VICTOR
"Mr. Radovic." The woman smiles as she looks up from the invitation I handed her. "Welcome. We're glad you're here."
She passes the card to a man beside her who examines it, nodding his approval. She glances back at me, her smile widening.
"Please, right this way." She steps around the podium and motions toward the first roped-off area.
I give her a smile and follow. The guard at the velvet rope unhooks it without a word, stepping aside as I pass.
And just like that, I'm in.
The VIP area sprawls wider than I anticipated. What I thought was the main section turns out to be nested within another perimeter, a secondary tier of exclusivity. Another guard stands at a second rope line, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping the crowd. That's the main area I'll want to check out, but I might as well look around first.
I move between clusters of guests, their laughter and champagne-fueled conversation blending into white noise. A waiter passes with a tray, and I lift a whiskey from it.
I take a sip, admiring the quality, and look around.
It doesn't take long to find the man of the hour.
The son of a bitch, Dimitri Volkov, stands at the center of the main VIP section wearing an expensive tux that strains slightly at the shoulders. He's laughing at something a man said, his gold rings catching the light as he gestures animatedly.
A few guards are near him. Big guys whose stone faces don't even seem to blink.
Suddenly, music starts playing, a smooth, sultry jazz piece that pulls a few couples onto the dance floor. I use the movement as cover, drifting closer to the second rope line where Dimitri holds court.
I need to be careful, however. I've got a fake name, but not a fake face. And while I don't assume everyone knows who I am, this fucker probably does. However, there were countless times when our father ordered hits and never even knew who the person was or what they looked like, just what they did.
I angle myself behind some plants as I approach the rope, and that's when I see her.
She's descending a staircase to my right, and the entire room seems to stop.
A red dress clings to her every curve, highlighting every line of her body. Her blonde hair flows in soft waves over her shoulders.
I stop walking, and so does half the room.
My eyes trace her movement, observing the high slit that reveals toned, soft legs with every stride.
The low cut that frames her collarbones, the dip of her cleavage. Her beautiful stature, her breasts, her ass, all of it.
She continues walking like a predator pretending to be prey, and every man in the vicinity knows it.
My cock twitches.
Goddammit.
She reaches the bottom step and doesn't pause. Doesn't scan the room. She walks straight toward Dimitri like she owns the fucking place.
I watch as she approaches him, as his guards stiffen before Dimitri waves them off with a booming laugh.
"Excuse me, sir. You can't just stand here."
I blink, pulling my gaze from her to find a security agent staring at me, his expression flat and unamused.
A flash of irritation heats my chest, but I brush it away, replacing it with a pleasant smile.
"Excuse me," I say, gesturing toward the second rope. "I need to enter."
The man glances at another guard stationed near a small counter. The second guard checks something I can't see and nods.
