36. Chapter 36

36

Leonid

I ’m supposed to be focusing on this goddamn gala, but all I can think about is her.

Blyat. Every time I take a breath, I’m reminded of just how badly I want her again.

Her taste. Her smell. The way she moaned, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream or bite. It’s fucking with my head.

She’s like a goddamn itch I can’t scratch, and every time I close my eyes, I see her again—sprawled across the bed, her nails digging into my shoulders, that smart mouth of hers silenced for once.

It was supposed to be once. One time to get her out of my system. Instead, it was four. And now, I can’t stop thinking about how she looked when I woke up this morning next to me—wrapped in my sheets, her hair a mess, her lips still swollen.

Clara.

I clench my jaw, letting the weight of her name settle in the back of my mind like an ache I can’t shake. It’s why I came early, why I’m standing here now under the massive oak tree at the center of the event hall. Its branches are wrapped in twinkling white lights, ornaments glinting like scattered stars. Strands of evergreen garland spiral up the trunk, transforming it into a towering, indoor Christmas spectacle. I need space, distance—anything to clear my head.

Besides, this deal with Fiona is too big to screw up.

Fifty billion big.

Gold has been the best bet for years, and if everything goes smoothly tonight, it’ll seal an empire-level profit. Enough to keep my Bratva untouchable for years.

I grit my teeth and scan the room, searching for Maksim. He was supposed to be here, keeping an eye on things, but he’s nowhere in sight.

The hall hums with quiet power— but not the kind that inspires. No, this is the kind that makes you check for knives in your back.

Charity. A joke, really.

These people wouldn’t donate a ruble unless it came with a contract. Men in suits that scream “money laundering” and women draped in diamonds they probably stole from their third husbands. Every handshake hides a deal, every smile a sharpened blade.

The jazz quartet plays soft, seductive nonsense in the corner, but no one’s listening. They’re too busy pretending to care about saving the world while they carve it up behind crystal champagne flutes.

Idi na khui. Hypocrites, the lot of them.

And me? I’m no better. I’m here to make my cut.

I nod at a passing waitress, her black dress cut high at the hem but low enough at the neck to guarantee tips. A glittering brooch —a cheap nod to the night’s jewelry theme—pins her name tag in place. Her tray balances a row of champagne flutes alongside a pair of vodka shots that look more like an afterthought.

“ Spasibo ,” I mutter, plucking one of the shots from the tray. The liquor burns clean, sharp, and familiar as it slides down my throat. I set the empty glass back with a faint clink, catching her startled glance before she moves on.

Better . A little vodka sharpens the edges. Enough to keep my focus on what matters tonight.

The room is quiet, not crowded yet. Waitresses move between tables with trays of champagne, and a few guards linger near the exits, their eyes scanning without urgency.

I’m early, which is deliberate. Time to assess the crowd before it thickens. The gala is a stage, and I’ve got my role. Black shawl-collar blazer, crisp white shirt, everything tailored to perfection. Minimalist but sharp—exactly the opposite of the woman bearing down on me, dripping in enough gold to blind a man.

“Leonid!”

And here we go. Fiona Blackwood barrels into view, her laugh loud enough to drown out the jazz ensemble in the corner. She’s decked out in emerald green, her gown squeezing every inch of her as if it’s barely holding her together. The sheer weight of her jewelry could sink a ship. Her lips—recently inflated beyond reason—shine like she’s dipped them in oil.

“Fiona.” I meet her halfway, leaning in to kiss each cheek.

“Oh, Leonid,” she purrs, her lips smacking audibly as she releases me. “It’s been far too long. What’s it been—two weeks? Three?”

“Three,” I reply smoothly. “You look… younger.” The word sticks in my throat, but it’s better than telling her she looks like she lost a fight with a Botox needle.

Her lips twitch, and for a second, I wonder if she can tell I’m lying. “You charmer! I knew you’d notice. It’s the lips, isn’t it? I told my doctor to give me something unforgettable. What do you think?” She puckers dramatically, the sound like suction peeling off glass.

Unforgettable is one word for it.

“You always stand out, Fiona,” I say, scanning the room for an escape. “I hear the evening’s shaping up to be… lucrative.”

She beams, taking that as a compliment. “Lucrative? Darling, it’s monumental. If this goes smoothly, we’re looking at fifty billion. Gold is a sure winner right now, especially with Switzerland tightening its grip on alternative assets.”

Fifty billion reasons to tolerate her for a few hours. I glance at her bodyguards—massive men stationed like chess pieces around her. She waves at one of them.

“Silver! Get me another champagne.” The man obeys without a word, and Fiona turns back to me, fluttering her eyelashes, which I swear are weighed down by gemstones.

