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CHAPTER 35

Sergei

Five weeks later, Nocturne reopened.

The bullet damage had been repaired. The smoked-glass panels were new, the service corridors were reinforced, and every camera, lock, and emergency light had been replaced. Two additional exits now opened from the dressing rooms. The backstage alarm could be activated from four separate locations. Every member of security had completed extraction drills until Gavin complained that his bartenders were beginning to treat simulated gunfire as background noise.

Alessia moved through the VIP floor in a black suit of her own design, a slim silver tablet tucked beneath one arm and her dark hair pulled into a high knot that exposed the leather collar at her throat. Her wedding ring flashed whenever she pointed toward a table or corrected a server’s route.

Her new office door read:

Alessia Caruso Morozov

Director of VIP Operations & Performance Design

I stood at the edge of the main floor while the room filled, close enough to reach her if anything went wrong and far enough that my presence didn’t become the center of her night. The instinct to monitor everything remained. It always would. My attention tracked the entrances, the guards, the hands disappearing beneath jackets, and the three guests who had arrived within the last half hour. That was just a part of me, but tonight, I was here for my wife.

She was going to perform one final scheduled set.

The final customers were seated shortly before midnight. Music rolled through Nocturne in a low, familiar pulse while the black-and-silver lights came alive around the main stage. The room darkened. Conversation softened.

The opening notes echoed through the room, and my girl stepped onto the stage.

She wore the black crystal costume from the night I met her, but almost nothing about it was the same. Alessia had rebuilt the seams, replaced the thin straps, and moved the stones so the light traveled with her body rather than lying flat against it. The black fringe followed the movement of her hips without tangling. It was the first completed design in her collection, and I couldn’t be prouder.

Alessia curled one hand around the pole and turned slowly beneath the lights. The room followed her. Men leaned forward. Women watched the play of light on her costume, the confidence in her movements, or perhaps simply how she seemed to bask in all the attention she was getting right now.

A pang of jealousy moved through me, but I didn’t give it any power, because an even stronger feeling took over after that.

Pride.

She was mine.

Every man in the room could look, but I was the one she would come back to when the music ended.

Near the end of the set, her gaze found mine. For several seconds, she danced only toward where I stood—not for me, exactly, but with the knowledge that I was watching. Her mouth curved in the same slow challenge she had given me in the private room weeks ago.

I let a whisper of a smile grace my face too. For her.

When the music faded, Alessia stood in the center of the stage with one finger looped through the ring on the collar around her throat, lifting it out toward me. Applause moved through the room. Bills and flowers scattered near the edge, but she didn’t bend to collect either one. Instead, she looked over the crowd. Then she smiled and walked off the stage without looking back.

I waited backstage near the dressing-room corridor. Celeste reached her first, wrapping Alessia in a silk robe and nearly crushing the breath from her while the other performers crowded around them. Several wore early samples from the collection—reinforced bodysuits, softer mesh, hidden pockets, and closures designed by women who understood that beauty should never require helplessness.

Alessia saw me over Celeste’s shoulder.

“Did the owner approve?” she asked once the others moved away.

“You were perfect,” I said. “You are perfect.”

Her smile softened as warmth entered her eyes. Then Celeste shouted that the room was ready, and Alessia took my hand before leading me toward the private dining space at the rear of the club.

The main floor closed shortly afterward. Once the last customer left, Paolo and Teresa entered through the secured rear door with enough Bellandi and Morozov guards to make the narrow corridor nearly impassable.

Teresa looked around at the black glass, velvet, brass, and fading stage lights.

“This is where you work?”

“Yes, Nonna.”