Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
JUDE GRAVES
The Lamborghini drives smoothly on the wet roads.
Moscow blurs past the windshield in streaks of gray sky and bright lights.
I keep the window cracked even though it’s cold enough that my breath fogs faintly when I exhale.
It’s already supposed to snow soon. Smoke curls out into the evening as I take another drag, my cigarette burning down between my fingers.
Adriana shifts beside me. She’s wearing a white sweater dress that clings to her thighs and knee-high brown boots. Her arms are folded loosely, but I can tell she’s cold. She doesn’t ask me to close the window. Probably because she knows I won’t.
My gaze drops to my hands resting on the steering wheel.
My knuckles are split and swollen, scabbed over, and bruised in ugly purples.
They ache constantly now. It’s a deep, bone-level pain that never really leaves.
Alexei’s men don’t go easy on me. They don’t stop when I hit the floor or throw up. They teach until I break or adapt.
I’ve adapted.
Adriana has changed since we got here. She understands now that playing with men like Alexei isn’t as predictable as it was with just Nolan.
It’s dangerous. Just the other night, at dinner with Vlad and Alexei, she excused herself midway through the meal.
Hand over her mouth, pale and apologetic, claiming she’d gotten food poisoning from sushi earlier that day.
Bullshit.
She was terrified of the way Vlad was looking at her. She’s always been a bitch, sure. But even she knows getting oggled by a trafficker is a bad fucking sign.
And despite our past, I don’t like it either.
Nolan is unraveling. I can see it almost every day. He’s a chihuahua shivering around pacing wolves, and somewhere deep down, he knows it. His ego just won’t let him admit it—or do the smart thing and get us the hell out while he still can.
Too late now.
Adriana finally breaks the silence. “What are you playing tonight?”
I shrug, eyes fixed on the road. “A couple of Dissonance’s biggest hits, probably. Or some covers.” My grip tightens on the steering wheel before I can stop myself. The band doesn’t exist anymore. I wonder briefly if Micah told Finnick and Kami everything.
Micah.
My jaw clenches hard enough that it hurts. I shove the name out of my head before it can bloom into other thoughts. I don’t have room for him. Or what he represents.
Adriana’s hand slides onto my thigh, warm even through the denim.
It’s meant to ground me. I exhale slowly through my nose.
She hasn’t really forced herself on me since we left the States.
The couple times we have fucked, I was a willing participant.
Sort of. She hasn't stuck me with needles. No hands where I don’t want them.
For that, I’m grateful. Because if she tried now. ..
Honestly, I’d fucking kill her.
I flick ash out the window and keep driving.
When we arrive, I allow the valet to take the car.
I take a deep breath and stare at the building, guitar case in one hand.
White stone steps, warm, golden light, and crystal chandeliers visible through floor-to-ceiling windows.
A string quartet is playing something soft, the notes greeting us as we pass through the doors.
Everyone inside is dressed like they have a lot of money.
I don’t fucking belong here.
I wear black jeans with no rips, Nolan’s orders, and a black T-shirt like always. I keep my hands tucked casually into my pockets, hiding the state of my knuckles. The cold from outside still clings to me, and the cigarette I put out just before the entrance tastes stale in the back of my throat.
Adriana slides her arm through mine, smiling politely as others turn their gazes toward us.
Her lipstick is neutral, not that awful red she usually wears.
Nolan trails behind us, already sweating.
His tie is too tight. His eyes dart everywhere at once, like he’s waiting to be called out by name to speak in front of a class.
“Are you on fucking coke, man?” I squint my eyes at him. “Don’t tell me you’re fucked, too.”
Nolan rolls his eyes. “Shut the hell up, boy. I’m fine.”
I just shake my head and look forward. I clock the exits immediately—two obvious, one discreet. Security is everywhere, but none of them look like security. They’re way too well-dressed. This isn’t a charity event like advertised to the public. This is a marketplace.
A woman laughs obnoxiously loud near the bar, startling me, her hand resting on the arm of a man old enough to be her grandfather. His fingers dig into her wrist. Across the room, two men murmur over flutes of champagne. One of them slips a phone into the other’s jacket pocket like it’s nothing.
I see with annoying clarity that drugs and money are moving through here tonight. Probably people, too.
