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The catering manager nods and turns away, barking orders at other servers. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the day ahead.
As the party begins, I find myself struggling to maintain my composure in the heels. It feels like an eternity drags by as I wobble and teeter, drawing the ire of my fellow servers. One particularly mean-spirited woman smirks as she watches me falter.
“Careful, darling,” she taunts. “Wouldn’t want to spill anything on these expensive carpets.”
I grit my teeth, refusing to let her mockery derail me. I have a mission to complete, and I can’t afford any distractions. With renewed determination, I straighten my back, hold my head high, and continue dealing with the challenges before me.
As I carry a tray of champagne glasses, I wind through the sea of elegantly dressed partygoers. Men in tailored suits and women in luxurious gowns mingle, their laughter and conversation filling the air. In the dimly lit corners of the room, I catch glimpses of couples exchanging passionate kisses and embraces, seemingly oblivious to the world around them.
I scan the room, searching for the man I slipped the microchips to earlier. The opulence and decadence of the party are distracting, but I know I have to stay focused on my mission.
Suddenly, I spot him across the room, engaged in conversation with a stunning woman in a red dress. His eyes meet mine for a brief moment, and I feel my heart race. I need to get those microchips back, but I can’t afford to draw attention to myself. Taking a deep breath, I approach with a practiced smile.
“Drinks, sir?” I ask, extending the tray toward him. He glances at the tray, then back to the woman he’s been talking to, and finally nods.
“Yes, thank you,” he says, taking a glass. Our eyes lock for a moment, and my breath snags in my throat, my cheeks flushing for a reason I can’t quite understand. As he turns back to his conversation, I hear the woman teasing him.
“Dimitri darling, you have a thing for the help?”
He laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Not at all. Just appreciating good service.”
Cunt.
Circling Dimitri like a vulture, I plaster a wide-eyed, innocent grin on my face. I'm about as innocent as a fox in a henhouse, but they don't need to know that. The woman glowering next to him doesn't look thrilled by my presence. Perfect.
"Sir," I start, my voice syrupy sweet. I gesture to my tray, filled to the brim with champagne glasses. "Would you mind helping me?"
His eyebrow hikes up, intrigued. Or maybe confused. Doesn't matter. His attention is on me, and that's all I need.
"Well, it's just that I can't decide..." I trail off, pretending to fumble with the tray. The glasses wobble precariously, and before I can stop it, one tumbles off, spilling champagne all over the designer dress of the woman next to Dimitri.
"Oh no!" I gasp, playing up the innocent act. She looks like she wants to strangle me, but Dimitri is already moving to help her. Bingo.
As he's distracted, I dart my hand into his pocket, feeling the cold metal of the bobby pins against my fingertips. Got them. I pull my hand back just as Dimitri turns back around, his scowl enough to make me want to run for the hills.
"Right," I mumble, taking a step back. "I should really get back to work. So sorry about the dress, ma'am." And with that, I bolt, leaving the scowling woman and the equally annoyed Dimitri behind.
Mission accomplished. Sophia - one. Mafia - zero.
As I slither through this godforsaken room, I can sense Dmitri’s steely eyes piercing into my back. I’m left with a bewildering concoction of adrenaline and intrigue rushing through me. But my fingertips are tingling, and I have a feeling it has nothing to do with the nerves I’m fighting. I got the chips, though, and that’s what matters.
Thank fuck!
My heart races as I move back through the crowded room, trying to keep my cool while internally freaking out. I mean, seriously, who would’ve thought I’d end up playing spy and planting devices in a mafia boss’s mansion? I’m definitely no James Bond.
Holding the tray awkwardly in one hand yet again, I quickly secure the bobby pins back into my hair, each one hiding a tiny spy device. One step closer to planting the damn things, yet I have no clue where the hell Luka’s room is. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack the size of Texas.
Struggling to maintain my balance, I feel a pang of envy as I watch the other women in the room glide effortlessly in heels even taller than my own. The contrast between their grace and my own clumsy movements only adds to the mounting pressure I feel.
How do they do it?
I wobble slightly, steadying myself against a nearby table. I’ve never been one for fancy footwear, and right now, I’d give anything for a pair of comfortable sneakers. But I can’t afford to let my discomfort show – not with so much on the line.
As I pass a group of guests, I overhear a snippet of their conversation.
“Luka Ivankov is quite the enigma, don’t you think?” a tall, blonde woman in a red silk dress says, her voice laden with intrigue.
Another guest, a petite brunette with pouty fake lips, chimes in, her eyes sparkling with desire. “Oh, absolutely. But there’s something so alluring about a man with a mysterious past. And have you seen those icy blue eyes of his? They’re positively hypnotic.”
