The napkin shreds between my fingers.
Nice try, Joker. But I don’t play jealous ex-lover in your little theater.
Dmitry picks Elijah up in one smooth motion, muttering something in Russian under his breath. He spares Maksim a quick glance that practically screams, “Are you retarded?”
I stack plates with enough force to make Pavel screech his judgment from the garden. The sound perfectly matches the laugh I’m choking back because, really?Thisis his play?
Fiona, huh. I don’t care. Not a fuck given.
The plate in my hand wobbles, my grip tightening until my knuckles ache.
Not. One. Fuck.
36
Leonid
I’m supposed to be focusing on this goddamn gala, but all I can think about is her.
Blyat.Every time I take a breath, I’m reminded of just how badly I want her again.
Her taste. Her smell. The way she moaned, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream or bite. It’s fucking with my head.
She’s like a goddamn itch I can’t scratch, and every time I close my eyes, I see her again—sprawled across the bed, her nails digging into my shoulders, that smart mouth of hers silenced for once.
It was supposed to be once. One time to get her out of my system. Instead, it was four. And now, I can’t stop thinking about how she looked when I woke up this morning next to me—wrapped in my sheets, her hair a mess, her lips still swollen.
Clara.
I clench my jaw, letting the weight of her name settle in the back of my mind like an ache I can’t shake. It’s why I came early, why I’m standing here now under the massive oak tree at the center of the event hall. Its branches are wrapped in twinkling white lights, ornaments glinting like scattered stars. Strands of evergreen garland spiral up the trunk, transforming it into a towering, indoor Christmas spectacle. I need space, distance—anything to clear my head.
Besides, this deal with Fiona is too big to screw up.
Fifty billion big.
Gold has been the best bet for years, and if everything goes smoothly tonight, it’ll seal an empire-level profit. Enough to keep my Bratva untouchable for years.
I grit my teeth and scan the room, searching for Maksim. He was supposed to be here, keeping an eye on things, but he’s nowhere in sight.
The hall hums with quiet power— but not the kind that inspires. No, this is the kind that makes you check for knives in your back.
Charity.A joke, really.
These people wouldn’t donate a ruble unless it came with a contract. Men in suits that scream “money laundering” and women draped in diamonds they probably stole from their third husbands. Every handshake hides a deal, every smile a sharpened blade.
The jazz quartet plays soft, seductive nonsense in the corner, but no one’s listening. They’re too busy pretending to care about saving the world while they carve it up behind crystal champagne flutes.
Idi na khui.Hypocrites, the lot of them.
And me? I’m no better. I’m here to make my cut.
I nod at a passing waitress, her black dress cut high at the hem but low enough at the neck to guarantee tips. A glittering brooch—a cheap nod to the night’s jewelry theme—pins her name tag in place. Her tray balances a row of champagne flutes alongside a pair of vodka shots that look more like an afterthought.
“Spasibo,” I mutter, plucking one of the shots from the tray. The liquor burns clean, sharp, and familiar as it slides down my throat. I set the empty glass back with a faint clink, catching her startled glance before she moves on.
Better. A little vodka sharpens the edges. Enough to keep my focus on what matters tonight.
The room is quiet, not crowded yet. Waitresses move between tables with trays of champagne, and a few guards linger near the exits, their eyes scanning without urgency.
