Chapter 1 #2
Vanya steps back from me, still holding my scrunchie, then the three of them disappear through the back door. The moment it shuts, air rushes back into my lungs.
What the hell was that? I press a palm to my pounding chest, gulping the crisp air now that Vanya’s intoxicating scent isn’t overwhelming my senses. What is wrong with me? Am I really attracted to Ivan fucking Petrov—the enforcer of the Petrov family?
None of the brothers looked like anything special in the grainy pictures I dug up online—they avoid red carpets, keep a low profile.
But in person… fuck me. Ivan Petrov is 'this is a problem' hot.
And that's before you get to the other thing I learned—that half the whispers I dug up don't use his name at all. They just call him the Devil.
I give myself ten more seconds to get my shit together, then fish out the spare scrunchie I was smart enough to bring as backup and twist my hair into a ponytail. By the time I step inside, it’s already 8:30. So much for arriving early.
Two thick, heavy-set men in jeans stand inside the doorway, the exact opposite of the polished suits out front. These don’t bother pretending to be anything other than what they are. Made men.
“I’m Melani Monti,” I say hesitantly, trying to keep my voice steady while my eyes snag on the unmistakable bulges at their waistbands. Concealed weapons, no doubt. “Nadia told me to come through the back. I’m a new server.”
One of them raises a brow. “You’re clear. We know who you are.”
I gulp and nod, hurrying past them before they can scrutinize me further, but I don’t get far.
“Wait!”
I practically skid to a stop. “Y-yes?”
I turn, and the taller, more intimidating one reaches a gigantic hand toward me. It takes everything I have not to flinch as his fingers curl into a beckoning motion.
“Your phone,” he says.
“My phone?” I repeat, confused.
“It’s not allowed inside the premises. You need to give it to us. We’ll hold onto it until the end of your shift.”
Shit.
“Oh, of course,” I quickly accept, as if I knew all along. “Sorry. Here it is.” I fumble through my bag and hand the phone over before my heart explodes.
“Is there anything else?”
My phone disappears into his jacket pocket as they both shake their heads.
“Ok. I, uh, thank you.”
I slip away and try to calm myself down. But for the first time since hatching this insane scheme, I think maybe I might have bitten off more than I can chew.
The last time I was here—for my interview—it was during the day, and I came in through the front like a normal person.
The atmosphere was completely different.
Now, at night, slipping in through the back feels infinitely more dangerous.
More real. From what I can recall, there wasn’t any mention of the phone thing. Not that it matters much.
Focus, Melani.
I push through the interior door and find myself inside the club proper.
Zvezda is massive—much bigger than its unassuming exterior suggests.
Three separate bars are scattered throughout, staff already busying themselves in preparation for opening.
Overhead, dim, star-like pinpoints of light twinkle across a midnight-blue ceiling, giving the illusion of a night sky, while spotlights sweep over velvet drapery and glossy marble, making everything shimmer.
Low, seductive music croons from speakers so well hidden I can’t even spot them.
The club is impressively multi-leveled. The main floor features a sunken dance area surrounded by raised seating sections.
On the second and third floors, blacked-out windows mark the VIP alcoves where the wealthy can observe the crowd without being seen.
There are also private balconies with frosted glass partitions for the ultra-exclusive clientele.
The whole place is gorgeous and tastefully designed, far more elegant than I expected from a Bratva establishment.
I spot Nadia, the manager, standing behind the closest bar, watching me, and head that way.
“You’re right on time,” she says. “Good.” I offer her a polite smile, but she just shoves a small box into my hands. “There are two uniforms inside. Come, let me give you a quick tour so you know your way around. We don’t want you getting lost during your shift.”
I’m apparently not allowed to talk or ask questions during the tour—the sharp look I get the first time I try says it all.
Nadia leads me past hidden entrances and discreet staircases that climb towards the VIP lounges—each one on the second and third floors has its own access, she explains.
She points out the general restrooms for the clients, a separate restroom for employees, and the locker room where I’ll change out of my house clothes into my uniform, as it’s not permitted to wear it outside of the establishment.
We pass several staircases, but one stands alone, separate from the others, and I hesitate just long enough to ask, “Where does that lead?”
“To Mr. Petrov’s office. You won’t need to go up there,” she says dismissively, not even slowing her brisk pace. Her tone makes it clear that the staircase is forbidden territory. Which, of course, means that’s exactly where I’m going tonight.
I file the location away in my memory, committing every detail to mind. The distance from the main bar. The sight lines. The closest exit.
When we reach the last VIP lounge, Nadia opens the door, and I get my first glimpse inside.
It’s nothing short of breathtaking. A small wet bar gleams against one wall, stocked with top-shelf liquor.
Butter-soft leather sofas and armchairs are arranged in cozy clusters.
But the real showstopper is a tall tree—an actual tree—that reaches almost to the ceiling.
Delicate lights twine around its branches, and at the very top, a star perches like a crown.
“So sorry.” Nadia’s apology snaps my wandering attention to the far corner where all three Petrov brothers are seated in a booth. I find Vanya, and my heart skips a beat. Before I can look away, the door slams shut, severing the connection.
“Who are those men?” I ask innocently as we head back towards the main floor. Not because I don’t know, but because it might seem weird if I don’t ask.
She hesitates. “I guess you’ll find out soon enough anyway,” she mutters, looking a little irritated with the question. “That’s Ivan Petrov, the owner of Zvezda, and his brothers.”
“Do they come here often?” That part I don’t know, and it might be relevant to my investigation.
Nadia’s response is a pointed look that makes it clear I’ve crossed a line. So I don’t push it. I shut my mouth and follow her quietly.