I reach into my pocket and pull out the coin I found next to one of our dead soldiers. A taunt. “Now we figure out how to kill a ghost on our own.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
DINARA
Every table’s full,the bar’s drowning in orders, and I’m moving faster than I knew I could in three-inch heels.
The shift started slow. Klara and Yeva were gossiping about our night at Apollon and all the drama that ensued. Rada kept shooting me cold looks whenever anyone mentioned Kirill’s name, her territorial vibe cranked up to eleven. Not that she has any idea what went down between us. She only has a vague sense he followed after me.
I ignore her, focus on my work, and try not to think about the fact I haven’t seen Kirill in days.
Not since he drove me home in silence and made it crystal clear I meant nothing to him.
I’ve spent days digging into the Voronins. Surveillance photos, intelligence reports, breadcrumbs of their business, but nothing that explains what happened to my mother.
When I return to the bar, an order for eight custom cocktails is waiting. As far as I can tell, these guys are traders celebrating an acquisition. When Oksana sees the order, she looks ready to snap.
“Christ,” she mutters, grabbing bottles with both hands. “Tonight won’t quit. And of course a server had to call in sick.”
I start loading empties into the dishwasher. “How can I help?”
She hesitates before grabbing a bottle of amber liquid and placing it on my tray. “I hate to ask this, but the VIP bar ran out of Pappy Van Winkle. Some high roller upstairs is asking for it. I’ll keep an eye on your tables if you can run it up.”
“Where do I go?”
“Hand it to the bartender in VIP. Jordy. Big blond guy, can’t miss him.”
I work my way through the crowd and up the stairs to the VIP floor, a thrill pulsing through me with each step.
The main lounge is maybe half the size of the ground floor but feels more exclusive. Velvet couches arranged in intimate clusters. Low tables with champagne chilling in silver buckets. Men in expensive suits with women draped across laps or perched on armrests, fingers trailing over shoulders, mouths whispering in ears.
The dancers up here are topless, moving between groups with practiced sensuality, as if being half-naked with men twice their age is how they want to spend their evening.
Little alcoves line the walls where dancers perform shows that are more like appetizers before moving to the private rooms. The room is intimate, boundaries looser, air thick with possibility and money.
A few glance my way as I pass. I return the interest with a practiced smile, but I’m scanning their faces, cataloging features, looking for anyone I might recognize from my research.
I recognize the type even if I don’t know the faces. Men who traffic in power, who come here because Velour offers discretion alongside pleasure.
I approach the bar, and as Oksana described, a tall, skinny guy is mixing drinks. He barely glances up, his hands in constant motion.
“Hey, Jordy. I have the Pappy Van Winkle,” I say, setting the bottle on the bar.
“Thank God.” He doesn’t stop working. “Listen, would you do me a massive favor? Take it straight to the Obsidian Suite, blue hallway on the left. I’m drowning here.”
“Uh, sure.” I should get back downstairs, but what can I say? Curiosity gets the better of me. The more I can look around up here, the better.
He adds four crystal glasses to my tray. “Door’s labeled. And thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”
I navigate the lounge carefully. Dropping eight-hundred-dollar whiskey would be a disaster.
The blue hallway is quieter, doors lining both sides with discreet brass plaques. Crystal Room. Red Room. Diamond Suite. Sapphire Lounge.
Private spaces for private business.
My mother might have walked these halls. Was she brought to one of the rooms? Displayed for men to evaluate, to bid on, to buy like merchandise?
