My brothers would hate this, especially Matei. All the wealth, the performative displays of status. He'd sneer at the champagne-sipping crowd and call them soft. Lucian would find it pointless and uncomfortable, and Adrian would probably get into a fight within an hour.
But this is my element.
Money and luxury are the best camouflage for murder.
I move through the lobby with that kind of confidence only money buys. My Italian leather shoes make no sound on the floor. A cocktail waitress slides past carrying a tray of champagne flutes, and I pluck one without slowing, taking a sip as I survey the room.
High-stakes tables line the main floor, their green felt surfaces surrounded by well-dressed men who are accompanied by women in slightly revealing dresses.
Dealers shuffle cards as chips are tossed onto the tables. Somewhere, a woman screams and then laughs as the man she's with wins a hand.
It all seems fun, but I'm not here for the games.
I circle the perimeter, my gaze sweeping across the space. Security is heavier than I expected, and tomorrow it'll be even tighter.
I notice a few men in dark suits walking around, pointing and talking. They look like the private contractor type and are probably prepping for tomorrow night's gala.
Looking up, I spot cameras mounted in the corners, their lenses tracking movement across the floor. There are blind spots, but not many. I note a narrow corridor near the restrooms where the angle doesn't quite reach. A service door partially obscured by a potted palm. Small openings, but enough to be comfortable. If it was anyone else, I'd probably abandon things and wait for another opportunity.
That, however, isn't an option, so I turn and keep walking.
The VIP floor is accessed by a grand staircase at the far end of the room. Velvet ropes block it off, guarded by two men who look like they bench-press small cars for fun. I don't approach, not yet. Instead, I drift toward the bar, settling onto a stool and ordering an Aperol Spritz because that's what Stefan Radovic would drink.
The bartender slides the glass across the counter, and I take a slow sip, letting the bitter orange flavor linger on my tongue. From here, I have a clear view of the main floor and the staircase leading up.
As I'm sitting there calculating things in my head, I hear footsteps and men speaking Russian.
I turn and glance toward the source of the noise and see him.
Dimitri fucking Volkov.
He's shorter than I expected, stocky and broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair slicked back from a face that looks like it's weathered one too many Russian winters.
He's wearing a dark suit and a lot of gold jewelry. He seems too flamboyant for a don, but that must be how the Bratva does things.
Four guards flank him, their bodies angled to create a protective diamond formation as they move.
I set my glass down and shift slightly in my seat to watch him. My heart rate spikes, but I keep my breathing steady. I'm just another wealthy patron enjoying a drink. Nothing suspicious. Nothing worth noticing.
Dimitri stops near the center of the floor, speaking to a man in a hotel uniform. His voice carries, though I can't make out thewords. He gestures toward the staircase, then toward the private rooms off to the side. The hotel manager, I assume, nods rapidly.
I zone in on Dimitri as he talks. This is the man who allowed his son to take Elena. Who took Cornel's money, my father's money, and looked the other way while the love of my brother's life was beaten and terrorized. Who now, apparently, has decided the Ionescu family is a problem that needs solving.
I watch him, memorizing every detail. The way he holds himself, shoulders squared, chin up. The way his guards move in sync, never more than two steps away. The way he...
My thoughts stall.
Dimitri grabs something from under his arm and flips open a cover. It's a tablet. He taps the screen with one thick finger, his eyes confused as he reads whatever is displayed there.
He doesn't put it away when he's done talking, and the hotel staff walks away.
Instead, he glances at it again, scrolling with his thumb, checking something, verifying it, and then speaking to his men, who nod and pull out their phones.
It's like that little tablet is his lifeline.
I take another sip of my drink, and my mind shifts into overdrive. If Dimitri Volkov is this protective of that tablet, keeping it and referring to it, then it's not just a toy. It's a key. The key.
Shit, what could be in that thing?