“You must be dying to have a drink with me,” she says, sliding a hand—cold, thanks to her bracelets—up my bicep. “Or are you on one of those dreadful ‘cleanses’? You look so… tight.” She gives my arm a squeeze. “And firm. Do you live at the gym, or were you just born this way?”

I smirk. “Born this way.”

“I knew it!” She smacks my chest lightly, her bangles clinking. “A true masterpiece. And speaking of masterpieces, when are you going to let me spoil you? I just got a shipment of vintage watches. One of them screams you .”

“Generous as always,” I reply, prying her hand off my arm and stepping back. “But you’re spoiling me enough with this deal. Let’s focus on that.”

Her lips curl into a pout—or at least they try. “Always so serious, Leonid. When are you going to let me have some fun with you?”

“Tonight’s about business.” My tone hardens just enough to send a message, but she laughs like I’ve told a joke.

“Oh, fine. But don’t think I’ll stop trying.” She winks. “You should loosen up, Leonid. Life’s too short to be all work and no play.”

I let a thin smile form. “And yet, work keeps me alive, Fiona.”

Blatant truth.

Suka, I force my focus back to the deal, the numbers, the logistics. Anything but Clara and that I can’t keep her there forever. She’ll need to go home… eventually.

Fiona is watching me. Her lashes flutter so hard I’m half afraid one of them might take flight—or worse, a chunk might come off entirely. She slaps my chest lightly again, her hand lingering there on purpose, her rings cool through the fabric of my blazer.

“Oh, Leonid, darling,” she purrs, “you’re no fun at all.” She bites her swollen lower lip, and for a second, I wonder if it’s about to pop like an overfilled balloon.

I puff my chest out, just the way she likes it, and her delighted giggle bubbles up, loud and shamelessly.

I lean in next to her ear. “Fiona,” I say, my voice smooth but firm, “why don’t we focus on the business?”

She tilts her head, clearly pleased with herself. “Oh, Leonid, you’re going to love this.”

I give her a sidelong glance, cautious. “Love what, Fiona?”

She winks, tugging me gently forward. “You’ll see. Don’t you want to know what happened to your little gold bars? Or have you forgotten already?”

Forgotten? Blyat. As if I could. That shipment alone is worth more than most of these hypocrites combined.

But Fiona’s not like the rest of them. She’s dangerous in her own way—an empire-builder who doesn’t need blood or bullets to conquer. I have to give it to her. She’s a fucking genius when it comes to business. Those gold bars? She had them melted down, turned into bracelets, necklaces, earrings—carefully designed and scattered across her hundred stores in the U.S., sold as “exclusive collections.” Every piece washed clean, profits sky-high.

No one launders better than Fiona.

“Gold doesn’t disappear,” I mutter, walking alongside her. “You had it melted. The jewelry is ready.”

“Leonid,” she says smoothly, gesturing toward a server carrying a tray of crystal tumblers filled with amber liquid. She plucks one, swirling the drink with practiced ease before holding it out to me. “Relax. You’ll get your answers. But first, enjoy the moment. This isn’t some second-rate deal we’re closing here. It’s a legacy.”

I take the glass, the scent of aged scotch cutting through the tension in the air. Probably something rare and absurdly expensive. Fiona doesn’t do cheap.

She clinks her own glass lightly against mine, her gaze steady. “To partnerships,” she says, her voice rich and commanding. “And to staying untouchable.”

I down the scotch in one go, the burn sharp and clean. She smiles approvingly, sipping hers more leisurely.

“Better?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

“No,” I reply flatly, setting the glass back on a passing tray. “The goods, Fiona. Now.”

Her lips curl, not in offense, but in amusement. She tilts her head slightly, her gold earrings sway. “You’re lucky I like you, Leonid. Anyone else would already be out the door for talking to me like that.”

“That’s what we’re talking about,” I tease, the corner of my mouth tugging up just enough. “You know you’re sexy when you talk business.”

She lets out a low, throaty laugh, rolling her eyes as her fingers trail slowly up to her collarbone, tapping lightly in a rhythm that matches her smirk. “Ah, Leonid. Always so serious, even when you’re trying to charm me. But I like that about you.”

She steps closer, her voice dropping into something just above a whisper. “This isn’t just about the jewelry anymore.” There’s a glint in her eye, sharp and conspiratorial. “Trust me—you’ll want to see what’s behind door number two.”

I don’t trust anyone who says “trust me.”

She turns sharply, motioning for me to follow. I take a last glance around the room. The low murmurs of the not-yet-crowded gala hum in the background, but something feels… off. Still no Maksim.

Suka! Where the fuck is he?