23. Chapter 23

twenty-three

Clara

An hour earlier

" C ome on, you piece of shit,” I grunt, struggling with the zipper of the dress. This skinny bitch must be on some new Hollywood diet because this thing’s tight as hell.

I glance down at the two women crumpled on the floor, their wrists and ankles bound with strips of my “uniform.” They’re out cold, courtesy of a little sleeper hold I picked up in Belarus.

“Sorry, ladies,” I murmur, stepping over their prone forms. “But I’ve got a party to crash.” I bend down, snatching up the Russian girl’s tiny Hermes handbag. “Hope you don’t mind if I borrow this,” I mutter, rummaging through its contents. ID, Lipstick, compact, a wad of cash…

Hello, what’s this?

I pull out a platinum invitation card, the gold embossing glinting under the harsh bathroom lights.

“Well, well. Looks like you’re my ticket in, Natasha Volkov,” I read from the ID, a smirk playing on my lips.

I tuck the card into my bra, the cool metal a shock against my skin. It nestles next to the vial of poison, the one I’d rather keep close to my heart than under my fucking tongue.

“Thanks for the assist, girls,” I say, checking my reflection in the mirror. The dress clings to me like liquid gold. I look like a goddamn Bond villain. “Wish me luck.”

But as I stare at myself, the gravity of what I’m about to do hits me. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The chance to avenge Jake, to make his killer pay.

There’s no going back now.

I take a deep breath, steeling my nerves. “You can do this, Clara,” I tell my reflection, my voice low and fierce. “You’ve got this.”

Sucking in a breath, I tighten my stomach, pulling the silk up. It molds to my curves like a second skin. Not bad for a five-year hiatus from the game.

I reach for the golden mask. It’s intricate, a filigree design that’s more art than disguise, catching the light as I tilt it in my hands. Carefully, I fit it over my face, feeling the weight of its cold metal conform to my features. It’s a perfect fit—secure.

I lean against the bathroom stall, listening to the muffled beats of the music outside. The auctioneer’s voice cuts through the din, amplified by the speakers.

“Last call for ‘The Blood of the Nile’! Going once, going twice…”

A pause, the anticipation palpable even through the bathroom walls.

“Sold! To the gentleman in the black mask for a staggering three hundred and ninety million dollars!”

Applause erupts, the sound muted but unmistakable.

I smirk. Perfect. Everyone will be so focused on the auction, they won’t even notice little old me slipping into the VIP lounge.

I glance down at the unconscious women, their chests rising and falling gently. The redhead’s shirt has a “19” pinned to the front, marking her as one of the servers.

Fuck. No time to waste!

I frown, doing a quick mental calculation. They’ll be out for another 20 minutes, tops. Which means I need to get my ass to Kuznetsov’s private party before they wake up and raise the alarm.

I slip out of the bathroom, locking the main entrance behind me. Can’t have anyone stumbling in on my little art project.

Sucking in another breath, I smooth down my dress. Time to blend in.

I step into the main room, and my jaw nearly hits the floor. The place has been completely transformed in the time I was gone. The austere elegance of the auction is nowhere to be seen, replaced by a pulsing, neon-lit nightclub.

“Holy shit,” I mutter, blinking against the strobing lights. “They don’t waste any time, do they?”

The bass thrums through my bones, the beat almost tangible. Bodies pack the dance floor, writhing and grinding to the music. It’s a sea of masks and glitter, feathers and sequins.

I scan the room, my eyes searching for any sign of Kuznetsov or his goons. But it’s like trying to pick out a single fish in a churning ocean.

“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath. “Where the hell is this ‘Aerie’ supposed to be?”

I snag a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and take a sip. The bubbles tickle my nose, the taste too sweet on my tongue. I know it’s become popular, but I’ve never developed a taste for sweet champagne.

I’m about to dive into the fray when I nearly collide with a group of giggling girls. They’re all decked out in sparkles and sequins, their masks glinting under the strobing lights.

“Oops, sorry!” one of them chirps, her words slurred. “Didn’t see you there!”

I muster a smile, sidestepping them. “No worries. It’s a bit crowded in here.”

She nods, her feathered headdress bobbing. It’s some sort of flamingo get-up, pink and fluffy. I bite back a smirk. To each their own, I guess.

She turns back to her friends, their heads close together. I start to move away, but then a snippet of their conversation catches my ear.

“…Aerie? I heard it’s like super exclusive.”

“Yeah, you need a special invite just to get in. And it’s not even in this building!”

“Seriously? Then where…?”

I sidle closer, straining to hear over the pounding music.

