Page 103 of The Bratva King

I search the floor. The table where Gabby usually works is empty. My heart is beating a little faster than normal. Then, I see her.

She’s talking with a couple of the other staff. Her hair is drenched and sticking to her face, but she’s okay. Our eyes meet. Her expression is apologetic. I nod once, a wordless acknowledgment that we’re both okay.

I spot the tech billionaire—Henry something—drenched and furious. He sees me and points.

“This is unacceptable!”

I ignore him and grab the nearest security guard. “Where did it start?”

“Kitchen area. Looks like someone left something on a burner.”

Not arson. Not sabotage. Just incompetence.

I pull out my phone and call Pasha. “We have a situation.”

“I heard. I’m on my way.”

I hate calling him. He had a thing with Mila today, touring a new school or something. But I need him.

The fire department arrives within minutes. They shut off the alarm, but the sprinklers have already done their damage. Water is everywhere. The carpets are soaked. The walls are dripping. And my VIP guests are standing in the hallway looking like drowned rats.

I move through the crowd, assessing as I go. Most just need dry clothes and an apology. A few will demand compensation. Henry is going to be a problem.

“Mr. Sokolov.” One of the event coordinators appears at my elbow with a tablet in her hand. “The poker tournament is supposed to start in two hours.”

“I’m aware.”

She gestures helplessly at the wet, angry people around us. “We were just getting the press junket underway.”

That was why I was hiding in my office. The press was necessary. A warmup for the grand opening of the Tatiana.

“Get them new rooms. Comp everything. Send up champagne. The usual high-roller package.”

"Rooms are being reassigned now."

Pasha arrives, surveys the scene, and shakes his head. “This is a nightmare.”

“It gets better. The media’s here.”

“Perfect fucking timing.”

I spot the news crew setting up in the lobby through the window. This is about to be everywhere.

“Kitchen accident?” Pasha asks.

“That’s what they said.”

“Have you checked?”

“No.”

“Go. I’ll get the staff situated.”

I head toward the kitchen, my shoes squelching with every step. Water drips from my hair, down my neck, and soaks into my collar. I don’t care. I need to see this for myself.

The kitchen is worse than the main floor. Several inches of water cover everything. The overhead sprinklers have stopped, but the damage is done.

The head chef, Jean Luc, is standing near the main prep station and looking like he wants to murder someone. He sees me and his expression shifts to something between anger and fear.