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"Valentina," I purr, trying to keep my tone casual, "it's Roman. I was thinking of you and wondering if you'd like to go out for drinks tonight. Perhaps too short of notice, but a guy can try, no?"
A slight pause, then, "Oh, Roman, I wish I could. I'm with some friends right now."
The lie is blatant, and it stings more than I anticipated. There she is, alone, walking into the Tsarina Palace Hotel, one of the city’s most luxurious, and she’s feeding me tales of fictional companions. I can’t help but smirk at the irony—two can play this game of subterfuge.
“No worries at all,” I say, my tone warm and understanding. “Perhaps another night sometime soon.”
“I’d like that.”
We say our goodbyes and hang up.
I'm drawn to the Tsarina Palace Hotel like a moth to flame. Its stature dominates the skyline, representing a blend of grandeur and history. Watching Valentina's heels click against the pavement, I note the purpose in her stride and the way the evening lights play on her silhouette. Every now and then, she sneaks a glance into her purse, and I wonder about the distinct pill bottle shape. What's she hiding?
Decision made, I park and step out of the car, adjusting my jacket and ensuring I blend in with the upscale crowd inside the hotel. I've frequented this place enough times to know my way around, but tonight it feels different—more clandestine, the stakes infinitely higher.
Following at a safe distance, I watch her traverse the lavish lobby, her heels clicking on the marbled floor. Her entire demeanor screams confidence, but her frequent checks of the pill bottle betray something else. Anxiety? Fear?
As she makes her way up the grand central staircase in the lobby, I realize exactly where she’s heading: The ‘Imperial Vista’. I've been to this VIP bar before. Its exclusivity is legendary. I follow her from a distance, watching as she steps through the tall, oak doors and vanishes. I give her a few moments, then follow.
Approaching the entrance, a beefy bouncer in a tailored suit sizes me up. "Evening," I greet, infusing my tone with the familiar charm that's never failed me.
He arches an eyebrow. "Invitation?"
With a smirk, I retort, "Guess I left it with my other suit. But trust me, someone in there is eagerly awaiting my presence." Subtly, I slip him a hefty tip. His hesitation is brief, then he nods, letting me through.
“Enjoy your evening, sir.”
Stepping into Imperial Vista is like entering another world. Plush velvet drapes hang from the ceiling to the floor, hugging the expansive windows that reveal St. Petersburg in all its glowing beauty. Everywhere I look, there’s glitter – from the chandeliers overhead to the crystal glasses clinking at the bar. Gold details adorn every conceivable corner, and the marble floor feels cool beneath my shoes.
The ambiance is thick with luxury. Soft jazz flows through the air, weaving seamlessly with the murmur of hushed conversations. Every aroma is intoxicating – the sharp tang of whiskey, the delicate notes of high-end perfumes.
As I survey the room, it's not the rich and powerful of St. Petersburg who catch my attention, only Valentina. There she is, back to me, her posture tense. A million questions race through my mind. Why is she here? And with whom?
But this isn't the time for confrontation. I settle into a shadowed corner, keeping her in my sight but far enough to remain unnoticed. The game is afoot, and I'm eager to play.
Chapter 16
Valentina
The plushness of the Imperial Vista surrounds me, but I only have eyes for one figure. At the bar, standing taller than most, is Paul Rutherford, the man I've been waiting for. His hair, sleek and impeccably styled, gleams under the chandeliers. It's unmistakably slicked-back in the familiar British way. He's garbed in a suit that screams Savile Row, and even from here, the crisp accent of his voice reaches my ears. Every detail about him resonates with English sophistication.
But to me, he's just the next name on my list. And little does he know, a walking corpse.
My eyes swiftly map out the bar, catching the intricacies of the environment. The quiet conversations, the clinking of glasses, the undercurrents of the night – all familiar. In this world of rhythms and patterns, I already see the gaps, the openings. My plan forms rapidly.
Masquerading as one of the staff will get me closest to him. I've always believed in the power of blending in, of becoming just another face in the crowd. Now, all I have to do is execute my plan.
I rise, moving with purpose towards the staff-only section, each step echoing my determination. Confidence is my armor as I stride into the staff room, ensuring no one questions my presence.
A dim bulb lights the room, the air redolent of cleaning agents. The distant chatter from the men’s section gives me pause, but luck is on my side – the women's section is empty. My eyes immediately find the lockers. They're my best bet. I begin my search, pulling gently at each handle, seeking an unlocked treasure. On my fifth try, the door swings open to reveal a pristine hotel uniform.
I shed my outfit, slipping into the crisp white costume. The shirt feels snug against my chest, but the black skirt is a perfect fit. When I’m dressed, I quickly roll my street clothes and tuck them into my bag. Then I take a moment, turning to the locker's inbuilt mirror. The transformation isn’t complete. My hairstyle would give me away in an instant.
I work quickly, letting down my waves and pulling them back into a tight, professional bun. Next, my makeup. Gone are the smoky eyes, replaced with a subtle, more demure look. A bit of mascara, a hint of blush, and the transformation feels almost uncanny. The name embroidered on the shirt catches my eye. "Elena," it reads. For tonight, Valentina is gone, replaced by Elena, the bartender.
Stepping out, there's a rush, a thrill. It's this high, the dance of danger and disguise, that's always pulled me to this life. I move towards the bar, sticking to the periphery, praying that in this sea of faces, mine is just another ripple – the staff is large enough that my presence doesn’t attract attention. Especially to the British gentleman who's about to have his evening turned upside down.
Despite my attire, my confidence, and my calculated moves, a part of me is always acutely aware of the risks. One wrong move, one familiar face, and the jig would be up. But then, that's the nature of my job, isn't it? Every step is a dance on a tightrope, and I've never fallen off.
