10. Danika
DANIKA
The upper-level balconies overlook everything.
From up here, I can see the entire VIP floor sprawled below me.
Crystal chandeliers cast light down on women in expensive gowns as they drift past men in tuxedos who smell like old money and Cuban cigars.
The air hums with conversation in many different languages, French, Italian, Russian, English, all blending into a single mumble that's almost charming.
I hate all of it.
Give me a dark alley. A sniper perch. A floor stained with blood. That's honest work. This? This is all bullshit. It's just wealthy people masquerading around like they care, just waiting for you to stop talking so they can insert the next thing they bought or the money they made on a recent sale.
At least when men beg for their lives, it's genuine.
I shift my weight in my high heels, adjusting the champagne flute in my hand. The glass is cold and filled with sparkling water. The bubbles catch the light as I raise it to my lips, taking a small sip that does nothing to settle the tension coiling in my stomach.
The red gown I'm wearing is stunning. I'll admit that much.
Backless, with a high slit that runs dangerously close to my hip.
The fabric clings to every curve, and when I move, the slit reveals the lean muscle of my thigh.
It's the kind of dress that makes men stop mid-sentence, their eyes following the line of exposed skin like they've forgotten how to think.
Which is exactly the point.
But what they don't see is the thin dagger strapped high on my inner thigh, pressed against my skin so tightly that even the skintight fabric doesn't betray its presence.
It's custom-made, razor-sharp, and light enough that I barely feel it.
No gun, though. The dress wouldn't allow it. Things men never have to worry about.
I lean against the ornate railing, letting my fingers trace the wrought-iron work, and scan the room below until I find him again.
Dimitri Volkov stands near the center of the VIP floor, surrounded by a small crowd of European elite.
He's in a black tux, but all I see are those three big gold rings he always wears, and save for his short stature and weight, he looks a lot like Ivan.
He's laughing at something an Italian politician said, his voice booming above everyone else.
Four bodyguards flank him, massive men in dark suits who scan the room with the kind of hyper-vigilance I recognize in myself.
They don't relax or even blink. They're just waiting for a threat.
In a twisted sense, they're waiting for someone like me.
I take another sip of my sparkling water, staring at him.
I still can't believe I'm here. That I'm supposed to spy on Ivan's brother.
Nonetheless, I've done my recon and discovered my huge problems, and every job has them.
Dimitri has left his tablet in his penthouse suite, which is reinforced with a high-tech security system that I was not expecting.
It's got reinforced locks, motion sensors, cameras, the works.
It's an in-house setup, I'm sure. I suppose high-end casinos keep a room like that for the type of people they host.
And while that's an issue, the alternative is also a problem. If he had the tablet with him, stealing it to access it out in the open, surrounded by armed guards and the 20-plus casino security and private contractors, is a death sentence.
But I have a job, and I have to do it, so I'll take the easier of the two, which, after thinking it through, has become obvious.
I'll need to break into his room.
Because accessing the tablet while he's down here, distracted by champagne and flattery, will be the only chance I have.
I glance at the stairs leading up to the private suites. Security is tight, but I've already mapped out three potential entry points. A service hallway near the kitchen. A fire escape on the east side. And a maintenance access panel behind the coat check.
I can do this. I have to.
My gaze drifts back to Dimitri, who's now gesturing animatedly to a woman in a gold gown. She laughs, touching his arm, and he leans closer, saying something that makes her blush.
The dread that's been sitting in my chest since Prague returns, heavier this time.
I can't shake the feeling like I'm stepping on a landmine.
If Ivan's suspicions are wrong, if Dimitri isn't hiding anything, and I get caught, I'm dead for nothing. And not just dead. Executed and branded a traitor to the Bratva, and my name will mean nothing. All the work I've done, lost.
And Ivan won't be able to save me. He can't. Not without revealing that he ordered the hit, which would shatter the family's trust in him. Every job I take is under the guise that if I'm caught, he doesn't know me or the mission. This won't be any different.
I close my eyes for a moment, steadying my breathing.
Ivan saved my life. I owe him everything, I tell myself.
When my parents were killed, my father, Ivan's personal driver, shot in the street like he was nothing, my mother murdered hours later as collateral, he didn't turn away and let it stand.
He could have. I was twelve years old, orphaned, with nowhere to go.
The Ruskin family, the ones who ordered the hit, would have found me eventually and finished the job.
