The game begins. Cards are dealt, chips exchanged, vodka poured and consumed. I perch on the edge of the chair beside Ruslan, hyperaware of how near he is, how his cloying aftershave fills the space between us and turns my stomach.
I notice Abram bets recklessly, rings clacking against chips as he pushes stacks forward on mediocre hands.
Grigori is patient. Waiting, watching, striking only when the moment is right.
Yuri plays for laughs more than wins, slapping the table and guffawing at his own jokes.
Ruslan plays with cold calculation, reading everyone at the table, knowing exactly when to push and when to fold. He wins more than he loses. The others defer to him, waiting for hisreaction before laughing or responding to any comment. He’s the pakhan. Their leader. And even in a casual poker game, that hierarchy is absolute.
These men might still be active in the Baronov Bratva, or they might be retired, living off fortunes built decades ago. Either way, I wonder what their roles were when this club had a different purpose.
Were these men involved in what happened to my mother? Did they watch her get auctioned? Do they know her name?
The thought makes rage simmer under my skin, but I keep my expression vapid and pleasant.
“Your family in Moscow.” Ruslan glances at me. “What part of the city?”
My mouth goes dry, but I’ve rehearsed this backstory enough times for the words to flow. “Lyublino District. My father’s in construction, so we’ve always lived modestly.”
“And your mother?” His stare is locked on me, watching for the smallest reaction.
“She died when I was a child. I barely remember her.”
“A shame.” He picks up his cards, studies them. “I hope you carry something of her with you. It’s hard to lose a parent so young.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Something feels off about his comment.
I stare down at my hands in my lap. “Thank you, it was a long time ago.”
“You’re very observant,” Abram says with narrowed eyes. “Watching us like you’re memorizing every move.”
I force a laugh. “I’ve never seen Texas hold ‘em played before. It’s fascinating.”
“We should deal you in,” Yuri booms. “A pretty face at the table always improves the odds.”
“I don’t know how to play,” I lie.
“Even better,” Grigori says, his eyes fixed on my chest. “We’ll give you a private lesson.”
Ruslan sets his cards down. “Evelina’s working. Let’s not distract her from her job.” His tone is pleasant, but there’s steel underneath. The other men back off immediately.
I rise to my feet, forcing brightness into my voice. “Looks like this bottle of Beluga Gold Line is nearly empty. I’ll get another.”
I collect the empty bottle and glasses and head for the door, nodding at the guards as I pass.
The VIP bar is down the hall, and I use the short walk to get my head on straight.
I still can’t figure out Ruslan’s interest in me. It doesn’t feel purely sexual. His gaze lingers a beat too long on my face and body, but underneath the surface, there’s something else I can’t put my finger on.
I give my order to Jordy, the bartender and wait while he fetches another bottle. Topless dancers move through the space, leading clients to private rooms. I spot Yeva in a quiet corner, perched on the lap of a much older man, his hand resting high on her thigh. She leans in close and whispers in his ear, making him smile, then laughs like he’s the most fascinating person she’s ever met.
I look away fast, before she can catch me staring. We’re all playing roles here. If she can do it every night, so can I.
The bartender slides the tray across to me. One ice-cold bottle of vodka and four cut-crystal lowballs.
I head back, pausing outside the Sapphire Suite.
I could slip the midazolam into Ruslan’s drink right now, but it’s too early. Better to wait until everyone has enough alcohol in their systems that a wasted Ruslan won’t set off alarm bells.
