It’s not a guarantee, but it’s something. The tension between my shoulders eases a fraction. “Thank you, seriously. The chance means a lot.”
She holds up a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. It’s a long shot.”
I find a spot at a small table near the wall, close enough to keep Oksana in sight. It also gives me a clear view of the staircase, a dramatic spiral of brushed steel and frosted glass curving upward to the second floor.
That’s where the bratva conducts business, where guards come down and men relax enough to talk freely.
The idea of dancing half-naked for strange men doesn’t thrill me, but if shedding my clothes gets me closer to finding out what happened to my mother, then that’s what I’ll do.
I was six when she disappeared. Old enough to remember her face, her voice, the safety of her tucking me into bed and singing me lullabies. Old enough to know something terrible had happened. Not old enough to understand why.
My father never recovered from losing her. He threw himself into the gym, into training fighters, into anything that kept him too busy to think.
We built our lives around the shape of her absence, never speaking her name, pretending the hole she left behind didn’t exist. But it did. It does.
But now I know she didn’t leave us. She was taken by men in the middle of the night, and brought here. To be auctioned off like cattle.
The auctions have stopped, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t people who know things still here.
I spent the last few months learning everything I could about Velour and the Baronov Bratva. But there wasn’t much online. The Baronovs are old school—paper ledgers, face-to-face meetings, nothing digital that could be traced back to them. And since I couldn’t hack my way to answers, I moved here to infiltrate from the inside.
I’m studying the crowd when a prickle of awareness moves across the back of my neck—the honed instinct of being watched. Turning, my stare collides with a man descending the stairs. Pale blue eyes pin me in place, so intense my skin heats.
Kirill Baronov. The heir to the Baronov Bratva.
The photos I found during my research don’t do him justice. He’s tall, at least six-two or more, with shoulders that fill out his dark suit like it was tailored for his frame. Tattoos curl above his collar, and his hair is jet black, styled back from a face that’s all hard lines and brutal masculinity.
Two men flank him. His brothers, Matvey and Demyan, based on the photos I've studied. Their youngest sibling, Katya, is eighteen and kept far from this world.
Not that I can focus on any of them. Kirill is the one who holds the room’s attention without trying.
I never expected they’d be here. Figured they're too busy running a criminal empire to be around Velour much, but here they are, and I’m not about to waste the opportunity.
They own this place which means they can also hire me.
I set down my soda and rise from the table. Oksana’s head snaps up from behind the bar. Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head in warning not to approach them, but I’m already moving.
Oksana abandons the bar and steps in front of them before I can. She’s gesturing emphatically. Her words are lost to the distance, but I hope she’s pleading my case, trying to convince them I’m worth a few minutes of their time.
Kirill's attention snaps to me. That same intense focus makes my stomach flip. His eyes cut back to Oksana.
He glances at his watch and shakes his head. An obvious dismissal. He turns, moving toward the exit.
Fuck that.
Adrenaline floods my system, sharpening everything. With a few hurried steps, I close the remaining distance between us.
“That’s close enough,” a guard warns, stepping into my path.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I’m guessing most people don’t have the balls to approach a Baronov like this, but if I don’t take this opportunity, I may not get another one.
Kirill says something to the guard, and the hulking man steps aside. The air between us snaps with static as his full attention lands on me.
His stare rakes over me slowly—taking in the corset, the tattoos, the heels—before settling on my face with a focus that makes my skin hum.
He crosses his arms. “What do you want?”
My mouth is bone dry, but I force the words out anyway. “Danny invited me to audition as a dancer tonight.” I hold out the card, but he doesn’t look at it. “I know he’ll be gone for a while, and I need this job.”
