She sighs, clearly wanting to say more but choosing not to. “The game’s in the Sapphire Suite on the VIP floor. You can order drinks from the bar upstairs.”
I give her what I hope looks like a brave smile. “Don’t be so worried. I’ll come down after my shift. We can have a drink and I’ll regale you with tales of my evening. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“You better.”
Once she leaves, I’m alone again with my reflection and the weight of what’s about to happen.
Ruslan Baronov in a private room with his oldest associates. Men who probably were involved with Velour back in the day. They’ll be playing cards and drinking. This is the chance I’ve been waiting for since I walked through Velour’s doors.
I turn from the mirror and cross to my jacket hanging on the hook. Tucked inside an inner pocket is a small pill case no bigger than my thumb containing two small tablets of midazolam. A sedative that dissolves invisibly in any drink, lowers inhibitions, loosens tongues, and prevents memory formation. And the best part, they wake up the next morning remembering absolutely nothing.
I’ve carried them since arriving in New York, never needing to use them until tonight.
Drugging the pakhan is dangerous. If I get caught, there’s no talking my way out of it like I did with Kirill.
But it’s worth it if I can get him talking about Velour’s past, about the trafficking network, about a woman named Marina Voronina.
I drop the pills into my palm and slip them into the garter of my stocking, high enough on my thigh that no one will see them or feel them unless I give them access, which I absolutely don’t plan on doing.
I straighten my shoulders and head onto the main floor, joining the organized chaos of Velour. Music pulses through the space, laughter and conversation blending into white noise.
I make my way upstairs, nodding at the security who wave me through. The Sapphire Suite is at the end of the hall, and through the partially open door male voices spill out. I knock briefly before letting myself in.
Rich mahogany paneling, buttery leather chairs, a crystal chandelier casts warm light over everything. A round poker table sits in the center, already set up with cards and chips. Four menare seated around it, drinks in hand, mid-conversation that cuts off as I enter.
Ruslan sits facing the door. When he looks up, his piercing gaze settles on me with an intensity that makes the back of my neck prickle.
“Gentlemen,” he announces. “Our server has arrived.”
The other three men turn toward me. All older, late fifties or early sixties. Expensive suits, gold watches, cigars in stubby fingers.
“Evelina’s the girl from Moscow I was telling you about.” Ruslan rises from his chair in a show of old-world manners that makes me more uneasy than if he’d stayed seated. He gestures to each man in turn. “Let me introduce you to my friends. Abram”— he gestures to his left— “Grigori, and Yuri. We go back many years.”
Abram stands first. Silver-haired and sharp-featured, the kind of man who probably turns heads despite being well into his sixties. His handshake is damp and lingers too long.
Grigori doesn’t stand, just extends a thin hand, cigarette dangling from his lips.
Heavyset with thinning hair and rings on every finger, Yuri rises, clasping my hand in both of his. Broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, his shirt is undone a few more buttons than necessary.
“A pleasure,” he says, switching to Russian. “Someone who speaks properly instead of these Americans butchering our language.”
Grigori gestures at me with his cigar. “What brings you to New York?”
“My studies. The program here is very good, but expensive, so...” I gesture at myself with a wry smile. “Here I am.”
“You ever think of being a dancer here?” Yuri says, his gaze sliding over my curves. “I bet you’d make real good money with a body like that.”
Ruslan’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his stare sharpens. “I think Evelina prefers to keep her dignity intact. Don’t you?”
I curl my fingers, nails digging into my palms, because if I don’t, I’ll reach for the nearest sharp object and make these men regret every fucking chauvinist word. Instead, I put on the best acting job of my life.
“I’m flattered,” I say with lowered eyes. “Though I’m perfectly happy serving drinks.”
I gesture to the bottle of vodka on ice, half consumed. “I see you’ve already started. Can I freshen anyone’s glass?”
“Not just yet.” Ruslan gestures to the chair beside him. “Sit here. I’d rather not shout across the room every time I need something, and we’re about to start the next hand.”
It’s phrased as convenience, but the command underneath is unmistakable. He wants me close. I have no choice but to sit beside him.
