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With the bottle and an entourage of giggling women trailing behind us, he guides me toward a staircase. We ascend to the second floor where a private booth awaits. It's secluded, draped in heavy velvet curtains and elevated, offering a panoramic view of the club below. The patrons seem like ants, scurrying about under the technicolor lights.
He gestures grandly to the booth, "After you."
The game continues, and as we settle into our seat, I steel myself, ready to delve deeper, to prod and pry, searching for cracks in his armor. The night is young, and I'm just getting started.
Van lifts his glass in a toast, his smirk dripping with arrogance, "To unexpected pleasures."
I raise my glass to meet his, and though I'm inwardly recoiling, I manage to muster a fake smile. "Cheers." The champagne is smooth, a delightful burst of bubbles on my tongue. For a fleeting moment, I'm actually grateful for the luxurious drink, the sole perk of this entire situation.
But I can't dawdle on that for long. It's time to make my move.
In one fluid motion, I reach across the table, grabbing Van's wrist and using his own momentum to twist his arm behind his back. Pushing him up against the back of the booth, I lean in close. He gasps, his face a mixture of surprise and pain. I can feel his pulse quicken under my grip.
"What the fuck!" he manages to spit out, trying to wrestle free, but I've got him locked in. "Where the hell did you learn to—"
"My brother taught me everything I know," I interrupt, pressing harder, enjoying the momentary power I have over him.
He winces. "Who the hell's your brother?"
I smirk. "Don’t pretend you don’t know."
With my free hand, I reach into the sleeves of his expensive suit, quickly finding the evidence of his deceit. Cards tumble out onto the plush carpet, revealing his tricks.
"I knew you would win," I hiss into his ear. "I watched you carefully, saw how you were maneuvering cards from up your sleeve. You thought you had the upper hand, but you were never in control. We were."
His eyes widen with realization. "You set me up!"
I twist his arm harder into his back, just enough to make my point. "Now, how about we have a real conversation?"
Van's eyes dart around, looking for an out. In a last-ditch attempt, he throws the champagne from his glass straight into my eyes. I recoil from the sudden sting, releasing my grip. He seizes the opportunity, shoving me aside with a grunt. I stumble backward, blinking the liquid away, only to see him scrambling over the plush furniture, looking every bit the rat he is.
His escape plan is clear: get to the door, get out, and lose himself in the club's crowd. He flings the door to the booth openwith reckless abandon, but instead of freedom, he's greeted with the broad chest of Samuil.
Van skids to a halt, nearly crashing headfirst into Samuil, who doesn't so much as budge an inch. Van's pale face twists in a comical mixture of surprise and dread. I can't help but smirk at the poetic justice of it all.
"Going somewhere, Van?" Samuil's voice is a deep rumble, dripping with venom.
Van gulps audibly, looking from Samuil to me and back. The fear in his eyes is obvious. I take a step closer, crowding him. "Thought you could run?"
He's trapped, literally backed into a corner, with Samuil on one side and me on the other. The realization that there's no escape without significant pain has dawned on him, because he starts to stammer and stutter, "Look, I, I did, didn't mean—"
Samuil's patience is running thin. "Start talking. Now."
Van's bravado, what little he has left, crumbles entirely. His eyes dart between us like a trapped animal, and his voice shakes. "Viktor had a chat with me, wanted to know if I'd overheard anything suspicious. He had a feeling he was being watched. He didn't specify, said he was suspicious of a certain group of people. But before I could relay anything, those thugs—"
"What thugs?" I press, eyes narrowing.
Van gulps again. "I don't know, I swear. But there’s been talk, whispers about a new power player trying to stake their claim."
"Names. Now." Samuil's voice cuts through, demanding and relentless.
“I don’t have names,” he says. “But I have something else.”
“What is it?” I demand, feeling very impatient.
Van's rapid breathing is a sharp contrast to the stillness of the room. "He told me…" Van's voice falters, "…he said he wanted a fresh start. Away from all this madness. He was goingto bet against himself, throw the qualifier, and use the winnings. America was the dream."
The information sinks in slowly, like ice through my veins. I cast a glance toward Samuil, his jaw tight as a shadow of hurt passes over his eyes.
