When he hangs up, a loud bang echoes from above, a door slamming open.
Heavy footsteps descend the metal staircase from the VIP section. I glance up.
A tall man emerges.
White button-down rolled to the forearms. Dual guns strapped in a chest holster. A wicked knife twirling between his fingers like a toy.
He smirks as he reaches the bottom, his dark hair slicked neatly back, jaw strong and clean-shaven, dark brown eyes unsettlingly bright.
He stops a few feet in front of me. He’s as tall as War. And if War is fire, this man is ice.
“You can go, Sergei,” he says, not looking at the other man.
Sergei disappears behind a side door without another word.
I swallow. Hard.
The man flips his knife once more before sliding it into a sheath in his waist band, then holds out a hand.
“Vaska Morozov.”
I hesitate a breath, then take it.
His grip surprises me,firm,but gentle. Controlled.
“Olivia Baker. I’m looking for Maksim Korsakov.”
He releases my hand, eyes gleaming with amusement.
“Regarding?”
“Business,” I say, lifting my chin.
He chuckles, low and amused. “You’re determined,krasivaya.”
The Russian rolls off his tongue like smoke. Pretty. Dangerous. “But Korsakov isn’t expecting any women today.”
“I’m an unexpected visitor,” I reply. “But Istillneed to speak with him.”
Vaska smiles like a man who knows something I don’t.
He considers mefor a moment, then nods. “Okay,” he says simply. “I’ll bring you to him.”
He turns, and I follow him up the stairs.
Each step feels like a mistake.
A choice I can’t unmake.
The farther we go, the darker it gets—velvet curtains muffling light, plush carpet muffling sound. Shadows crawl across the walls like ghosts. The air thickens.
At the very end of the VIP hall, Vaska stops in front of a heavy black door with a gold handle. He opens it without knocking and steps aside.
“After you,” he says.
A chill creeps up my spine. But I step in.
The room is sleek and shadowed; glass, concrete, and a massive dark wood desk that looks like it was dragged out of an old-world war chamber.