CHAPTER 7
ANDREI P.O.V.
I watch the city lights blur into streaks of sick neon outside the armored glass of the SUV.
The skyscraper is looming ahead of us now, a jagged glass tooth cutting right into the night sky like a massive middle finger to the rest of the skyline.
I check the Patek Philippe on my wrist for the fourth time in ten minutes.
The tiny ticking of the hands is pissing me off because it's just a reminder of the hours I’m losing to this bullshit political theater.
I feel this tight, heavy itch in my chest that isn't physical, just a mental fucking rash I can't seem to scratch.
I hate these goddamn events. I prefer the clean, honest violence of the streets, the kind of blood that washes down a drain at the meatpacking plant where things make sense.
Not this performative cruelty these unhinged billionaires get off on.
The only reason I haven't told Yuri to turn this car around and shoot the first guy who complains is the weapons pipeline.
Arthur Hemlock controls it, and I need it to arm my men.
I sit there repeatedly adjusting my heavy gold signet ring, twisting the metal around my finger until the skin underneath is burning red.
"How many minutes, Yuri?" I ask, my voice hard.
"Security is tighter than last year," Yuri replies from the driver's seat, his eyes cutting to the rearview mirror. His driving is pure lethal precision, never hitting the brakes harder than necessary. "Hemlock is getting paranoid."
"Blyad, I hate the smell of this part of the city," I mutter, staring at the sterile high-rises.
Yuri pulls the SUV smoothly toward the plaza entrance.
"Just keep the engine running," I tell him. "I don't plan on staying for the champagne."
The SUV stops. Yuri is out and holding my door in two seconds flat.
I step out onto the heated pavement of the plaza, and the air is sharp and biting, tasting of ozone and upcoming snow.
Some idiot valet in a tuxedo actually steps forward and tries to take my keys.
I simply look at him. I don't say a word, just give him a dead stare, and the man physically recoils like I just backhanded him.
The contrast between the dead silence of the armored SUV and the sensory assault out here is jarring.
Camera lenses are flashing from the 'approved' event photographers behind the velvet ropes, capturing the untouchable elites.
I hear the muffled roar of a distant siren.
I feel entirely exposed standing in the open, my hand reflexively drifting toward the holster hidden beneath my custom-tailored black blazer.
I brush a microscopic speck of dust off my lapel with a sharp, aggressive flick of my fingers.
I'm already looking for the tactical weaknesses in Hemlock's perimeter out of pure fucking habit.
"Stand by the East exit, Yuri," I order, scanning the rooftops for snipers.
"Understood, boss."
"The air tastes like copper tonight," I say, rolling my shoulders to loosen the tension in my back. "Don't let them touch the car. Break their hands if they try."
I turn my back on him and walk straight through the gold-rimmed revolving doors into the executive lobby.
The transition hits like a brick to the skull.
The cold silence of the night gets violently replaced by this heavy, bass-thumping beat vibrating right through the floor into my boots.
The lobby is a cathedral of excess—imported marble, soaring ceilings, art that belongs in a museum but is definitely stolen.
Everyone in here is wearing masks. Animal heads, lace veils, pure gold leaf.
A bunch of billionaires playing dress-up so they can act like animals without ruining their public relations.
I stop for a fraction of a second to let my eyes adjust to the dim, pink neon lighting, my jaw tightening so hard my teeth grind together.
A security guy in a suit steps into my path holding a tablet. "Check-in is mandatory, Mr. Ignatov."
"I don't wear masks," I tell him flatly.
"Sir, the dress code—"
"Out of my way," I say, stepping into his space until he swallows hard and practically trips over his own feet backing up.
I carve a path right through the throng.
Men in silk suits and women in sequins part for me like the fucking Red Sea.
The anonymity of the masks makes these people bold, makes them reckless, but my absolute lack of one makes me the most dangerous thing in the room and they know it.
I feel like a wolf walking into a den of peacocks.
A woman in a fox mask tries to brush against my arm, purring some bullshit, and I sidestep her with a sneer.
I snatch a flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray, walk two steps, and set it down on the base of a marble statue without taking a single sip.
"Look at them," I mutter to myself. "Sheep in wolves' clothing.
" The cloying sweetness of the hors d'oeuvres and the heavy smell of expensive jasmine perfume is making my stomach turn.
