Sweat beads on my skin under the mask as I enter the club’s main room. Extravagant doesn’t begin to describe it. Crystal chandeliers, gold-flecked marble, plush red velvet everywhere. It’s like the wet dream of some Russian mobster. Oh, wait…
I scan the room, trying to look like I’m just another airheaded waitress in awe of the surroundings. Searching for my targetamidst the crowd of tuxes and gowns, champagne flutes and cigar smoke.
Where are you hiding, you son of a bitch?
Sipping vodka in some shadowy VIP lounge? Groping the wait staff in a back room? My stomach turns at the thought, but I swallow the bile.
I slip from room to room, making my rounds with the tray of overpriced vodka that’s conveniently hanging from my neck.
The place is a fever dream of wealth and sin, all blood-red velvet and gilt edges. Feels more like Dracula’s castle than a club.
Subtle as a sledgehammer to the face. Guess crime pays for tacky decor.
Clusters of designer suits and slinky dresses fill every shadowed nook, the air thick with a dozen languages. Russian, Arabic, Mandarin—the movers and shakers of the underworld, all here for a taste of the forbidden.
For the Blood of the Nile.
My gaze darts around, taking in every detail, every possible threat. And my fucking target is nowhere to be seen.
This place… it’s like a maze designed to swallow trespassers whole. There are no obvious exits, no clear paths to freedom. Once you step across the threshold, you’re theirs.
Then I see it. A wooden door, both sides open. But it’s heavily guarded, armed goons in every corner. Too many eyes, too many guns.
Must be it. He is near. I can feel it in my bones.
That motherfucker.Leonid Kuznetsov.
The name pounds in my skull, a twisted mantra. My brother’s killer, the man who shattered my world like a fist through glass. I scan the room, searching for a glimpse of him.
In my mind, he’s a brute. All scars and sneer, with rot-gut breath and bloodstained hands. The bogeyman of my nightmares made flesh.
The cold blue eyes behind that raven mask, the cruel twist of his lips. The scent of his cologne, sharp and expensive, mingling with the coppery reek of blood.
That image is seared into my brain, a waking nightmare I can’t escape. In my darkest moments, I imagine what he really looks like. Is he as monstrous on the outside as within? Scarred and grotesque, with blackened teeth and pustulent skin?
Only one way to find out. Time to meet the devil.
I’m so busy gawking that I don’t notice the hulking brute until I’m practically on top of him. He looms out of the shadows, blocking my path. A grotesque rabbit mask leers down at me, slashes of red paint mimicking blood.
“Staff only,kiska,” he growls. “Turn around.”
My heartbeat spikes, panic clawing at my ribs. I paste on a ditzy smile, pointing to the tray and the number 19 stamped on my tits.
Keeping my mouth shut is the safest bet—for the poison and for me.
He grunts but steps aside. Guess my cheap disguise is working.
I slip past him, pulse pounding in my ears. And there he is.
Leonid fucking Kuznetsov.
It has to be him, the way he’s sitting on a plush velvet couch like a king on his throne.
He’s younger than I expected, his face a study in cruel elegance. High cheekbones, a jaw you could cut yourself on, lips curved into a raptor’s smile. He oozes power and menace, wrapped up in a bespoke tux.
Stepping closer to him, I try to take another good look at him. Not easy since he’s surrounded by goons and gorgeous women.
But I barely see them. Because I’m staring at his mask.
