I turn to leave, and a drunk from table seven nearly collides with me carrying a drink he shouldn’t have taken from the bar. I stepleft, catch the glass before it tips, hand it to the nearest server, and redirect the man toward his table with a touch on his arm and a sentence about his next round being ready shortly. The whole thing takes four seconds. When I glance back, Bugrov is still watching me.
He nods once in acknowledgment, like I’ve just answered a question he didn’t ask out loud. It’s confusing and a little exciting, though I can’t explain why.
I spend the next hour managing the floor, running Bugrov’s service, and pretending I’m not tracking him through every room. His meeting in the private section ends at twelve-thirty. He returns to the main floor with Sokolov, and the two of them sit at table one while the other men leave through the rear exit. Adrian Bugrov drinks slowly and speaks to Sokolov in low Russian I can’t hear over the music. He doesn’t flag me down and clearly doesn’t need anything.
Eric shows up again just after one. I don’t see him come in, but I feel the shift the second he steps into my space, close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne before I turn. I face him without stepping back, keeping my expression neutral because the room is full and watching is part of the atmosphere here, even when no one admits it. “This isn’t a good time.”
He glances around like he owns the floor and then looks back at me. “You never have a good time for me anymore.”
“That’s not an accident.” I keep my voice even and low so it doesn’t carry past him. “You need to leave.”
His mouth tightens, and for a second, I think he might push it, but he doesn’t. He studies my face like he’s trying to findsomething he recognizes, then lets out a quiet breath and steps back. “Fine,” he says. “Have it your way.”
“I will.”
He turns and walks out without looking back this time. I wait until he’s past the door before I shift my attention to the floor again, already moving to intercept a server before she makes a mistake at table four.
A few minutes later, I’m adjusting a table arrangement near the south bar when I look up and findhimlooking at me.
The room is crowded with men who are louder and more demanding than Adrian. Every one of them has wanted something from me tonight, be it my attention, my laugh, my number, or my patience. He hasn’t asked for any of it. He’s just watching, and the look on his face isn’t interest, attraction, or anything I’ve learned to manage.
He’s sizing me up the same way I measured the room when I walked in tonight, deciding what I’m actually worth, but why?
I turn away. I’m good at turning away from men who watch me. I’ve built my entire career on being looked at and unmoved by it. For some reason, turning away takes more effort than it should.
I straighten the table, check my phone, and resume my rounds. My shift runs until three, and I have fourteen VIP clients who still need managing and a server who’s been over-pouring all night despite my earlier lesson. I have no time to interpret a look from Adrian Bugrov, even if it leaves me anxious and tingling.
2
ADRIAN
The shipping manifest on my desk has three discrepancies that shouldn’t exist. There were two containers rerouted through Jacksonville instead of the Port of Miami, and a third flagged for customs inspection by an agent whose name I’ve never seen before. Viktor stands across from me at the dining table we’ve converted into a working surface, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled to the forearms.
“The Jacksonville reroute is Karpov.” Viktor taps the manifest with one thick finger. “His people pressured the logistics coordinator at Meridian Freight. The coordinator folded in under a week, which means Karpov offered more than money.”
“You think they threatened him?”
“Probably. Meridian’s coordinator has a family in Hialeah and a gambling problem he thinks nobody knows about.” Viktor pulls up a second document on his tablet. “The customs agent is new, transferred from Houston six weeks ago. I’m runninghis financials now, but the timing matches Karpov’s pattern of buying access before making a move.”
I push aside the manifest and pour coffee from the carafe on the sideboard. The estate is quiet at this hour. The staff is gone, and the waterfront is dark except for dock lights on Biscayne Bay. I prefer working during this period. The phone stops, the requests stop, and the only person left is the one I actually trust.
“What have you picked up on Dominic?”
Viktor sets down his tablet like he’s been waiting for me to ask. “Dominic has been spending beyond his means for two months. He has a new expensive watch, a new Lexus, and a condo renovation his club revenue doesn’t justify. He has also been meeting with people I can’t identify at locations he doesn’t normally frequent.”
I grunt in disapproval. “How many times has he met with them?”
“Three times in two weeks. I have photos of him entering a restaurant in Coral Gables with a man I haven’t been able to match to any known associate. The second meeting was at a hotel bar downtown. The third was at a private marina.”
I drink my coffee. Dominic Caruso has been useful for years because Echelon provides two things I need, which are a controlled environment for sensitive conversations and access to men who make decisions after midnight with a drink in their hand. Dominic has always understood his role in that arrangement. He provides the venue, ensures privacy, and doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t want answered. Him suddenly spending money he doesn’t have and taking meetings he doesn’t report suggests the arrangement is changing.
“It could be nothing,” Viktor says, though he clearly doesn’t believe it. He’s testing whether I’m inclined to be generous.
I shake my head once. “It’s not nothing. Men like Dominic don’t change patterns without a reason, and the reasons are usually money, fear, or ambition. He already has money. He doesn’t have enough ambition to be interesting, which leaves fear.”
“Or a better offer from somebody he thinks can protect him.”
I set down my cup. “That sounds like Karpov.”
