Chapter 21
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
DINARA
I’m applying a final swipe of lipstick when the change room door swings open and Oksana walks in, her expression serious in a way that immediately puts me on alert.
She closes the door behind her. “I have not-so-great news.”
I turn around. “What’s wrong?”
She crosses her arms, tapping her foot like she’s trying to figure out how to phrase what she’s about to say. “Ruslan Baronov requested you to serve at his private poker game tonight.”
My stomach drops as I absorb her words. “Really? Why me?”
Oksana’s eyebrows pull together. “I’d like to know that myself. How does he even know who you are?”
“I bumped into him in the hallway on my first shift. We had a brief conversation, but honestly it was nothing. I didn’t think he’d remember me. I thought he was still in Russia.”
Oksana blows out a heavy breath. “Well, he's back and he remembers you all right. It’s not like Ruslan to care about who serves at his games. Maybe you … caught his attention.”
“Maybe,” I admit. Unease curls through me as I think about what that means.
When we met in the hallway, he was professional, no creepy vibes, but there’s a reason he requested me specifically, and I’m about to find out what it is.
Still, as unsettling as this is, I can’t ignore the opportunity staring me in the face.
Since my dream, I’ve spent countless hours trying to dig up anything on the Voronins, their business dealings, their associates, surviving members who might know what really happened, but these secrets are buried too deep to find from behind a screen.
Stalled out, frustrated, no closer to finding my mother than I was the day I landed in New York. This might be the first real opening I’ve had.
Oksana pinches the bridge of her nose. “Listen, I don’t know much about Ruslan’s associates, but they’re old-school bratva types. The kind who think female staff are part of the entertainment. Just … don’t let your guard down.”
I touch her arm, grateful for the concern. “Thank you for the warning, but don’t worry, I’m tougher than I look. And hey, he’s the big boss. If he wants me to work his game, I better work his game. It’s just serving drinks, right? I can handle that.”
She sighs, clearly wanting to say more but choosing not to. “The game’s in the Sapphire Suite on the VIP floor. You can order drinks from the bar upstairs.”
I give her what I hope looks like a brave smile. “Don’t be so worried. I’ll come down after my shift. We can have a drink and I’ll regale you with tales of my evening. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“You better.”
Once she leaves, I’m alone again with my reflection and the weight of what’s about to happen.
Ruslan Baronov in a private room with his oldest associates. Men who probably were involved with Velour back in the day. They’ll be playing cards and drinking. This is the chance I’ve been waiting for since I walked through Velour’s doors.
I turn from the mirror and cross to my jacket hanging on the hook.
Tucked inside an inner pocket is a small pill case no bigger than my thumb containing two small tablets of midazolam.
A sedative that dissolves invisibly in any drink, lowers inhibitions, loosens tongues, and prevents memory formation.
And the best part, they wake up the next morning remembering absolutely nothing.
I’ve carried them since arriving in New York, never needing to use them until tonight.
Drugging the pakhan is dangerous. If I get caught, there’s no talking my way out of it like I did with Kirill.
But it’s worth it if I can get him talking about Velour’s past, about the trafficking network, about a woman named Marina Voronina.
I drop the pills into my palm and slip them into the garter of my stocking, high enough on my thigh that no one will see them or feel them unless I give them access, which I absolutely don’t plan on doing.
I straighten my shoulders and head onto the main floor, joining the organized chaos of Velour. Music pulses through the space, laughter and conversation blending into white noise.
I make my way upstairs, nodding at the security who wave me through. The Sapphire Suite is at the end of the hall, and through the partially open door male voices spill out. I knock briefly before letting myself in.
Rich mahogany paneling, buttery leather chairs, a crystal chandelier casts warm light over everything. A round poker table sits in the center, already set up with cards and chips. Four men are seated around it, drinks in hand, mid-conversation that cuts off as I enter.
Ruslan sits facing the door. When he looks up, his piercing gaze settles on me with an intensity that makes the back of my neck prickle.
“Gentlemen,” he announces. “Our server has arrived.”
The other three men turn toward me. All older, late fifties or early sixties. Expensive suits, gold watches, cigars in stubby fingers.
“Evelina’s the girl from Moscow I was telling you about.
” Ruslan rises from his chair in a show of old-world manners that makes me more uneasy than if he’d stayed seated.
He gestures to each man in turn. “Let me introduce you to my friends. Abram”— he gestures to his left— “Grigori, and Yuri. We go back many years.”
Abram stands first. Silver-haired and sharp-featured, the kind of man who probably turns heads despite being well into his sixties. His handshake is damp and lingers too long.
Grigori doesn’t stand, just extends a thin hand, cigarette dangling from his lips.
Heavyset with thinning hair and rings on every finger, Yuri rises, clasping my hand in both of his. Broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, his shirt is undone a few more buttons than necessary.
“A pleasure,” he says, switching to Russian. “Someone who speaks properly instead of these Americans butchering our language.”
Grigori gestures at me with his cigar. “What brings you to New York?”
“My studies. The program here is very good, but expensive, so...” I gesture at myself with a wry smile. “Here I am.”
“You ever think of being a dancer here?” Yuri says, his gaze sliding over my curves. “I bet you’d make real good money with a body like that.”
Ruslan’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his stare sharpens. “I think Evelina prefers to keep her dignity intact. Don’t you?”
