"Consider it done." He pockets his phone. "Anything else you need?"
I keep my eyes fixed on the screen where Vittoria sways to the music. Her hips move like she doesn't care anyone's watching.
"I'm taking it from here."
Igor doesn't question me. He never does. That's why he's still alive.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm alone with twelve monitors and one obsession.
I scroll through camera feeds until I find her again. Main floor, near the bar. The strobing lights catch the curve of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone, the way that dress hugs every inch of her body like it was sewn specifically to destroy men's sanity.
Bozhe moi.
I've seen photographs of Vittoria Sartori. Studied her file until I could recite her daily schedule from memory.
My hand moves to the control panel. I zoom in. Just slightly. Just enough to watch the flush spreading across her chest. The way her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip between songs. The thin sheen of sweat making her skin glow under the lights.
If I believed in signs from God, this would be one.
The counterfeiter problem fades to background noise. The alliance negotiations, the distribution routes, my father's failing health. All of it becomes static. White noise. Nothing.
There's only her.
I watch her friend lean in to say something. Vittoria laughs, her whole face transforming. Then her friend points toward the VIP section. A hostess in black approaches them. She shakes her head, clearly refusing.
Stubborn woman.
The hostess gestures again. Shows them something on her tablet. Probably the note I send usually to people I want a close eye on to.
Compliments of the house. Please enjoy.
Vittoria's spine straightens.
Her guard moves closer. Says something in her ear. She waves him off with an irritated flick of her wrist.
Finally, she nods. Lets the hostess lead her and the blonde toward the velvet rope.
I switch camera feeds. Track her through the crowd. Up the stairs. Into VIP.
She settles into a curved booth overlooking the dance floor. Champagne arrives within minutes. The good stuff. Cristal. Because if I'm going to spoil her, I'm going to do it properly.
Her friend squeals and grabs the bottle. Vittoria looks up. Scans the room.
Looking for me.
Keep looking, solnyshko. You'll find me soon enough.
I lean back in my chair. Study the way she crosses her legs. The way the hem of her dress rides up her thigh.
I've killed men for less than what I'm thinking right now.
The Bratva heir shouldn't be obsessing over a woman like a lovesick boy. I have territories to protect, enemies to eliminate, an empire to inherit. My father is dying. The alliance with the Sartoris requires careful diplomacy.
But watching her smile at something her friend says, watching her finally relax into the booth like she's allowing herself this one small pleasure...
Ya yeyo ne otpushchu. I'm not letting her go.
Not tonight. Not ever.
