It took two weeks of research, three burner phones, and one well-placed tip to learn that he spends his nights in this place. The club’s owned by men whose surnames end in -ov and -sky, all of them orbiting the Bratva sun. If Emil is the key to Enzo’s secrets, then this is where the locks are kept.
I dance because it makes me visible. It draws the stares of strangers, most meaningless, but not all. I feel Emil’s gaze even before I see it: cool, appraising, an invitation wrapped in a warning.
When I finally risk a glance over my shoulder, he’s there, shadowed and still, surrounded by men who talk with their hands and wear their guns in plain sight. He’s beautiful, dangerous, utterly out of place among the plastic smiles and cheap perfume. The contrast makes me bold.
Clara leans in, breathless. “Is that who I think it is?”
I pretend not to notice. “Just some guys from the Russian table. Don’t stare, they’ll think you’re interested.”
She giggles, nudging my ribs. “They already think I’m interested, the way you’re lighting up the room.”
The truth is, every move I make is for Emil. I spin, my dress catching the lights, my smile too bright to be real. I want him to watch me. I want him to want to come closer, to drop that icy distance and reveal what’s underneath.
Each minute he sits, not approaching but not looking away, is a kind of power. I hold it tight, let it fill the cracks left by fear.
My pulse hammers every time our eyes meet across the distance. He studies me—calculating, intent—but stays put. He doesn’t send a drink, doesn’t try to draw me in. I can feel the interest simmering beneath that mask, and it’s all the encouragement I need.
When a man tries to join me on the floor, I let him close for a moment, then step away, smiling politely but coldly. I feel the tension at the back of my neck. know Emil is watching, tracking every gesture. I wonder if he’ll intervene.
He doesn’t. The man drifts off, disappointed, and I reward myself with another glance at the VIP booth. Emil hasn’t moved. His focus is razor-sharp, more patient than any other man in this room. He’s waiting, but for what? For me to break?
Clara is glowing, lost in the blur of music and freedom. “Stay a little longer,” she begs, pulling me toward the bar. “I’ll buy the next round.”
I shake my head, feigning exhaustion. “I should go. Early morning. You stay and enjoy yourself. Please.”
She pouts, but I see her relief. Clara loves the chase more than I ever could. I hug her tight, promising to text when I get home, then slip out into the night. I keep my head high, aware of every gaze that follows me from the club’s low-lit foyer. Especially his.
Outside, the city is a shock—cold air, the scent of rain and garbage and possibility. I pull my jacket tight, walk slowly to the curb. I sense him even before I see the dark car parked half a block down, headlights off, engine idling. It’s not paranoia. I counted his guards as I left, noted the turn of his head, the flicker of a signal to his men. He knows I want to be seen, and I want him to follow.
My car is a borrowed sedan. It’s modest and forgettable, registered to the name I bought along with the apartment on the other side of town. I slip behind the wheel, hands steady, adrenaline fizzing through my veins.
When I glance in the rearview mirror, the black car is already moving, trailing behind as I pull away from the curb.
It’s a game, and I’m not sure who’s winning. The danger is real, but so is the thrill. I take the long way home, winding through city blocks, counting the moments he disappearsbehind a truck or falls back to blend with traffic. He’s good. Careful.
I lose sight of him twice but spot him again near the river, two cars behind, never closer, never too far.
By the time I reach my building, my heart is racing. I lock the doors, take the elevator up to my tiny rented apartment, and watch through the curtains as the black car glides past and pauses beneath the streetlamp. It lingers. Watching. Waiting.
For the first time in weeks, I feel something like power. He’s following me now. And with every step he takes, I get closer to the answers I came for. The chase isn’t over, not by a long shot.
Once I’m sure his car is gone, I’ll let myself breathe. The black sedan idles a little longer beneath the streetlight, headlights off, shadowed windows gleaming with city haze. I keep my face hidden behind the curtain until the engine murmurs to life, the taillights flicker, and finally, he’s swallowed by the empty street.
Even then, I wait another minute, pulse hammering in my throat. Only when I’m sure he won’t return do I let my body slump, all the tension slipping out at once.
The heels are the first thing to go—kicked carelessly across the narrow rug, toes still tingling from hours on the dance floor. I look around the small, impersonal apartment: the suitcase shoved under the bed, the raincoat hanging by the door, the fake diploma on the desk with “Isabella Rossi” written in block letters.
None of it feels real. I grab my keys again, tug on flat shoes, and check my reflection—hair mussed, lips smudged, adrenaline making my eyes look wilder than I want to admit.
Time to go. If anyone realizes I’m missing from the estate, all of tonight’s careful risk will be for nothing. I double-check the door is locked behind me, scanning the street one more time for that dark car.
Nothing but the city’s restless quiet, a passing siren, a flicker of headlights that don’t slow. I melt into the night, moving fast, head down, the city swallowing my secrets as it always has.
By the time I reach the Bruno estate, my nerves are scraped raw. The cab lets me off a block away so I can slip through the side gate, heart stuttering as I duck past the garage, keeping to the shadows cast by old sycamores.
The house is mostly dark, just the gold wash of a hallway lamp glimmering through the heavy curtains. I press a hand to the old stone, grounding myself before slipping the key into the back door and letting myself in.
Inside, it smells the same as always: perfume and lemon oil, something older and heavier beneath it. The hush is complete except for the faint, ghostly tick of the grandfather clock in the foyer.
