“You’re not wrong.” That draws a genuine laugh out of me, light and unexpected. “You know my husband?”
She nods, swirling the ice in her glass. “Kinda. We’re sort of friends. If you can call it that.”
Her tone is vague—too vague. It doesn’t explain anything. I make a mental note to ask Lev about it later.
My drink arrives, the glass cool against my palm. “Would you like one?” I ask, gesturing toward the bartender.
Elara tilts her head, smile still lingering. “Sure. Thanks.”
I turn back to the bartender. “Another of whatever I’m having.”
As he mixes, I glance at her again.
“I haven’t seen you around before,” I say after a moment, curiosity edging into my voice. “Or heard your name, which is surprising—you seem like such a cool person.”
Elara laughs softly, the sound low and smooth. “That’s because I’m not really in this world. Not by choice, anyway.” She sighs. “My father’s a businessman with…global reach. Let’s put it that way. He’s powerful, but not exactly clean. That’s how I got dragged into this mess. Appearances, alliances, the occasional party where everyone’s pretending to like each other.” She gestures loosely toward the room. “This circus.”
I nod, a small, knowing smile forming. “I get it. I was thrust into it too—suddenly and completely. It’s…exhausting. I used to be a flight attendant.”
Her brows lift slightly, interest flickering in her gaze. “Really? That sounds like a life of freedom.”
“It was,” I say, a faint wistfulness tugging at my words. “A different kind of chaos. But at least it was mine.”
Elara hums in understanding. “I restore art in a museum back in New York. That’s my real life. Quiet. Predictable. Nothing like this.”
“That sounds peaceful.”
She smiles faintly as I swirl the last of my drink. “It is, most days. When it’s not stolen paintings and cranky curators.”
We both laugh, the sound soft and easy—two strangers finding something familiar in the middle of a room full of sharks.
“Here,” Elara says, pulling out her phone. “We should grab coffee sometime—somewhere without bodyguards and champagne.”
I grin and nod, tapping my number into her phone. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” She slips the phone away and gives me one last conspiratorial smile. “Welcome to the Bratva world, Sasha. You’ll survive.”
“I’ll try my best,” I say lightly.
“All done, ma’am.” The bartender slides Elara’s drink across the counter, condensation glistening down the glass. She grabs it with a playful grin and takes a sip.
“Oh, this is amazing,” she says, eyes widening as she lets out a delighted hum.
I laugh at her enthusiasm, shaking my head. “Glad you approve.”
As she enthusiastically drinks, my gaze drifts past her shoulder. Across the room, Lev is standing with a tall, broad-shouldered man in an expensive navy suit. The two of them are deep in conversation, their expressions unreadable under the golden lights.
And then, as if he feels the weight of my stare, the man turns slightly—his gaze finding mine across the crowd.
It’s brief, a flicker of eye contact that shouldn’t mean anything. But something in the way he looks at me—sharp, assessing, almost knowing—sends a shiver crawling down my spine.
I force myself to look away, to concentrate on Elara’s playful chatter. But I can still feel it—the heat of that stranger’s gaze burning into my skin long after I’ve turned.
I can’t help it—my eyes find him again. The man in the navy suit. He’s saying something to Lev now, his face molded into a scary frown. He doesn’t look at me again.
A quiet voice beside me pulls me back. “Viktor Markovic,” Elara murmurs, following my line of sight. Her tone drops a note lower, cautious. “If he’s here, there’s always an angle.”
I turn to her, startled. “You know him?”
