6. Vladimir
Vladimir
The bass from the club downstairs thrums through the walls, a steady rhythm of deep, vibrating beats that rattle the expensive glassware on the table.
Laughter, the occasional shout, the sharp clink of ice against crystal—all of it blends into a chaotic symphony of business and pleasure.
At the table, my men are deep in conversation, voices low but firm, discussing numbers, shipments, and movements happening throughout my city.
The usual dance of power and survival. Deals being brokered, alliances reaffirmed, warnings wrapped in polite words.
But it all feels distant. Like the noise is coming from another world, one I’m not entirely part of.
I lean back in my chair, fingers drumming idly against the armrest, eyes scanning the faces around me without really seeing them. They carry on, oblivious to the fact that my mind is elsewhere.
Dimitri says something, laughing at his own joke, and Konstantin grunts in response, his patience thinning as the meeting drags on. Usually, I’d steer the conversation, keeping the wolves in check.
But tonight, I’m adrift.
I rub my leg where she buried another damn blade in me, the dull ache sparking with every shift. The sting is a constant reminder—sharp, raw, infuriating.
That woman.
I can still hear her voice, still see the smirk she wore when the knife hit home.
A flash of heat licks through me. Rage? Or something worse?
My fingers press harder into the bruised flesh. She’s under my skin. And I’m not sure if I want to tear her out—or drag her deeper.
After she killed that sukin syn, Anton, I looked into what she accused him of. I thought maybe she was mistaken; maybe it was just another job or a scorned lover.
But no.
The pictures I found?
She did him a favor. A bullet to the head was mercy compared to what I would have done if I had known.
So, I did what any rational man in my position would do—I gathered my men in one of our warehouses. I made it abundantly clear that any dealings that revolved around those kinds of… proclivities would not be tolerated.
I made sure they understood by demonstration.
Any man I found who was even remotely associated with Anton’s business was gutted.
Slowly.
Publicly.
To ensure there was no misunderstanding about my position, I clarified that my stance was non-negotiable.
And yet… I still can’t stop thinking about her.
My assassin.
Nephthys. My Goddess of Death.
Besides Anton, after every hit, she leaves her calling card—a phoenix carved onto the bodies of her victims.
Forty-four.
That's the number of reported killings in the last six years.
How I've never heard of her until now is a mystery, but according to my research, I doubt I would want to be on the receiving end of such a calling card.
And yet, it's not just her skill that bothers me.
It’s that scent that lingers after she’s disappeared.
Vanilla and lavender.
Soft. Sweet. Almost… innocent.
That night in the club, when she executed Anton, I caught the faintest trace of it. I thought it was nothing.
A fluke.
And then I smelled it again at the docks in Philadelphia.
Her height differed from the first time, so I wasn’t sure. But when I got closer, that’s when I knew—it was no coincidence.
That alone pisses me off more than anything. I’m not the kind of man who gets played. And yet, here I am, chasing a ghost.
Those molten chocolate-colored eyes haunt me more than they have any right to.
I’m bewitched, and I don’t know anything about her.
“Pakhan.”
Dimitri’s voice cuts through my thoughts, dragging me back to the present.
I blink, looking at him. I almost tell him to start over, but then he says something that snaps my focus back into place.
“There’s a fundraiser tomorrow,” Dimitri says, his brow arching as if he knows I haven’t been paying attention.
I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs out before me. “And why should I care?”
“Powerful individuals are involved as always. Some of them are people we need to maintain a good relationship with,” Dimitri explains. “We can’t afford to decline an invitation like this, especially since you’ve been avoiding other events for the past few months. Your absence is being noticed.”
I exhale slowly, already growing bored. “And?”
Dimitri’s lips quirk, and I hate that he knows me well enough to anticipate my disinterest.
“This one is different. It’s for sex trafficking victims. The owner of the fundraiser has requested your attendance… personally.”
That gets my attention.
I straighten, fingers tapping absently against the armrest of my chair.
“Sex trafficking, huh?”
Dimitri nods, glancing at the others in the room before meeting my gaze. “Yes, Pakhan. Ms. Holmes sent the invitation this morning.”
I don’t ask why. I don’t need to. This isn’t about charity—it’s about politics. Influence. Power. You give money to the right people, and doors open. You stay quiet, play your role, and no one comes knocking at your door with questions.
But this fundraiser…
Something about it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Maybe it’s a gut feeling.
Maybe it’s something more.
Maybe it’s her.
