“Thank you,” I say, because I don’t have time to unpack whatever that means.
We move on. Cameras flash. A bodyguard blocks a server with one shoulder and never looks at me, which somehow feels worse.
Caleb guides me toward the center of the room, where the tables get bigger, shinier, quieter. The name cards here aren’t printed—they’re engraved. Every seat has its own server hovering nearby, waiting to refill a glass that’s barely been touched.
The VIP table is its own world. Senator Rowe. A casino owner I recognize from a billboard off I-15. A woman dripping sapphires and boredom. And then… Timofey Volkov.
He doesn’t look up right away, just lifts a wine glass and studies the color like it’s telling him a secret. The tux fits like it was built for him. The kind of fit money doesn’t buy; fear does.
When he finally raises his eyes, it feels like the floor tilts. Unreadable, cold enough to quiet the noise around us.
“Beside him sits a woman who looks like she was ordered from a catalog titled 'Billionaire's Accessories. Blonde hair sculpted into place, skin that never sees sunlight without permission. Diamonds at her throat catch the chandelier and scatter it back across the table. She touches his sleeve once when she laughs—practiced, perfect, all surface.
Wife? Mistress? Paid to be both? Hard to tell. Whatever she is, she knows how to belong here.
Timofey gives Caleb the kind of smile that isn’t a smile. “I like to see who else shows up on time.”
Caleb chuckles like it was a compliment, then gestures toward two empty seats. “Right this way.”
He pulls my chair out first—engraved plate gleaming:MARY SULLIVAN — Brightside National Bank.Because nothing says “underpaid bank employee” like your name carved into solid brass.
I nod politely toward the others, manage a smile that hopefully reads “confident professional” and not “woman seconds from spontaneous combustion.”
Inside, I’m already halfway home, mentally curled up next to Gordo, eating cereal over the sink, and pretending I didn’t just survive organized crime dinner theater. But on the outside, I cross my ankles and sit like I do this every weekend.
If my father could see me now, he’d probably choke on his beer. His daughter, sitting at a table surrounded by people who own zip codes.
He’d make some crack about me “finally using that degree for something,” and my stepmother would correct him with, “Personal banking, dear, not investment.” Melissa would post about it online with the caption“So proud of my big sis!”and twenty hashtags about empowerment, while I’m just trying not to sweat through borrowed satin.
The waiter sets down a dish that looks like it came from a museum instead of a kitchen. There’s foam. Maybe edible. Maybe spackle.
I take a sip of champagne to steady myself.
Across the table, Timofey Volkov sits angled just enough that I can feel his attention before I see it. He doesn’t need to stare; just the slow turn of his head is enough to make the air shift.
When our eyes meet, he raises his champagne glass in a silent toast. The kind that feels less likecheersand more likecheckmate.
The woman beside him notices. She leans in to whisper something, her diamond earring catching the light, her gaze slicing toward me in a practiced, dismissive side-eye… the kind only beautiful, dangerous women can pull off without moving a muscle.
I smile back anyway. Barely. The polite kind you give a person who might own your neighborhood. Then I look away and take another drink, because what else do you do when the scariest man in the room just toasted you?
The champagne burns this time.
Then the voice hits my ear—low, threaded with static, too close.
“We need you sober.”
My throat locks. The glass hovers halfway up, the bubbles freezing midair. The earpiece hums again, a vibration just deep enough to feel, not hear.
Anton.
I almost spit the champagne back out, but catch myself, forcing it down with a shaky swallow. My hand trembles once before I hide it under the table. I pretend to fix my hair, brushing a curl over my ear like nothing happened.
He’s here.
Watching me.
The whole room could burn, and somehow I’d still feel safe knowing he’s the one holding the match.
