CHAPTER
ONE
DINARA
The entranceto Velour is understated in the way only truly exclusive places can afford to be. There are no velvet ropes or crowds waiting behind barriers, only a pair of valets in crisp black suits parked off to the side, smoking and chatting while they wait for the next luxury car to pull up.
As I approach, a bouncer looks me over, his expression skeptical. His gaze lingers on my corset, then the tattoo sleeve climbing my right arm, before settling on my face as if trying to figure out if I’m lost or stupid or both.
“Wrong watering hole, sweetheart. The nightclub you’re looking for is two blocks west of here. Can’t miss it. There’ll be a long line of women dressed like you out front.”
Jerk. I pull my shoulders back and notch my chin up. “I’m not lost. Danny invited me to audition tonight.”
“That so?” He exchanges a look with the other bouncer standing by the door, sharing a private joke between them. “Danny sure does a lot of these private auditions.”
Yeah, yeah, Danny’s a creep. I get it. But it happens to work in my favor.
I’ve spent months researching Velour and the people who work here, leaving nothing to chance. I moved from Moscow to New York a few weeks ago with one goal—to get a job here.
After following him for a few days, I engineered a “surprise” meeting with Velour’s manager, Danny Krasnov, at the cafe he goes to every morning for an espresso and cigarette.
I charmed Danny during our “chance” encounter, laughed at his stories, touched his arm at the right moments, made him feel like the most charming man I’d ever met. Then I mentioned I was looking for work as an exotic dancer, and he practically tripped over himself handing me his business card with a hand scrawled note. I produce it now.
Evelina Panova, Wednesday 9 p.m., audition.
My golden ticket. Or at least, I hope it is.
The bouncer flicks a bored look at the card. “I’ll need to see an ID.”
I fish the license from my purse and present him with the woman known as Evelina Dmitrievna Panova, an identity I built from scratch.
Bank statements, school records, social media accounts, lease agreements. You name it, I faked it.
As the lead hacker for the Belov Syndicate, Moscow’s most powerful bratva, I know a thing or two about forging digital documents, and I’ve built myself a bulletproof fake identity.
He holds my stare, then taps the card against his palm before handing it back. “Head to the main bar. Oksana can help you.”
The knot between my shoulder blades loosens as doors swing open, revealing another world. Where the exterior is deliberately nondescript, the interior is pure opulence. Rich burgundy leather booths line the dark wood-paneled walls. The lightingis soft and atmospheric, the kind that makes everyone look ten years younger.
This floor is a gentlemen’s club only, but upstairs is the VIP section and strip club. It’s also where powerful men come to play.
But eighteen years ago, Velour wasn’t just a high-end club. It was a place where women were bought and sold.
And I’m certain my mother was one of those women.
Heads turn as I cross the floor. I’ve never cared about male approval. I grew up in my father’s boxing gym, surrounded by men who treated me like their little sister. And as a hacker, I spend most of my days in jeans and hoodies, more about comfort than style.
But I’m a realist. I know beauty can open doors skill alone sometimes can’t. Tonight, it’s yet another asset to deploy, and I’m deploying it damn well wearing a black satin corset with delicate boning that cinches my waist, a slip-style skirt, and three-inch heels, because it's all I can manage to walk in.
My hair falls in soft waves over one shoulder, lips painted a deep red that would make a 1950s starlet proud.
The sleeve of tattoos on my right arm isn't common for this crowd, but I know it works for me. It makes me memorable, and sometimes that’s more valuable than fitting in.
The bartender looks up as I approach, shaking cocktails. This must be Oksana. She’s a pretty brunette with perfect winged eyeliner and an assessing expression. Women don’t wander Velour’s main floor unless they work here or they’ve been specially invited.
“Can I help you?” Her Russian accent is unmistakable, though she’s been in the States long enough to smooth some of the harder edges.
“I’m Evelina Panova. I’m here to see Danny,” I explain, switching into our native tongue. “He asked me to come in tonight to audition.”