If she’s anywhere near something like this, I need to know. Need to be there. Because if there’s even the slightest chance that she will show up?—
“Get me all the details,” I say, standing, my voice cold and absolute. “I want to know everyone involved. Every name, every connection.”
Dimitri nods, his smirk barely contained. “Of course, Pakhan.”
I roll my shoulders, shaking off the lingering weight of my thoughts.
A slow smirk tugs at my lips as I turn to leave.
Moya Lisichka.
I’m coming for you.
The limo ride is smooth, and the leather seats mold around us in luxury as we cruise through the city like kings surveying their domain. Dimitri, Konstantin, and I sit in the back, dressed in three-piece, all-black Armani suits.
Dimitri looks smug as usual, fingers drumming on the armrest, his ever-present smirk in place. He loves this shit—the attention, the cameras, the illusion of power these rich idiots think they have. It’s a game to him, a well-rehearsed performance where he plays the charming devil.
On the other hand, Konstantin sits with his arms crossed, radiating his usual brand of brooding disdain. He looks like he’d rather chew glass than sit through this parade of fakeness. The man has all the patience of a caged bear, and I can already feel the irritation rolling off him.
And me? I’m the master of the performance. The playboy billionaire. The respectable businessman. The face of the Bratva, but not the one people whisper about in fear. No, I’m the charming one they shake hands with and underestimate.
It’s a role I play well. That doesn’t mean I like it.
“Ready to dazzle the masses, Vlad?” Dimitri teases, flashing me a grin. “I trust you’ve been practicing your award-winning smile.”
I give him a slow, calculated smirk. “It comes naturally, unlike whatever the hell you’re doing with your face.”
Konstantin grunts from his corner. “This is a waste of time. We’re not here to smile for cameras. Let’s get this over with.”
Dimitri sighs dramatically. “Kosta, you wound me. Where’s your sense of fun?”
“I don’t enjoy kissing ass,” Konstantin mutters, his scowl deepening. “Unlike you.”
Dimitri places a hand over his chest like he’s been personally offended. “I’ll have you know, I only kiss the finest asses.”
“Both of you shut the hell up,” I drawl, rubbing my temple. “We have a plan to go over.”
That gets their attention. Dimitri straightens, his playful smirk sharpening into something more focused. Konstantin leans forward slightly, arms still crossed but eyes alert.
“If we spot or hear anything about our little Nephthys,” I begin, keeping my voice low. “We let each other know immediately. There is no running off solo. I don’t care if you so much as hear a whisper that sounds like her—we stay coordinated.”
Dimitri nods. “Understood. What if she’s here?”
“Then we just observe,” I say. “We confirm before we make a move. No rushing in like idiots.” My gaze flicks to Konstantin, whose default setting is breaking things first and asking questions never. “Got it?”
He exhales sharply but nods. “Fine.”
Dimitri tilts his head. “And if she’s not here?”
“Then we keep our ears open. This fundraiser is for sex trafficking victims, and I have a feeling our mystery assassin has a vested interest in that. Someone here knows something.” I glance between them. “We’re not just here to smile and wave. We’re here to gather intel.”
Dimitri grins. “So we charm and schmooze?”
“You charm,” I correct. “I schmooze. Konstantin glares at people until they get nervous and start talking.”
Konstantin lets out a low chuckle. “I can do that.”
The limo comes to a smooth stop, and the bright lights of the paparazzi flash outside like a swarm of fireflies on cocaine.
It’s showtime.
I adjust my cufflinks, exhaling slowly. This is the part I hate the most, but I’m damn good at it.
The door opens, and I step out first, slipping into my role as easily as putting on a second skin. Cameras flash, voices call my name, and the scent of expensive perfume mixed with desperation fills the air.
“Vladimir! Can you tell us about your involvement with the fundraiser tonight?” a reporter asks.
I respond with a charming smile. “It’s an important cause. I’m happy to contribute, just like many others who are here tonight.”
“Is it true you’re planning to make a substantial donation?” another reporter presses.
I shrug casually. “How about you come to find out when I write the check?”
They all laugh as Dimitri emerges from the limo, immediately throwing on his signature grin and waving at the cameras like royalty.
Behind him, Konstantin steps out, looking like a very expensive—and very irritated—bodyguard.“We should go inside before your egos break the sound barrier,” Konstantin mutters.
“Patience, dear friend,” I say smoothly. “Let them bask in our presence a little longer.”
Dimitri leans in. “You really think she’s here?”
My fingers tighten around the cuff of my jacket.
“Only one way to find out.”