The flamingo girl points to a door on the far side of the room. It’s huge, ornate, with a majestic black raven carved into its center.

“That’s the VIP entrance. You have to show your invite there, and then they’ll take you up to The Aerie in a private elevator.”

I feel a thrill of anticipation mixed with dread. A private elevator, huh? Sounds like Kuznetsov’s style. Flashy, exclusive, and no doubt heavily guarded.

My palms are sweating, my heart racing. This is it. The moment of truth.

I pull in a slow, deep breath, aiming to quiet my anxiety.

I go over the plan again in my head.

Get to The Aerie. Find Kuznetsov. Slip the poison into his drink.

Watch him die, choking on his own blood.

Simple. Easy.

I step out of the private elevator, my heart pounding in my chest.

The 39th floor. Kuznetsov’s personal playground.

I’m hit with a wall of sound and sensation as I emerge into the main room. Music pulses through the air, the bass so deep I can feel it in my bones. The lighting is dim, intimate, with flashes of neon cutting through the haze.

But it’s the people that catch my eye. Beautiful, well-dressed, and undoubtedly dangerous. They lounge on sleek couches, sipping cocktails and laughing at jokes I can’t hear. It’s like stepping into a den of vipers, coiled grace and hidden venom.

Focus on the plan, Clara. Just get it done so you can get back to Elijah.

I make my way to the bar.

The bartender looks up as I approach, and for a moment, I’m taken aback.

She’s stunning. Perfect. And completely artificial.

An AI creature designed to cater to every whim and fantasy. A sex doll for the rich and depraved.

Ugh, sick bastard.

I suppress a shudder, forcing a smile. “Two whiskeys, neat.”

She nods, her movements fluid and precise. I watch as she pours the amber liquid, the bottles glinting like jewels in the low light.

I slide a handful of bills across the bar, my eyes darting around the room. No one’s paying me any attention. They’re all too caught up in their own debauchery to notice little old me.

Perfect.

Reaching into my bra, my fingers close around the small vial.

With a deft movement, I uncork it, tipping the contents into the drink on the right. The poison dissolves instantly, leaving no trace.

I tuck the empty vial back into my bag, my heart racing. It’s done. I’m past the point of no return.

Picking up the glasses, the whiskey sloshes gently. Now, to find Kuznetsov.

I turn to Barbie on the Rocks, pasting on my most charming smile. “I’m looking for the… Pakhan Kuznetsov. I don’t suppose you could point me in his direction?”

Pressing down on my lip, I struggle to keep a laugh under wraps. Fuck, this feels all kinds of wrong, getting info from a doll dressed for the bedroom.

She tilts her head, her eyes flickering. For a moment, I swear I see a flash of knowing in their depths. But then it’s gone, replaced by a blank, artificial smile.

“Of course, madam. Mr. Kuznetsov is in the VIP lounge. Just follow the hallway to the left. You can’t miss it.”

I nod my thanks.

I make my way down the hallway, the drinks clutched in my hands. My palms are slick with sweat, my stomach churning with nerves.

I pause outside the VIP lounge, taking a deep breath. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for.

I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s not alone.

Right, like I thought I’d catch him deep in a book club discussion?

Of course, there’s a woman draped over him, her dress barely more than a scrap of lace. She’s running her fingers through his hair, her lips brushing his ear.

Something hot and bitter rises in my throat.

Jealousy?

I almost laugh.

Of the man I’m here to kill? It’s ridiculous.

I clear my throat. “Sorry to break up the party.”

They both look up, startled. The woman’s eyes narrow as she takes me in, her gaze roaming over my dress, my mask.

But I only have eyes for him.

His eyes widen in surprise as he sees me, recognition flickering in their depths. He stands slowly, unfolding his long frame from the couch.

“But I’ve got unfinished business with Pakhan Kuznetsov,” I finish, my voice steady despite the pounding of my heart.

The woman pouts, reaching for him, but he brushes her off.

“Please excuse us,” he murmurs to her, his voice low and rough. “We’ll pick this up some other time.”

Sorry to disappoint, but you’ll be dead soon.

She opens her mouth to protest, but he silences her with a look. She slides off the couch, shooting me a venomous glare as she slinks past.

I barely notice. My eyes are locked on his; my heart’s about to beat right out of my ribcage.

Those eyes…?

He steps closer, his gaze roaming over me. It hits me like a real touch.

“Well, well,” he says, a slow smile spreading across his face. “If it isn’t Little Red, all grown up.”

I lift my chin, meeting his stare head-on. “Hello, Leonid. Just swinging by to say hi—like the good old days.”