I curl my fingers, nails digging into my palms, because if I don’t, I’ll reach for the nearest sharp object and make these men regret every fucking chauvinist word. Instead, I put on the best acting job of my life.
“I’m flattered,” I say with lowered eyes. “Though I’m perfectly happy serving drinks.”
I gesture to the bottle of vodka on ice, half consumed. “I see you’ve already started. Can I freshen anyone’s glass?”
“Not just yet.” Ruslan gestures to the chair beside him. “Sit here. I’d rather not shout across the room every time I need something, and we’re about to start the next hand.”
It’s phrased as convenience, but the command underneath is unmistakable. He wants me close. I have no choice but to sit beside him.
The game begins. Cards are dealt, chips exchanged, vodka poured and consumed. I perch on the edge of the chair beside Ruslan, hyperaware of how near he is, how his cloying aftershave fills the space between us and turns my stomach.
I notice Abram bets recklessly, rings clacking against chips as he pushes stacks forward on mediocre hands.
Grigori is patient. Waiting, watching, striking only when the moment is right.
Yuri plays for laughs more than wins, slapping the table and guffawing at his own jokes.
Ruslan plays with cold calculation, reading everyone at the table, knowing exactly when to push and when to fold.
He wins more than he loses. The others defer to him, waiting for his reaction before laughing or responding to any comment.
He’s the pakhan. Their leader. And even in a casual poker game, that hierarchy is absolute.
These men might still be active in the Baronov Bratva, or they might be retired, living off fortunes built decades ago. Either way, I wonder what their roles were when this club had a different purpose.
Were these men involved in what happened to my mother? Did they watch her get auctioned? Do they know her name?
The thought makes rage simmer under my skin, but I keep my expression vapid and pleasant.
“Your family in Moscow.” Ruslan glances at me. “What part of the city?”
My mouth goes dry, but I’ve rehearsed this backstory enough times for the words to flow. “Lyublino District. My father’s in construction, so we’ve always lived modestly.”
“And your mother?” His stare is locked on me, watching for the smallest reaction.
“She died when I was a child. I barely remember her.”
“A shame.” He picks up his cards, studies them. “I hope you carry something of her with you. It’s hard to lose a parent so young.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Something feels off about his comment.
I stare down at my hands in my lap. “Thank you, it was a long time ago.”
“You’re very observant,” Abram says with narrowed eyes. “Watching us like you’re memorizing every move.”
I force a laugh. “I’ve never seen Texas hold ‘em played before. It’s fascinating.”
“We should deal you in,” Yuri booms. “A pretty face at the table always improves the odds.”
“I don’t know how to play,” I lie.
“Even better,” Grigori says, his eyes fixed on my chest. “We’ll give you a private lesson.”
Ruslan sets his cards down. “Evelina’s working. Let’s not distract her from her job.” His tone is pleasant, but there’s steel underneath. The other men back off immediately.
I rise to my feet, forcing brightness into my voice. “Looks like this bottle of Beluga Gold Line is nearly empty. I’ll get another.”
I collect the empty bottle and glasses and head for the door, nodding at the guards as I pass.
The VIP bar is down the hall, and I use the short walk to get my head on straight.
I still can’t figure out Ruslan’s interest in me. It doesn’t feel purely sexual. His gaze lingers a beat too long on my face and body, but underneath the surface, there’s something else I can’t put my finger on.
I give my order to Jordy, the bartender and wait while he fetches another bottle.
Topless dancers move through the space, leading clients to private rooms. I spot Yeva in a quiet corner, perched on the lap of a much older man, his hand resting high on her thigh.
She leans in close and whispers in his ear, making him smile, then laughs like he’s the most fascinating person she’s ever met.
I look away fast, before she can catch me staring. We’re all playing roles here. If she can do it every night, so can I.
The bartender slides the tray across to me. One ice-cold bottle of vodka and four cut-crystal lowballs.
I head back, pausing outside the Sapphire Suite.
I could slip the midazolam into Ruslan’s drink right now, but it’s too early. Better to wait until everyone has enough alcohol in their systems that a wasted Ruslan won’t set off alarm bells.
But then what? The only way to get the pakhan alone is to pretend I want something to happen between us. If I do, word will get back to Kirill. The thought makes me sick. He’d never forgive me, never look at me the same way, and I’d deserve it.
When it comes to Kirill, logic goes out the window. I have feelings for him that don’t make sense, feelings that aren’t according to plan. I haven’t seen him since that phone call cut our date short, but he’s been on my mind, and that alone should be a warning to stay away.
I’m about to step back inside when voices from the room make me stop. I freeze, the tray balanced in my hand.
“… those auctions were glory days.”
My pulse hammers in my throat.
“Spider sure knew how to pick them. Only the finest girls?—”
The air in the hallway feels too thin. I lean closer, desperate to hear more.
“Cost a fucking fortune to buy off the judges… would have been set for life if we hadn’t been forced to shut it down.”
“Enough.” Ruslan’s voice cuts through like a blade. “You know we don’t discuss this anymore.”
Silence falls inside the room.
Auctions. Network. Spider.
Spider sounds like a street name. Like the trafficker who brought women from Russia. The person who might have taken my mother.
Adrenaline surges through me, and I commit every word of their conversation to memory. But I can’t stand in the hallway any longer without someone noticing.
Drawing a deep breath to steady my hands, I push the door open and step back inside.