I check the massive digital countdown clock on the wall: 01:42:00 until lockdown.
A timer. Like violence needs a schedule to be fun.
"Suka, the music is too loud." I shove past a guy in a diamond-studded skull mask.
"If one more person touches me, I’m breaking their fingers. "
I make it to the bar area and just lean my back against the polished mahogany, putting myself against the wall so I can watch the room.
I’m not here to socialize. But my brain won't shut the fuck up.
It keeps dragging me back to yesterday. To the cafe.
I can still feel the ghost of the hot coffee soaking into my suit jacket, but worse than that, I can see her eyes.
Those hyper-vigilant hazel eyes looking dead at me.
I'm a towering, scarred-up Bratva boss who makes grown men piss themselves, and she just sighed.
Pure, unadulterated annoyance. Zero fear.
Not a flinch. It's living in my head rent-free and giving me this strange, violent restless energy that I don't know what to do with.
I pull my silver lighter out of my pocket.
I flip the cap open. Close it. Open it. Close it.
The rhythmic clink-clink is the only thing keeping me grounded while these masked freaks whisper about me in the periphery.
Yuri materializes near my shoulder.
"Is it done yet?" I ask him, not looking away from the crowd.
"The perimeter is secure."
"Tell the pilot to be ready by dawn. I'm not dragging this out." I flag the bartender. "I need a drink that doesn't taste like sugar. Neat. Pour it fast."
I throw the vodka back, wondering if that cafe girl is home right now. If she's safe. Then I mentally curse myself for giving a shit about a random girl who ruined my suit. Fucking clown behavior.
Before I can pour another, Arthur Hemlock emerges from a cloud of thick Cuban cigar smoke.
He’s wearing a mask made of solid gold wire that looks like a skull, draped in a silk robe that catches the neon light.
He’s strutting toward me with his arms spread wide, carrying the absolute unearned confidence of a man who thinks he owns the air I'm breathing.
"Andrei! My favorite Russian bear," Hemlock booms, his voice dripping with performative friendliness.
He reaches out to pat my shoulder. I shift my weight back just a fraction of an inch, letting his hand miss completely and awkwardly pat the empty air.
Hemlock chuckles, recovering quickly. "You look like you're attending a funeral, not a celebration."
"The shipment is in the port," I say, ignoring the small talk.
"Ah, but tonight... tonight we play," Hemlock says, waving a hand at the crowd. "Business can wait until the blood starts flowing."
He gestures for me to follow him toward a more private, velvet-lined corner of the VIP lounge.
I listen to him boast about the 'quality' of this year's Purge event, his security upgrades, the 'high-value' targets he's acquired.
I stand there with a face like carved granite, my eyes automatically scanning the exits and the guard placements.
I reach into his crystal humidor, pull out a cigar, snap it right in half between two fingers, and toss the broken pieces into the crystal ashtray.
"I'm not here for your games, Arthur," I tell him.
"You don't enjoy the hunt?"
"Tell me about the missiles, not the masquerade. You talk too much for a man with so many enemies." I just want a release. The tension from the cafe girl and this idiot's voice are coiling into a dangerous fucking spring in my chest.
Hemlock leans in, his voice dropping to this sick, conspiratorial whisper.
"I know you, Andrei. You’re bored. You need a distraction before the lockdown shutters come down.
I have a fresh batch of offerings in the back.
First-class. I'll let you take your pick before I open the floor to the others. "
I feel a spike of absolute revulsion at the way he talks about people, but right beneath it is this primal, surging need to exert dominance over something, anything, just to clear my head. I slowly straighten my cuffs, the silk fabric rasping against my wrists.
"A private viewing?" I ask.
"Consider it a token of our partnership."
"You’re offering me a toy to stop me from scowling?"
Hemlock smiles under the wire.
"Make it quick. I don't have all night," I snap.
I give him a single, curt nod. Hemlock signals a pair of guards standing by a heavy steel door in the back.
I stand up to my full height, towering over him, making him look like the small, pathetic rat he is in his silk robes.
I run a hand over the back of my neck, feeling the prickle of sweat and the surge of adrenaline I didn't want.
"Very well," I say. "Show me. Leave Lebedev here." Yuri nods from the bar. I glare down at Hemlock. "This better be worth the detour, Hemlock."