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The notion worming its way into my gut now is the same, yet different. This time, the hunch is far worse. This time, I don’t fear for my life, but for the life of the only woman I’ve ever cared about.
4
Near Detskiy Severny Beach, St. Petersburg
The club is pulsing with music and sweaty bodies. Naked waitresses strut around on spiky heels, offering drinks and blowjobs or other services in the back rooms. Officially, prostitution is illegal, but the club belongs to Vladimir Stefanov, one of the wealthiest men in Russia, and for the right price, the authorities turn a blind eye.
Tonight, Vladimir barely spares the women’s perfectly proportioned bodies a glance. Pushing through the throng of people on the dance floor, he makes his way to the private room reserved for VIPs.
Under the jacket and waistcoat that stretch over his stomach, he’s sweating. He’s been on edge ever since word reached him two hours ago that Alex Volkov arrived in the city. Oleg Pavlov, like the coward he is, has already fled St. Petersburg with his family, jumping on a private plane to go hide in the States. If he thinks Vladimir believes his excuse of taking his wife and kids to warmer weather, he insults Vladimir’s intelligence. Oleg is weak. Running with his tail between his legs is proof of that.
Vladimir has always known that Oleg could become a problem. It would take little pressure to make Oleg talk. He’s certain Oleg is holding on to some of the evidence, just like Vladimir is. Vladimir has kept photos as insurance in case he has to blackmail Oleg with them one day, and Oleg likely has something similar. There’s no telling what will happen if that evidence comes to light.
The situation Vladimir now finds himself in is a clusterfuck of epic proportions. He never should’ve trusted Oleg to deal with Alex Volkov. Things would’ve gone smoother if Vladimir had gotten his hands dirty from the start. But he wanted to keep a back door open by pinning the assassination of Volkov on Oleg if the shit hit the fan. Problem is, you can’t trust any-fucking-body but yourself with your dirty work.
His bodyguards, having circled the room, shove the clubbers aside to create a path. A young woman who gets a rough push on the shoulder stumbles. She trips over her feet and goes down face first. A man dressed in a well-tailored suit crashes into his date, causing her to spill her cocktail down the front of her glittery dress.
No one says a word. No one dares. The clubbers stand aside, leaving the way to the lounge clear for Vladimir.
A bouncer wearing a microphone and a holstered handgun opens the door to the VIP room. Ivan Besov—Bes—is already there, reclining in a chaise lounge with one arm in a sling and a coffee cup in his free hand. A fucking coffee cup. After fucking up, he dares to sit there and drink coffee like he owns the place? The sight of that alone makes Vladimir want to break the assassin’s fingers and let them mend crookedly so he can never hold a cup or pull a trigger again.
Two of Vladimir’s guards enter the room ahead of him. Bes puts the cup on the table and gets to his feet, knowing what needs to follow. Once he’s been patted down for weapons and none have been found, Vladimir steps inside. The bouncer stationed outside closes the door. His men stand at attention in each corner of the room. If Bes takes offense to the open display of distrust, he hides it well.
“Sit,” Vladimir says, motioning at the seat Bes has already warmed.
Bes acknowledges the order with a humorless smile. “Why am I here?”
Vladimir walks to a liquor tray and selects his favorite brand of vodka. A waitress could’ve served the drinks, but he needs the distraction. If Bes notices how nervous he is, he’ll lose face. It’s important—paramount—that he’s feared.
After pouring two glasses, Vladimir carries one to Bes and offers it to him like a generous host.
“No, thanks,” the assassin says without accepting the drink. “Alcohol isn’t advisable for a man who needs steady hands.”
To be served a drink by none other than Vladimir Stefanov is an honor. Refusing it is an insult. Vladimir will take great pleasure in making Bes suffer for that slap in the face. Soon.
Tipping his chin toward the sling, Vladimir asks, “How’s the wrist?”
“Almost healed.” The assassin stares up at him with unblinking, emotionless eyes. “The cast comes off in two days.”
Vladimir downs the liquor as he considers his reply. A guard rushes over to take his empty glass.
“Will you be able to handle a gun?” Vladimir asks.
Bes’s gaze narrows minutely. “I’ll hit the target, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Vladimir downs the liquor in the second glass, stretches out his arm, and drops the glass. “That’s what you said when Oleg paid you to take out Volkov.”