But Ivan retaliated hard. Wiped them out instead. Every single member of the Ruskin Bratva, erased from Russian history like they never existed.
And then he gave me a life.
Trained me. Fed me. Turned me into something more than an orphan with nothing but rage and grief. He didn't have to do any of that, but he did.
And for that, I owe him everything.
So, if Ivan feels like Dimitri is hiding something, then in my eyes, he is, and I will get the proof. My loyalty to Ivan is absolute, even worth my life.
I open my eyes and drain the rest of my sparkling water, setting the empty flute on a table next to the railing.
Time to move.
I can't just lurk on this balcony all night. Dimitri knows who I am. If he spots me hiding up here, watching him, he'll immediately suspect I'm monitoring him. And that's the last thing I need.
To maintain my cover, I have to hide in plain sight.
I take a breath, smoothing the red dress over my hips, and descend the staircase.
The dress does the work for me. Men's conversations pause as I pass. Eyes follow the slit, the exposed skin, before admiring my cleavage. I keep my expression bored, aloof, like I belong here and couldn't care less about the attention.
By the time I reach the main floor, I've already identified my path to Dimitri. He's still near the craps table, the Italian politician now replaced by a Russian in a white tuxedo. The guards notice me first, their postures shifting subtly as I approach. One of them steps forward, blocking my path.
"Danika." Dimitri's voice cuts through the tension before the guard can speak. He waves the man off, a wide smile spreading across his face. "What is Ivan's favorite weapon doing in Italy?"
I smile back, smooth and easy, letting the lie roll off my tongue like I've rehearsed it a hundred times.
"I just finished up Romania," I say, keeping my tone light, casual. "Thought I'd take a few days to enjoy the Mediterranean coast before heading back to Moscow. I heard about your event, so..." I smile and bite my lip. "I thought this would be the perfect place to unwind."
Dimitri laughs, and his eyes drop to the tops of my breasts. "Of course, of course! Even the best need a vacation, да?"
"Exactly."
He gestures to the expatriate beside him. "This is Alexei Kuznetsov. He owns seven hotels on the Riviera. Alexei, this is Danika. An associate of my family."
Alexei extends a hand, his smile polite but disinterested. I shake it briefly, then let go.
"Beautiful dress," he says, his gaze lingering on the slit. "On a beautiful woman."
"Thank you," I say, forcing a smile like I give a shit about his compliments.
Dimitri wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me in, and I force myself not to stiffen at the contact. "Enjoy yourself tonight. You've earned it. Maybe later we can have a drink."
"Sounds good," I laugh and pull away.
I step back, offering a polite nod before turning and weaving through the crowd. The guards' eyes follow me for a moment, then shift back to scanning the room.
I reach the bar and signal the bartender. He approaches immediately, his bow tie slightly crooked.
"Sparkling water in a flute, please," I say. "No ice."
He nods and turns to pour.
I take the opportunity to look around the room again, my eyes sweeping over the crowd to my right. Politicians. Businessmen. Women draped in diamonds. Security personnel stationed near the exits.
Everything is exactly as it should be, but then the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
It's subtle at first, a faint prickle of awareness that makes my heartbeat quicken. I know this feeling. I've felt it a hundred times before.
I'm being watched.
My fingers tighten on the edge of the bar as I casually adjust my posture, angling myself to use the mirrored pillar close to me as a reflective surface. My eyes dart across the crowd behind me, searching for the source of the gaze.
Dimitri's guards? No. They're focused on him, not me.
Casino security? Possible, but unlikely. They're trained to watch the floor, not individual patrons.
Then who?
I scan faces, movements, anything and everything. A man in a gray suit near the roulette table. A woman in a silver gown by the staircase. A waiter carrying a tray of small plates of food.
Nothing.
The bartender sets my sparkling water down, and I murmur a thank you, wrapping my fingers around the stem.
I'm being paranoid.
It's the job. The stakes. The fact that I'm about to break into the penthouse of one of the most powerful men in the Bratva and download everything from his encrypted tablet. Of course I'm on edge.
I take a sip of the water, letting the bubbles fizz on my tongue.
Focus, Danika.
I have a security system to crack. A tablet to access. A loyalty to prove.
But as I set the glass back down, the sensation doesn't fade. It lingers like a weight pressing on my chest.
And deep down, beneath the logic and the training and the iron control I've spent years perfecting, my pulse beats with a familiar, dangerous anticipation.
A feeling I haven't had since I saw his face in a dark office in Constan?a.