Adriana’s posture is perfect beside me, but I can feel the tension in her arm. She’s not playing anymore with cocky smiles and drunk nonchalance like she did in the States. Moscow taught her better. Taught both of us.
A waiter passes with a tray of drinks. I don’t take one.
My eyes catch on a woman standing alone near the edge of the room.
She’s beautiful in a fragile way, her thin frame seemingly shaking when a man approaches her.
He murmurs something to her, gesturing subtly toward a side corridor.
Her face drains of color for just a second.
No one else notices.
I look away. If I don’t, I won’t be able to breathe.
I suddenly become aware of everyone’s attention shifting. I turn to join their gazes and see Alexei. He hasn’t looked at me yet, but my spine goes rigid anyway. My body knows him now, unfortunately.
Adriana’s hand tightens on my arm. Nolan clears his throat behind us. “Just do your thing,” Nolan mutters. “In and out. Perform, socialize, and leave. Unless told otherwise. You're just adding some lovely entertainment for the evening. You're not the main attraction.”
I almost laugh at Alexei's little bitch. Instead, I nod once. Apparently, that’s my thing, now. I start walking, letting the performer mask settle into place. Tonight, I’m the entertainment, currency, and the fucking lie to get all of these bastards together.
“The quartet has finished.” Nolan points over to the performance space near the center of the room.
There’s no raised platform or barricade.
There is just a polished grand piano and a single microphone, positioned purposefully too close to the crowd.
It’s intimate and exposed, the kind of setup that forces eye contact. Ugh, fuck.
Someone taps a glass. Conversations quiet, and heads turn.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a man I've never met announces smoothly, champagne flute raised. “Thank you for attending tonight’s charitable gathering. We are honored to welcome a very special guest from the States. Please enjoy a solo performance by Jude Graves.”
Applause ripples through the room, and I step forward, guitar in hand.
The lights dim just enough to blur faces, but not enough to hide them completely.
I adjust the strap, roll my shoulders once, and lean into the mic.
An introduction isn’t necessary from me, so I just play.
The first song is a popular Dissonance hit that they can latch onto.
My voice comes out steady as always, raspy and somewhat broken in the way people love.
It still works. That part of me hasn’t died yet, at least.
I sing about how both love and loss are an inevitability, and I watch them while I play.
I’m forced to since they’re so goddamn close to me.
I see a man near the bar slipping a key card into another man’s palm during the chorus.
A woman laughing softly as someone murmurs into her ear.
A waiter refilling champagne flutes that never seem to empty.
I catch flashes of nods, discreet handshakes, and smiles.
My music fills the gaps between transactions.
Makes it feel elegant and civilized somehow.
I never would have believed that this could be the shitty basement beneath the “success” of many entertainers.
But that’s what it is. I’ve seen it way too much.
The industry will find someone with real talent, chew them up until they’re used up like gum, and spit them the hell out.
I finish the first song to enthusiastic applause. Someone whistles, and someone else calls my name like they know me. I don’t acknowledge it. I roll straight into the next one. By the third song, the room is fully under control. The energy is looser and bolder, like at most shows I’ve played.
My fingers ache, and my throat burns a little, but I keep going. When the final note fades, the applause is louder now. I dip my head once in compliance, not gratitude, before stepping away from the lights. And of course, that’s when I feel the snake’s eyes on me.
Alexei stands near the edge of the room, glass in hand, watching with an amused grin. Nolan is beside him, posture stiff, smile strained. Adriana stands just a little apart, her expression neutral but her shoulders tight.
Alexei crooks one finger. Come here.
My muscles lock for half a second, but I don’t let it show. I walk toward them, through the applause echoing around me.
Alexei’s smile is thin when I stop in front of him. “Beautiful,” he says lightly. “You sound better every time.”
“Thank you,” I reply, voice even.
His gaze flicks to my hands and lingers, noticing everything. “You see?” he says to Nolan, clapping him once on the shoulder. “Talent like this opens doors. Makes people generous. We have a lot of good energy tonight. Deals left and right. It's good. Little rockstar is great.”
Nolan laughs too loudly. “Yeah. He’s…uh. He’s incredible.”
I level a glare at him, but he ignores it.
Alexei turns back to me. “Tomorrow,” he says casually, “you get your mask back.”
My stomach drops.