Chapter 4

Harlee

The moment I step into the VIP room, I'm overwhelmed by the change in atmosphere. The lights are now dimmed while a jazz singer stands on the small stage and performs an exclusive show for the guests who mingle around the room. Some are captivated by the show while others are absorbed in their conversations.

To my delight, I spot my target standing in the middle of a group talking, including Evelyn and her fiancé. Every now and then, luck chooses to be on my side, and tonight seems to be one of those times.

I cross the room with slow steps. "Evelyn!" I call her name, and she immediately slips from the arm wrapped around her middle. The man is reluctant to let her go as his hand extends after her in an attempt to stop her, but she meets me halfway, reaching for my hands and squeezing them.

"So we meet again." She chuckles and pulls me toward the group of men. The one I suspect is her fiancé looks down at us with a deep frown on his forehead. "Noah, I was just telling you about her," she says to him and his features smooth out immediately.

"Nice to meet you." He gives me a polite nod before Evelyn turns me to the other men present.

"Sorry, gentlemen, this is Harlee—" she trails off, her eyes meeting mine.

"Carter," I finish, and within seconds, the faces of a handful of the men light up with recognition. Including my target.

"Carter, like the painter Harlee Carter ?" My target’s gaze sweeps over me, lingering just long enough to let me know he’s interested, and I turn to look at him with a smile.

"Guilty as charged."

"What an honor to meet you." He steps toward me and reaches for my hand to plant a kiss on my knuckles. I let my fingers slide into his, holding his gaze with a sly smile. "I suppose you’re one of my admirers?"

His grip tightens slightly, confidence radiating off him. "If I wasn’t before, I am now. But I indeed have been meaning to visit one of your exhibitions, but it's been a while since you held one."

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr…" I halt myself with a questioning tone.

"Christopher Richmond."

"Mr. Richmond, well, art takes time. I can’t just churn it out on demand like that. I wouldn’t want to disappoint."

"Art can’t be rushed…" he muses with raised eyebrows. "I can understand that. Still, a little pressure never hurt. Sometimes a bit of distraction may even spark… creativity."

I raise a brow before I respond with a knowing smile. "Maybe," I murmur, letting my gaze flick over him. "Distraction can be good for the soul. But it has to be… the right kind." The thought of Ethan crawls back into my mind. I already found a distraction that will inspire me to do great things. Those deep brown eyes, his strong hands, and his muscular body, naked, moving against mine as we give in to our desires. The painting born from this experience and these emotions will undoubtedly turn out to be a masterpiece.

Richmond's eyes spark with interest. "Well, if you’re looking for the right kind of distraction, Miss Carter…" He leans a little closer, his hand grazing my arm as if testing the waters. "I’m known to be very accommodating."

"Accommodating?" I reply, letting my voice drop. "Well, I’m particular about the kind of distractions I allow." I lean in, my lips curving into a slow smile.

"Are you?" His smirk widens, his gaze lingering on my mouth. "Maybe I’m exactly the kind of distraction you’re looking for tonight."

"Maybe you are," I reply, letting the suggestion hang between us. "But you’ll have to keep my attention if you want to inspire me."

Richmond’s eyes spark with interest, and he gestures toward the bar. "How about we put it to the test? I think this conversation deserves another drink, don’t you? Maybe without all these other distractions," he says, gesturing to the bustling crowd around us.

I tilt my head, pretending to consider, as if I don’t already know exactly where this is going. "All right," I say, letting my fingers brush his wrist. "Lead the way, Mr. Richmond. Let’s see if you’re as inspiring as you seem to think."

I am standing in front of the beautifully decorated Christmas tree, the lights shining through the thick needles. I let my gaze linger on the tree, allowing myself a brief moment. We're in one of the back rooms the Bratva offers for meetings. But more people will be killed or have sex in these rooms than will negotiate business deals tonight. A victorious smile tugs at the corners of my lips— and Mr. Richmond will be one of the poor bastards who gets killed, while still thinking he is one of the lucky ones who gets sex.

I turn on my heels and face the room behind me where I find him lounging lazily on one of the old antique sofas, a cigar in his hand as he sips his drink. He thinks he knows what’s coming. Poor, foolish man.

I let the corners of my mouth smooth out into a soft smile and walk toward him, the clicking of my heels dull against the carpet as I sway my hips. His eyes are greedy, already undressing me, his grin widening. I then reach into my purse and pull out a small glass vial filled with a striking white powder, holding it up between two fingers. "I hope you don’t mind if I have a little fun too," I say, my voice soft but teasing.

"Not at all. I love a woman who knows how to let loose," he says and leans forward, resting the cigar on one of the dents in the ashtray, his full attention now on me.

I laugh softly, shaking my head as I unscrew the cap. "I'm more than happy to share." I walk around the table and sit down next to him. He watches me closely as I pour the white powder onto the clean table and create a few neat lines before leaning back into the sofa. "Please go first. I have a habit of getting carried away," I say with a chuckle, "and I don't want to deprive you of the fun."

"I can't wait," he says with a grin before leaning forward, not hesitating as he inhales sharply and snorts one of the lines through his nose. Straightening his posture, he sniffs hard, rubbing his nose with a slight twitch before exhaling a deep, satisfied breath. "Now that," he slurs, "is the good stuff."

My eyes remain locked with his and for a moment everything is still. His grin falters. Within moments of the powder hitting his brain, his eyes droop and his movements slow, his body swaying from side to side until he collapses on the sofa.

"Good night," I whisper before getting up, grabbing his legs and dragging him onto his back, turning him until he is perfectly spread out with his head dangling off the edge, allowing the blood to run down and drip into my bottle. Pulling my knife from its holster, I walk to the window and cut some of the fabric from the curtains to tie him up. The amount of drugs he has snorted has knocked him out for the moment. But I like my victims to be awake when they bleed to death and hear them beg for mercy.

I crawl on top of him and as I tie his legs to the feet of the sofa, my thoughts drift back to Ethan. I wonder if he’s looking for me. He’d be such a good boy if he was, like an eager little dog chasing after its treat—obedient, focused, and desperate to please.

Just as I'm about to tie his last arm to the sofa, the sound of the door slamming shut startles me and snaps me out of my thoughts. My head jerks in the direction of the source, where my eyes meet dark brown ones staring back at me.