Bile rises in my throat. I push the thought away before it takes hold.
The Obsidian Suite is third on the left. I pause in front of it, weighing my options. Enter unannounced or knock?
Considering what goes on in this club, knocking seems like the smart choice.
“Come in,” a deep male voice answers.
The scene inside is what I expected. Four men sprawled across leather couches, ties loosened, jackets discarded. They’re surrounded by topless dancers who look like they’re being paid well to pretend this is the best night of their lives.
The air reeks of cigars and booze, and the glass coffee table bears evidence of their excess. Empty champagne bottles, an overflowing ashtray, and three neat lines of white powder that nobody’s bothering to hide.
One of the men glances up when I enter, tracking over me with interest that makes my skin crawl. Mid-forties, heavyset, wedding ring on display.
“Well, hello there.” His words slur together. “You here to join the party?”
I keep my server smile firmly in place and set the bottle on the table beside him. “Nope, just bringing the Pappy Van Winkle, as requested.”
“You could stay awhile. I can make room for one more.” He pats his free leg, the other occupied by a dancer bent forward, snorting a line.
I decline as politely as possible and arrange the glasses by the bar, scanning faces for the telltale Kupola Network mark. The cathedral dome tattoos. I don’t find any.
“I should get back downstairs.” I straighten, already turning toward the exit. “Enjoy your evening.”
“You know where to find us if you change your mind,” he calls, laughing at his own joke.
I step out, pull the door shut behind me, and exhale.
The corridor stretches in both directions, quieter now. The security guard stationed near the elevator earlier must have stepped away. Up here operates on a different set of rules. Privacy is the product they’re selling, which means less oversight, fewer eyes.
It takes me a minute to realize I’m near Kirill’s office. Right around the corner. I’ve only been there once, during that so-called interview, but I remember the route.
My pulse kicks up.
The Baronov brothers haven’t been around in days. The club’s been buzzing with speculation that something’s happening, something big enough to pull all three of them away.
Kirill hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Hasn’t acknowledged my existence since he dropped me off in silence like a stray cat he regretted picking up. I have his number, but every time I pull up his contact, I reject the impulse.
Calling him would mean admitting I care that he disappeared, and I don’t want to show my cards. Not when I don’t know what game we’re playing anymore. I came here for information, hoping he could help me find answers about my mother. Somewhere between the taco dinner and the night at Apollon, the lines blurred.
If I call now, is it the mission, or is it me? I can’t afford not to know the difference.
But this might be my only chance to search his office. His empty office.
Taking care to avoid the cameras trained on the VIP rooms, I keep my head down and move through the corridor. Their office sits in a high-traffic area, so security won’t think much of a server walking these halls, but I don’t want to call attention to myself regardless.
When I reach his door, I test the handle, only half-surprised when it turns smoothly. They don’t need locks when they own everything and everyone inside these walls.
I slip inside and ease the door shut behind me, my heart hammering so hard it’s in my throat.
The space is all dark wood, leather furniture, and windows overlooking the club.
I’ll have to be quick with Oksana covering my tables. My focus lands on the laptop sitting on his desk.
I cross to it and flip the lid open. The screen glows to life, demanding a password.
Shit.
I didn’t plan on breaking into a laptop tonight, and I have no tools on me, but I’m nothing if not creative.
