate, to bid on, to buy like merchandise?
Bile rises in my throat. I push the thought away before it takes hold.
The Obsidian Suite is third on the left. I pause in front of it, weighing my options. Enter unannounced or knock?
Considering what goes on in this club, knocking seems like the smart choice.
“Come in,” a deep male voice answers.
The scene inside is what I expected. Four men sprawled across leather couches, ties loosened, jackets discarded. They’re surrounded by topless dancers who look like they’re being paid well to pretend this is the best night of their lives.
The air reeks of cigars and booze, and the glass coffee table bears evidence of their excess. Empty champagne bottles, an overflowing ashtray, and three neat lines of white powder that nobody’s bothering to hide.
One of the men glances up when I enter, tracking over me with interest that makes my skin crawl. Mid-forties, heavyset, wedding ring on display.
“Well, hello there.” His words slur together. “You here to join the party?”
I keep my server smile firmly in place and set the bottle on the table beside him. “Nope, just bringing the Pappy Van Winkle, as requested.”
“You could stay awhile. I can make room for one more.” He pats his free leg, the other occupied by a dancer bent forward, snorting a line.
I decline as politely as possible and arrange the glasses by the bar, scanning faces for the telltale Kupola Network mark. The cathedral dome tattoos. I don’t find any.
“I should get back downstairs.” I straighten, already turning toward the exit. “Enjoy your evening.”
“You know where to find us if you change your mind,” he calls, laughing at his own joke.
I step out, pull the door shut behind me, and exhale.
The corridor stretches in both directions, quieter now. The security guard stationed near the elevator earlier must have stepped away. Up here operates on a different set of rules. Privacy is the product they’re selling, which means less oversight, fewer eyes.
It takes me a minute to realize I’m near Kirill’s office. Right around the corner. I’ve only been there once, during that so-called interview, but I remember the route.
My pulse kicks up.
The Baronov brothers haven’t been around in days. The club’s been buzzing with speculation that something’s happening, something big enough to pull all three of them away.
Kirill hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Hasn’t acknowledged my existence since he dropped me off in silence like a stray cat he regretted picking up. I have his number, but every time I pull up his contact, I reject the impulse.
Calling him would mean admitting I care that he disappeared, and I don’t want to show my cards.
Not when I don’t know what game we’re playing anymore.
I came here for information, hoping he could help me find answers about my mother.
Somewhere between the taco dinner and the night at Apollon, the lines blurred.
If I call now, is it the mission, or is it me? I can’t afford not to know the difference.
But this might be my only chance to search his office. His empty office.
Taking care to avoid the cameras trained on the VIP rooms, I keep my head down and move through the corridor. Their office sits in a high-traffic area, so security won’t think much of a server walking these halls, but I don’t want to call attention to myself regardless.
When I reach his door, I test the handle, only half-surprised when it turns smoothly. They don’t need locks when they own everything and everyone inside these walls.
I slip inside and ease the door shut behind me, my heart hammering so hard it’s in my throat.
The space is all dark wood, leather furniture, and windows overlooking the club.
I’ll have to be quick with Oksana covering my tables. My focus lands on the laptop sitting on his desk.
I cross to it and flip the lid open. The screen glows to life, demanding a password.
Shit.
I didn’t plan on breaking into a laptop tonight, and I have no tools on me, but I’m nothing if not creative.
I restart his computer and watch the boot sequence carefully. When the login screen appears, I try a standard bypass: hitting ‘shift’ five times in rapid succession to trigger the accessibility menu. On older systems, this opens a backdoor to settings that don’t require authentication.
But it doesn’t work.
Okay. Plan B.
I reboot again, this time holding down a key combination that forces the laptop into recovery mode. The screen changes, offering diagnostic options that most users don’t know exist. From here, I can access the command prompt without needing a password.
Sweat beads at my hairline. The clock is ticking, but this might be my only chance to search Kirill’s computer, and I’ve already come this far.
I type in a series of administrator access protocols that let me create a new user account with full privileges. Thirty seconds of typing, and the system accepts the override.
I log in through the new account and I’m in.
It’s not ideal, and if someone checks the logs, they’ll see a new admin account was created. A chance I’ll have to take.
I navigate to his files, combing through folders as quickly as I can. Financial records, employee files, vendor contracts. Everything related to Velour as a legitimate business. Because, no surprise, that’s what it is on paper.
I drill further, looking for anything connected to Marina Voronina, to the Voronin name, to the Kupola Network, to trafficking operations from twenty years ago, but I find nothing.
My gut sinks, though I know it’s unlikely they’d keep records of the auctions digitally, or at all. Anything incriminating from twenty years ago would be buried deep or destroyed entirely.
Still, I open his email, skimming subject lines. Most of it’s mundane. Shipment schedules, meeting confirmations, invoices. Then I notice a recent thread with a subject line that reads: “The Ghost.”
I click it open and skim the message, but the language is coded and impossible to decipher.
I’m erasing the system logs when male voices filter in from the corridor. I freeze as the voices get closer—one of them is Kirill’s. I’d recognize that low, growly tone anywhere.
I slam the laptop shut and look around wildly for an excuse. Any excuse for being in here. The notepad next to the desk phone catches my attention. I grab it along with a pen, yanking the cap off as the door handle turns.
Kirill walks in mid-conversation, his attention on whoever’s in the hallway. “I don’t care if he’s been with us for ten years. Trust no one right now. Understood?”
Then he turns and sees me standing at his desk.
He stops mid-step, his pale blue gaze locking onto mine. For a fraction of a second, surprise flickers across his face before hardening into suspicion.
A broad-shouldered guard I don’t recognize peers around Kirill’s shoulder, hand already moving toward his weapon.
“It’s fine,” Kirill says without looking back. “Leave us.”
The guard retreats. Kirill and I stare at each other across the room. The pen is still in my hand, the notepad pressed against my chest like a useless shield.
“Evelina,” he says, his voice a rough abrasion. “What the hell are you doing in my office?”