Page 11 of Masked Seduction
ABRAM
Istand in front of the bathroom mirror, towel slung low on my hips, the scent of shaving cream lingering sharp and clean in the air. The overhead light reflects off my bare scalp as I run the blade over the last strip of skin, smooth as marble.
Clean lines.No strays. Precision always.
I wipe the remaining foam from my jaw then stare at my reflection.
The salt-and-pepper beard suits me. It doesn’t hide my age—forty-two and unapologetically carved by time. But it’s also distinctive, and tonight, I need to disappear. I reach for the temporary black dye, twist the cap off, and begin working it through the coarse hair. As the grey vanishes, my face transforms into something harder, more anonymous.
Once finished, I lean back and take in my reflection. Chest solid. Abs still defined. Broad shoulders scarred and strong. Not bad for a man who spends most of his time behind a desk signing contracts.
Still, I know the clock’s ticking. Too many nights spent in boardrooms and too few in the weight room and I’ll end up like every other overfed, soft-palmed executive dragging himself across the Strip. I make a mental note—gym session tomorrow. Heavy weights. No excuses.
But tonight? Tonight, I have other appetites to attend to.
I tug on a crisp black dress shirt tailored to my frame. A dark navy blazer follows—structured, subtle. Italian wool. Matching trousers. No tie. Just clean lines and sharp edges.
Before I leave, I open the top drawer of my dresser.
The mask stares at me.
Black leather, smooth and angular, covering half my face with a sharp V that comes down between my brows. A vertical line of silver studs runs from the center of the forehead to the tip of the nose, catching the light like tiny weapons. The eyes are cut narrow, predatory.
I slide it on, watching as I become someone else entirely.
My mouth curves into an insidious grin.
Tonight, I’m not Abram Vasiliev, the Bratva’s velvet-gloved hand.
Tonight, I’m a man with no name.
And I’m going to have some fucking fun.
My car slides smoothly up to the curb outside The 13th Floor. Neon light cascades down sleek black walls like water overpolished stone. I can feel the pulse of bass vibrating through the tinted windows.
I’ve been a regular at this club for years, familiar enough that the staff know my preferences without needing reminders. While the papers haven’t been officially signed yet, the deal’s as good as done. Nothing but formalities left to iron out before I can officially call myself the owner.
Soon enough, this club won’t just be my favorite haunt, it will be mine. Another jewel in the crown of Vasiliev Holdings, another indulgence I can control completely.
The building itself radiates exclusivity with minimal signage. It announces its existence with a subtle silver "13" glowing coolly above tall, black double doors. It whispers sin, luxury, and secrets.
Predictably, there's a line snaking around the corner, desperate hopefuls shifting impatiently on stilettos and expensive leather loafers, their anticipation palpable.
There will be no line to wait in for me, though.
The driver pulls discreetly around back, stopping at the private VIP entrance tucked away in shadow. The guard sees me approach, gives a respectful nod, and waves me in without a word.
The moment I step inside, darkness envelops me. Deep crimson lights scatter pools of warmth across smooth black marble floors, the scent of perfume mingling intoxicatingly with hints of leather and liquor.
A central dance floor sprawls at the heart of the club, bodies writhing in rhythm beneath chandeliers that drip like crystaltears. Plush, private alcoves line the perimeter, separated by curtains that hide nothing from wandering eyes.
As I move deeper into the club, I catch glimpses of heated intimacy: a woman pressed breathlessly against the wall, head thrown back as a stranger’s hand slips beneath her skirt; another couple tangled together on a velvet sofa, oblivious to the voyeuristic crowd gathering nearby, savoring their sexy show with drinks in hand.
Here, inhibitions die at the door—this is a sanctuary for the shameless.
A hostess, professional and carefully neutral, guides me to my booth overlooking the dance floor. She brings my whiskey neat without needing instruction. I sip slowly, my gaze sweeping lazily across the sea of writhing flesh and glittering masks.
Women move like goddesses under the pulsing lights, sultry curves showcased in lingerie barely concealed by gossamer dresses and silky wraps. Men watch them like starving wolves, eyes glittering with lust and possession.
