And just catching sight of her, my cock gives an involuntary twitch.
twenty-three
Clara
An hour earlier
"Come on, you piece of shit,” I grunt, struggling with the zipper of the dress. This skinny bitch must be on some new Hollywood diet because this thing’s tight as hell.
I glance down at the two women crumpled on the floor, their wrists and ankles bound with strips of my “uniform.” They’re out cold, courtesy of a little sleeper hold I picked up in Belarus.
“Sorry, ladies,” I murmur, stepping over their prone forms. “But I’ve got a party to crash.” I bend down, snatching up the Russian girl’s tiny Hermes handbag. “Hope you don’t mind if I borrow this,” I mutter, rummaging through its contents. ID, Lipstick, compact, a wad of cash…
Hello, what’s this?
I pull out a platinum invitation card, the gold embossing glinting under the harsh bathroom lights.
“Well, well. Looks like you’re my ticket in, Natasha Volkov,” I read from the ID, a smirk playing on my lips.
I tuck the card into my bra, the cool metal a shock against my skin. It nestles next to the vial of poison, the one I’d rather keep close to my heart than under my fucking tongue.
“Thanks for the assist, girls,” I say, checking my reflection in the mirror. The dress clings to me like liquid gold. I look like a goddamn Bond villain. “Wish me luck.”
But as I stare at myself, the gravity of what I’m about to do hits me. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The chance to avenge Jake, to make his killer pay.
There’s no going back now.
I take a deep breath, steeling my nerves. “You can do this, Clara,” I tell my reflection, my voice low and fierce. “You’ve got this.”
Sucking in a breath, I tighten my stomach, pulling the silk up. It molds to my curves like a second skin. Not bad for a five-year hiatus from the game.
I reach for the golden mask. It’s intricate, a filigree design that’s more art than disguise, catching the light as I tilt it in my hands. Carefully, I fit it over my face, feeling the weight of its cold metal conform to my features. It’s a perfect fit—secure.
I lean against the bathroom stall, listening to the muffled beats of the music outside. The auctioneer’s voice cuts through the din, amplified by the speakers.
“Last call for ‘The Blood of the Nile’! Going once, going twice…”
A pause, the anticipation palpable even through the bathroom walls.
“Sold! To the gentleman in the black mask for a staggering three hundred and ninety million dollars!”
Applause erupts, the sound muted but unmistakable.
I smirk. Perfect. Everyone will be so focused on the auction, they won’t even notice little old me slipping into the VIP lounge.
I glance down at the unconscious women, their chests rising and falling gently. The redhead’s shirt has a “19” pinned to the front, marking her as one of the servers.
Fuck. No time to waste!
I frown, doing a quick mental calculation. They’ll be out for another 20 minutes, tops. Which means I need to get my ass to Kuznetsov’s private party before they wake up and raise the alarm.
I slip out of the bathroom, locking the main entrance behind me. Can’t have anyone stumbling in on my little art project.
Sucking in another breath, I smooth down my dress. Time to blend in.
I step into the main room, and my jaw nearly hits the floor. The place has been completely transformed in the time I was gone. The austere elegance of the auction is nowhere to be seen, replaced by a pulsing, neon-lit nightclub.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, blinking against the strobing lights. “They don’t waste any time, do they?”
