Page 192 of Celestial Combat

I took a step back.

His hand hovered in the air for a second before falling away.

“I need to shower,” I said. My voice was calm, even – but that tightness lingered in my throat. “Alone.”

Zane nodded once, slowly. He watched me with that unreadable expression, that used to drive me crazy because I never knew what he was thinking.

I turned away before I broke first.

I said I would help him. And I would.

But I needed a second.

Steam swirled around me like ghosts, and all I could hear was the howling wind against the windows and the echo of my heart pounding too loud in my ears.

We walked the short distance to the club.

The snow fell soft and sharp against my cheeks, each flake melting on my skin before it could sting. Moscow was alive around us – sleek black cars lined the curb, their engines humming low, windows fogged from within. The sky above was a deep indigo, smeared with clouds, and the buildings around us gleamed like obsidian teeth rising from the frozen earth. Winter here didn’t just exist – it ruled.

I tugged the lapels of my long black coat tighter around me as we moved through the city center. Zane walked beside me, tall and unbothered by the cold, shoulders squared. There was something about the way he walked here – grounded, calculating – that told me he didn’t feel like a foreigner. He blended in with the shadows, with the smoke curling from alleyways, with the hush of danger that clung to the air.

The club loomed ahead like a cathedral of decadence, buried in the spine of a brutalist high-rise. No neon signs. No name. Just heat pouring from the entrance, thick bass thudding from within, and a red velvet rope guarded by a mountain of a man in black.

The bouncer eyed us like we were meat.

Then Zane pulled a folded stack of cash from his pocket – five grand in crisp euro notes – and handed it over wordlessly. The man flicked his gaze to it, then to Zane. A nod, then he stepped aside.

The doors opened and swallowed us whole.

Heat slapped me in the face, chased the cold right off my skin. Gold and red light bled down the walls. Suspended glass staircases stretched into the air like illusions. Bodyguards in suits lingered at every landing, earpieces tucked discreetly, eyes never still. Women in skin-tight couture danced under skylights that shimmered like falling stars. The techno was deep, guttural, ancient – it didn’t feel like music so much as a heartbeat from underground.

It smelled like money, sex, diamonds, gunmetal and spilled vodka.

Zane leaned in, his breath brushing my temple. “Stay close,” he murmured, low and rough.

I didn’t need him to say it twice.

We moved together through the crowd, silent currents in the crush of bodies. I could feel eyes on us – curious, assessing, territorial. This wasn’t just a nightclub. This was Bratva ground.

And we were walking straight into the lion’s den.

I weaved through the crowd beside Zane, the pulse of bass thundering in my ears. Pain and purpose sharpened every movement – each elbow, shoulder, and knee strike was precise, choreographed. No guns. No blood. Just quick disruption: a garbled grunt, a slump, then another body hitting the plush carpet. Our path to the VIP lounge opened like a river parting, leaving confusion and unconscious bouncers in our wake.

We slipped inside the VIP behind an unmarked door, the strobe glow flickering on polished marble and vein inlaid mahogany. Beyond a one-way glass wall, a man sat at the bar – blonde hair slicked back, jaw set in bored disinterest. He nursed a glass of something dark.

Zane stepped forward, voice low enough to keep the glass between them. “I’m looking for Aslanov.”

The man barely looked up. “You’re looking at him.”

I frowned. He was too young. Too slim. Not brutal enough.

I glanced at Zane – our eyes locked, both confused.

He turned back to the man. “The old Pakhan.”

The blonde man finally studied us, one eyebrow arching.

“Ilya Aslanov,” I clarified, voice measured.

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