Page 14 of Bratva Baby

At Sheremetyevo, I keep the scarf Zhenya tied at my throat, dark glasses on, and my hair pulled back into a plain knot.

I carry no luggage beyond what’s necessary.

Unfortunately, the gun stays behind since it would never pass clearance.

On the plane, I take the window seat, refuse the drink, and sleep in scraps. Every time someone brushes past my row, my body tenses before my mind catches up.

By the time we land, my nerves feel scraped thin, but I’m still moving.

My papers get me through Václav Havel Airport in Prague without trouble.

The officer studies the passport, looks at my face, then stamps me through with bored efficiency.

The hotel booking attached to the name holds. So does the card I use at the desk. No raised brow or second glance. The receptionist at the desk slides the key card and gives me a practiced smile.

I cross the lobby, take the lift, and don’t breathe properly until the room door shuts behind me.

The hotel is expensive.

Thick carpet in a safe neutral color. Soft lighting.

A wide bed.

A bedside table with an intercom, a notepad, and a sharpened pencil set beside it like people still write by hand in places like this.

The curtains are heavy, the minibar is full, and the windows look down on a curated street where black cars idle outside restaurants and women with bare shoulders slip past velvet ropes.

Prague always had that reputation in our world. Pretty enough to flatter people, busy enough to hide them, rich enough that money from the wrong hands could still pass for taste.

For now, it’s the right place for me.

I shower until the worst of the day starts to loosen its grip on me. After stepping out, I dry myself with a towel and sit at the edge of the bed to check my phone.

Yuri’s contact texted while I was in the shower—a club, an hour, and a note.

He’ll help if the money is clean. I stare at the words and almost laugh. Nothing about my money is clean. It’s just mine.

From room service, I order a plate of chlebíčky, tea, and a bottle of water.

A waiter brings it up shortly.

I thank him with a tip and wait until the door shuts before I eat.

Afterward, I go to the hotel’s boutique and pick out an outfit and shoes.

When the hour comes, I slip into a fitted black top with a high neck, dark trousers that skim instead of cling, and heeled boots.

My hair stays down at first, then I change my mind and pin part of it back. The face in the mirror looks rested.

My eyes don’t. I step away, then put on light makeup. The change is sharp and seductive.

By the time I get downstairs, the lobby bar is starting to fill. I walk through it without slowing, head out into the cold, and flag a cab.

The club sits behind a discreet frontage on a row of buildings too expensive to need signs. I pay the driver and step inside.

The place is lit in soft gold, with rows of expensive bottles lined up on dark wooden shelves leading back toward the bar.

The music is just loud enough for wealthy people to think they’re buying a little danger while actual dangerous men use the crowd for cover.