Page 106 of Mission Shift

Chapter thirty-three

The Ferrari SF90 Stradale rumbled beneath my hands as I pulled up to Malinov’s estate, the low purr of its hybrid V8 barely cutting through the noise of rapid-fire clicks of cameras outside the gate. This place was crawling with paparazzi, inside and out. Even in Russia, money spoke. And this car? It screamed. The biometric scanners had already cleared me—Wyatt Sullivan, billionaire crypto king, professional asshole. It still amazed me how good Nik was at hacking into computer systems and owning their data. Now all that stood between me and the front door was a sea of paparazzi and an overfed guard with a clipboard.

I exhaled, rolling my shoulders beneath the tux, and turned to the stunning woman seated beside me. Katya Mirova—black hair, emerald-green eyes, a flawless masterpiece of Slavic beautyand high-society grooming. She was the kind of woman men tripped over themselves to impress—sleek, poised, her every movement designed for the perfect photo.

But she wasn’t Daria.

She was a social media darling everyone knew in Russia. Nik had lured her into being my date, telling her about my fake credentials. She’d liked my picture and wanted nothing more than to be seen on my arm.

Katya was dazzling, but Daria was lethal and smart, a dynamic woman who’d take years to learn. She had the kind of beauty that got men killed—sharp cheekbones, legs for days, and icy blue eyes that stripped me bare before I even realized I was standing naked in front of her. If Katya was polished marble, Daria was edged steel.

Katya shot me a sidelong glance, then adjusted the slit in her dress just enough to flash an artful glimpse of thigh as the valet approached. She knew the game.

The valet stepped toward the car, sneering, as if that might intimidate me.

I turned off the ignition and slid out, drawing myself up to full height, adjusting my cuff links with purposeful indifference. The air was crisp, salt-laced from the Neva River that ran along the property. The cameras flashed, the noise swelling as photographers barked questions in rapid Russian.

I ignored them. Confidence was currency in this world, and I had to spend it like I had an endless supply.

I reached for Katya’s hand, guiding her out of the car like a goddamn gentleman ought to. She moved with effortless grace, angling her body just so—knowing exactly where the lenses were, how to make the moment last. Cozying up to me, she rewarded the cameras with a perfect socialite smile—disinterested, bored, untouchable. She was flawless, all curves and angles wrapped in designer couture, as she scanned thescene like a queen judging the peasants in attendance. Playing the part came naturally to her.

The thug at the entrance watched impassively as I guided Katya toward the massive entry doors.

“Nice touch, crypto king,” Nik said, his voice crackling in my earpiece. “You play arrogant, rich asshole a little too well. Should I be concerned?”

I smiled, waiting for Katya to step through the crowd and move out of earshot. “Maybe you just don’t know me that well,” I said quietly.

“Oh, I know you. You’re just a guy from Tacoma who patches up gunshot wounds…a guy now playing in a world of sharpshooters.”

I let out a low laugh, adjusting my sleeve under the jacket as I caught up to Katya. Together, we stepped into the estate’s opulent, gold-drenched foyer. The marble floors gleamed, the chandeliers sparkled, and the decorations exuded an air of indulgence. And the guests? All sharks in tailored suits and silk gowns.

Nik’s voice came through again. “Straight through the main hall, take the formal staircase, and head to the east wing. You’ll see the ballroom ahead.”

“Understood.” He didn’t have to tell me—I’d memorized the layout almost as soon as I’d laid eyes on it—but Nik liked to feel in control. I moved with authority, cutting through the crowd with the same quiet confidence I would use at the scene of an accident.

Katya looped her arm through mine, tilting her head as she batted her eyelashes at me adoringly, positioning herself in just the right way for the cameras to capture her profile.

Nik huffed. “Jesus. You really do look like you own the place. Should’ve been a fucking Genovese.”

I smirked but said nothing, guiding Katya slowly through the throng of guests, toward the ballroom.

Along the way, I shook hands with a few men and tossed polite nods at their wives. The whole place stank of money and arrogance—Russian oligarchs and their sycophants, each dripping in wealth they’d stolen rather than earned. Katya stayed glued to my side, flashing her perfect smile at the right moments, laughing at the empty small talk, her emerald eyes scanning the crowd with the sharp instinct of a woman who’d spent her life playing this game.

I let her do most of the talking.

Shortly after we stepped into the ballroom, Nik’s voice cut in through my earpiece. “We have eyes on Daria. Underground. Malinov’s got her in a room that looks like a fucking BDSM torture chamber.”

My jaw clenched. “What’s he doing to her?”

“Nothing yet. Just walked in with his men.”

I sucked in a slow breath, forcing my shoulders to loosen. I needed a drink.

Guiding Katya toward the bar, I flagged down the bartender with a flick of my fingers. “Gentleman Jack. Neat.” I glanced at Katya. “And whatever the lady wants.”

She grinned, placing a delicate hand on my chest. “You’re sweet, Wyatt. But I think I see some friends.” She nodded toward a cluster of women near the dance floor. “I’ll find you later?”

“Of course.”

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