Page 61 of The Mafia's Quintuplets
"Colombians called. They're running twenty minutes late." He guides me toward the VIP section with a proprietary air that suggests he already considers the club his own. "I've secured the entire upper level."
I scan the club, noting the positions of Fedor's men. There are too many, deployed in patterns that suggest offensive rather than defensive strategy, while near the bar, I spot two unfamiliar faces trying too hard to blend in, their posture and alertness marking them as Kazanov soldiers brought in for additional assurance of my demise.
"Drink while we wait?" He gestures to a bottle of rare cognac already opened on the VIP table, the amber liquid catching the pulsing blue light in a way that would seem inviting if I didn't know better.
"Later. I need to review the final terms." I check my watch with deliberate casualness, observing the brief disappointment that flashes across his face before he masks it. He wants me incapacitated before the Colombians arrive—or rather, before whoever is actually coming arrives—and the cognac is almost certainly drugged as a backup to whatever he slipped into my scotch last night, which makes me wonder briefly if he suspects I avoided drinking it.
The timer on my phone counts down from thirty minutes and everything proceeds according to plan until the unexpected happens in the form of a face I recognize immediately across the crowded dance floor.
Ivan Petrov—son of the Petrov family patriarch and a notoriously unpredictable wild card inBratvapolitics—makes his way through the crowd with his security detail clearing a path, and his presence threatens to unravel everything if he recognizes me after the explosion.
"Unexpected guest at three o'clock," I murmur to Orlov, who gives an imperceptible nod before sliding away to alert the others.
Fedor follows my gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Problem?"
"Nothing worth discussing." I wave dismissively, redirecting the conversation. "Tell me about the additional security measures you've implemented."
As he launches into a detailed explanation, I check the time again—twenty-three minutes remain before detonation, and Ivan is moving closer, working his way through the crowd toward the VIP section, likely seeking to pay respects as is customary between families, which increases the odds of him later telling others he saw me. Good. I just need to get him out of here before the explosion. I don’t want him killed when I have no current conflict with the Petrovs.
"Excuse me." I stand abruptly, interrupting Fedor's monologue about the perimeter guards. "I need to use the restroom before the Colombians arrive."
Fedor's eyes narrow slightly with suspicion. "I'll have Mikhail escort you."
"No need. I know where it is and have been pissing alone longer than you’ve been alive." I chuckle like it’s a joke, and he gives an uncertain laugh before I move toward the private bathroom adjacent to the VIP area, forcing casualness into my stride even as I feel his gaze burning into my back.
Inside, I lock the door and immediately tap my earpiece. "Ivan Petrov is here. Adjust timeline."
Leonid's voice crackles with static through the secure channel. "Understood. New detonation in eighteen minutes. Tunnel access remains clear."
I splash water on my face, steadying myself for what comes next before leaving the bathroom to find Fedor waiting, his casual stance belied by the tension in his shoulders and the tightness around his eyes.
"Colombians just called again. Traffic delay, so they’ll be another fifteen minutes." His gaze is too intent, too predatory, and the lie is transparent enough that I know he's changed his plan, which means I need to accelerate mine.
"Then I have time for that drink." I move toward the VIP table, watching relief flash across his features as I reach for the cognac that would ensure I'm defenseless when his real plan unfolds.
Behind him, Ivan Petrov climbs the stairs to our section, his bodyguards clearing a path through the crowd. I raise the glass deliberately before letting it slip from my fingers. It shatters on the floor, spraying expensive cognac across my pants and jacket sleeve while drawing the attention of nearby security. "Clumsy tonight," I mutter, brushing at the spreading stain with mock annoyance. "Nerves, perhaps."
Fedor’s smile tightens with barely controlled frustration. “I’ll get another.”
The moment he turns, I tap a rapid sequence on my phone. The timer jumps from fifteen minutes to two. Not ideal but necessary. Ivan Petrov is about to arrive, and while I want him to see me here, I need him gone immediately after. His testimony later of witnessing me alive and speaking to me at the Eclipse will do more to sell the lie of my death than any staged footage.
“Mikhail,” Fedor calls to his security chief, Mikhail, the brute whose hand never strays far from the gun under his coat. “Another cognac for my cousin.”
I push back from the table, glancing down at the spreading wet mark. “I’ll clean up. Don’t want to smell like spilled brandy when the Colombians arrive.” I rise from my seat with smooth purpose, heading toward the private bathroom once more, where my exit waits, with the tunnel access hidden behind a maintenance panel. Two minutes is tight, but if I move now, I can make it.
Except Mikhail steps directly into my path.
“Let me check it first,pakhan.” He blocks the hallway, broad chest and narrowed gaze daring me to insist otherwise. His hand rests on his holster. There’s no mistaking the message. They suspect something. Or they know everything. Either way, the pretense is gone.
I glance toward Fedor, who watches without intervening, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp and calculating. I force a smile. “Of course. Security first.”
Mikhail disappears into the bathroom, and just like that, my exit is compromised. I pivot, mind racing. The hatch behind the panel is out. I have one other way to reach the tunnel—through the kitchen and down the back service corridor. It’s less discreet and more exposed, but it’s all I have left.
Unless…
Ivan.
I scan the floor just as Ivan Petrov steps onto the landing, flanked by two bodyguards and broadcasting entitlement like cologne. He greets Fedor with the traditionalBratvakisses, then turns to me with cheerful obliviousness. “Makari Vorobev. Entertaining at a nightclub? Hell must be icing over.”
