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He hands me an invitation to the game, a rare token granting me access to an exclusive circle of power and influence.
"Be careful, Val. Roman's presence changes things. We don't know what he's planning."
"I know," I reply, a fierce resolve settling within me. "But he doesn't know what I'm planning either."
The night descends like a velvet cloak over the city, and I make my way to the game when it’s time to move, leaving my precious Ilya with a kiss and promise to return before too late.
The location of the poker game is a place that blends into the urban fabric of St. Petersburg, an old brick building with no sign, no name, and no indication of the high-stakes world concealed within. It's a relic of the city's industrial past, repurposed into a clandestine playground for the elite.
I step through a heavy iron door, nodding to the armed guards who recognize my invitation after I slip the token into one of their large, rough hands. The interior is a surprising contrast to the nondescript exterior, oozing luxury and decadence. Chandeliers hang from exposed wooden beams, casting a warm glow over polished wooden tables where men and women, dressed in their finest, engage in games of chance and skill.
My eyes scan the room, finally landing on my target, Dmitry Karpov, the late mayor's aides who plans to push the anti-crime policy through. He's seated at a table, engaged in a game, his face a mask of concentration. A sense of determination fills me; he's the reason I'm here tonight. It appears the death of his boss wasn’t enough to dissuade him from a bit of fun. All the easier for me.
I carry a small vial concealed in the inner pocket of my jacket. The liquid inside is clear and unassuming, but it's one of the most potent tools in my arsenal. The poison is a carefully crafted cocktail containing a high concentration of aconitine, a deadly substance found in certain plants like monkshood.
In small doses, aconitine can cause tingling and numbness. In the amount I have prepared, it's enough to disrupt the electrical signals in the heart, leading to arrhythmia, ventricular fibrillation, and ultimately cardiac arrest. The substance requires precision in handling and administration, and its effects can easily be mistaken for a natural heart attack.
This poison is different from the one I used on the mayor. That one was a targeted attack, exploiting his known severe allergy to histamine. The beauty of this poison is its subtlety, leaving little evidence behind and allowing me to slip away undetected. Most importantly, the death will happen later tonight. And what’s more natural than a middle-aged man passing away during the night of a heart attack, his nightly glass of vodka close at hand?
I slip further into the room, my dress clinging to my curves, my demeanor poised and confident. My eyes scan the crowd, finding my target once more, Dmitry unaware of his impending fate. When he rises from his table and heads to the bar for another drink, I make my way in his direction, my movements graceful and deliberate.
As I approach the bar, my target is already savoring a fine glass of vodka. His attention to his drink provides the perfect opportunity, and I make my move.
"Pardon me," I say, feigning clumsiness as I brush against him. My fingers deftly slip the tiny vial from my pocket, and I pour the clear liquid into his glass. It blends seamlessly with the vodka.
Dmitry turns, his eyes widening for just a moment before breaking into a smile. "No harm done, Miss.” He smiles, his eyes moving up and down my body in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Can I offer you a drink?"
I flick my eyes to his drink. "I'll take a vodka, too. Neat," I respond, allowing a playful smile to touch my lips. "It seems we have similar tastes."
He raises an eyebrow and leans closer. "Perhaps in more ways than one." His voice is a low purr, and his eyes linger on mine a moment too long.
I suppress a shiver of disgust, reminding myself of my purpose. "Perhaps," I say, taking the glass handed to me by the bartender.
"To new acquaintances," Dmitry toasts, clinking his glass against mine.
"To fleeting moments," I reply, watching his eyes for any sign of recognition. There's none, and I feel a thrill of satisfaction.
He takes a sip of his drink, savoring the taste. I watch with hidden pleasure as the poison starts its deadly work. "Until next time," he says, winking at me before turning away. “And good luck tonight.”
I smile sweetly, knowing there will be no next time for Dmitry. He's as good as dead.
As if to dampen my triumph of another job done, something catches my eye—a familiar face in a sea of strangers. Roman Nicolaevich. My breath catches, my pulse quickening. What the hell is he doing here?
The moment I spot Roman, a jolt of recognition and something more visceral hits me. Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that highlights his broad shoulders and lean physique, he's the epitome of sophistication and masculine allure. His black hair is styled to perfection, and his green eyes hold a twinkle of mischief that's almost hypnotic.
But it's the smile that really gets to me. When he flashes that Cary Grant grin, all charm and confidence, I feel my defenses crumble. It's like a bolt of lightning straight to my core, and I’m so utterly turned-on I can hardly think straight, my pussy clenching, my panties growing wet. There's a spark in his eye, a knowing look that says he's aware of the effect he has, and he's not afraid to use it.
I hate that my body reacts to his presence, despite the fury and the purpose driving me. But there's no denying the allure of Roman Nicolaevich. He's handsome in a way that's almost infuriating, with a charm that's as intoxicating as it is dangerous.
As he makes his way toward me, his smile playing on his lips, I know I'm not just up against an opponent in a game. I'm up against a man who knows how to play to win.
I steel myself, forcing my mind to focus, but the image of Roman in that sharp suit, looking sexy as fuck, lingers. I see him rise, his movements smooth and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. He's making his way toward me. Panic flares within me, but I push it down, my training taking over.
I can handle this. I can handle him.
Roman takes the seat across from me, his smile confident, his eyes dancing with challenge.
"Ms. Ivanova," he purrs, his voice like honey laced with venom. "Fancy seeing you here."
