“Mistakes.” Vladimir utters a soft laugh as he crosses the floor, coming to stand in front of the glass wall that forms one side of a Perspex pool.
The turquoise water is lit. The filter pump causes a gentle current, the movement throwing soft waves of light over the walls.
“Once, maybe, it’s a mistake,” Vladimir says, studying the way the water distorts the figure of the woman who walks over the stage to the edge of the pool. “But twice?”
“Slipping and fracturing my wrist was an unfortunate mishap,” Bes says. “If not, you would’ve had Katherine Morrell by now.”
The woman looks straight at Vladimir. From behind the wall of water, he can’t make out her face, but she knows for whom she’s performing. She stretches out her arms in front of her and dives gracefully. Her naked body comes into focus as she glides through the water and swirls like a ribbon, making a stunning live portrait in the Perspex frame.
“The truth is, Bes,” Vladimir says, focusing on the way her nipples contract into hard points from the cold water, “I’m growing tired of excuses.”
The dancer bends a knee and jumps elegantly with pointed toes. Her poise is regal. With eyes the color of the water and lips naturally red, like ripe cherries, her delicate face is classically beautiful.
“There won’t be another mistake,” Bes says in a flat tone.
“Yet you made one.”
For that, the assassin deserves a bullet in the head. The thought alone makes Vladimir’s hands tremble with violence. The urge to grab a gun is so strong he has to curl his fingers into fists to prevent himself from acting on it. He’d like nothing more than to crack Bes’s skull and paint the walls with his blood, but he can’t get rid of him yet. He has bigger plans for the assassin.
“What are you talking about?” Bes asks.
Vladimir allows the woman’s graceful movements to calm him. Natasha is an accomplished but retired ballerina. She’s one of Russia’s treasures. She’s too old for the stage now, but her ass is still firm, her tits pert. People flock to the club to see her show. Vladimir’s personal favorite is the one where she performs with the water snakes.
“You made a grave mistake by delivering Katherine Morrell’s key card to Volkov,” Vladimir says.
“That was intentional. I’ve got him worried,” Bes says, meeting Vladimir’s gaze in the reflection of the glass. “Worried men make mistakes.”
The naked male dancer dives into the water. His strong body is lithe and well defined, his cock thick and long. He scoops up the woman, lifting her in a choreographed dance.
Vladimir follows the dancers’ underwater ballet, moving his head to the side and up as they surface for air. “He also ran home to protect his lover, and we both know he’s as good as untouchable here.”
“An opportunity will come. It always does,” Bes continues in a bored tone.
The arrogance makes Vladimir shiver with fury. Controlling it is difficult. He focuses on the couple diving to the bottom. The man presses the woman against the wall, flush against Vladimir’s body. Only the glass separates them as the man spreads her legs and shoves into her from behind.
Not even the highlight of the performance is enough to abate Vladimir’s anger. Natasha’s breasts push flat against the glass. She snakes her arms around the man’s neck and locks her legs around his ass, pulling her supple body into an artistic C-shape as the man pummels her splayed pussy for Vladimir’s visual entertainment. A tongue of heat licks through Vladimir’s stomach and stirs his cock, but with the nagging worry in the back of his mind, the spark of arousal doesn’t catch.
“This is what you’re going to do,” Vladimir says, not taking his eyes off the show. “From now on, you’re following my orders.”
The woman throws back her head. A bubble escapes from her lips, floating to the surface.
“What about Oleg?” Bes asks.
“Oleg had his chance.”
The male dancer meets Vladimir’s gaze through the water, a wordless request for permission to end the show. Vladimir shakes his head.
“What do you want me to do?” Bes asks in his infuriatingly disinterested voice.
Vladimir clenches his teeth. The woman opens her eyes. She draws a line with her palm across her throat, indicating she’s out of air and needs to surface.
“I have reason to believe Oleg is in possession of certain evidence,” Vladimir says. “You’re going to get it for me.”
The woman starts to struggle. The man’s face pulls into a mask of concentration as he pumps his hips faster to finish the performance.
“How am I supposed to do that?” Bes asks.
Turning to him, Vladimir says, “The instructions are encrypted on a flash drive.”
A guard jumps forward, handing Bes the plastic casing with the drive.
“I’ll let you figure out a way,” Vladimir says with a cold smile. “Your file states you have a high IQ. I’m sure you’ll get creative. You do this, and I’ll turn a blind eye to your mistakes.”
Thumping sounds rattle the glass behind Vladimir.
Bes weighs the casing in his palm. Wisely, he doesn’t turn down the deal. “By when do you need this evidence?”
Vladimir turns back to the show. He’s just in time to see the life wash out of the woman’s eyes. At long last, the male comes, pulling out so Vladimir can see the jets of ejaculate he shoots into the water. “The sooner, the better.”
Kicking with his feet, the man swims up to the surface, his heavy cock drifting flaccidly between his legs. Finally, Vladimir grows hard. Maybe he’ll order the male dancer to his upstairs room tonight.
“Fine,” Bes says. “But that doubles my price.”
Natasha’s body drifts like a four-pointed star in the water, her long blond hair billowing around her face. She makes a peaceful picture.
For the first time in weeks, Vladimir breathes easily again. All he needed was to take back the control. Facing Bes, he says, “Get the evidence and finish Volkov, and you’ll get your money.”
The assassin stands.
“If Oleg finds out what’s going on, if he so much as catches a whiff of it, you’re dead,” Vladimir says. “Is that clear?”
Bes’s gaze drifts over Vladimir’s shoulder toward the pool. “Crystal.”
“Good,” Vladimir says, feeling much better.
5
Kate
Opening my eyes, I blink in momentary confusion. My emotionally drained mind wants to sink back into the relief of oblivious sleep, but something harping at the back of it urges me to wake up. Slowly, I surface to full consciousness.
I’m lying on a bed under a soft blanket. It’s so dark I can’t see my hand in front of my face, but I don’t need my eyesight to know this isn’t Alex’s bed in New York City. This isn’t the house I moved into with him. Then the cobwebs lift, and I remember. That little something in the back of my mind crystalizes into clarity as the memories flood back.
I sit up and stretch out an arm to feel my way. Velvet brushes against my fingertips. The bed curtains. Scrunching the fabric in my hand, I pull it aside. Light penetrates the inky darkness. A nightstand lamp throws a soft glow over the room. Someone must’ve closed the bed curtains after I’d fallen into an exhausted sleep. Lena, maybe. I find the idea of her being in the room while I was napping disconcerting.