She did.
She’d been wavering the past two days between galvanized and gutted. Fearsome and fearful. The moment she was sure she had all her emotions well sorted and packed away was the moment one had slipped through the crack and left her reeling. Getting dressed an hour ago, she’d rapped her nails against the ceramic panels in her dress and gotten lost in thoughts of Toly hurt, or dead. She’d doubted herself, then, her ability to stick to script and not show fear; to buy the boys enough time to fit the rest of the pieces in place.
But when she passed through the rope into VIP, and caught her first in-person look at Mikhail Morozov, her resolve finally hardened for good. It bloodycalcified. Here, at last, was the enemy in her sights. Now was the time for action. For bloodletting.
He was probably mid-forties, fair-haired, good-looking. A big man, she could tell, even while he was sprawled back in a booth, armed goons standing behind it. He had broader shoulders and bigger arms than both of them, and a waist half as wide. He kept fit. He dressed well. A Rolex peeked out of his suit jacket sleeve as he raised a tumbler of amber liquid and took a sip, gaze trained on her over the rim.
Raven gave Ian’s arm another brief squeeze, adopted her best catwalk strut, and led the way across the empty VIP section to the man who was holding her lover hostage.
“Good evening,” he greeted, when they arrived before him.
Raven inclined her head the barest fraction. “Good evening. May we sit?”
“Please.”
They took the sofa across from him, and before Raven had her legs primly crossed a waitress had set drinks before them.
“I ordered,” Misha said, without further explanation.
It appeared to be the same amber spirit he was drinking, of which Raven had no intention of taking a sip. “I see that. Pleasantries are well and good for some, but I’m not interested in engaging in them with you. Let’s get down to business. Assuming you discuss business in front of the help.” She cut a glance toward the waitress, who’d taken up a post against the wall.
He waved, and she took it for a dismissal of worry.
“Right, then,” she said.
He tilted his head to one side, gaze thoughtful as he studied her, a slow up-and-down sweep that left her feeling naked. There was no way he could know what her dress concealed, but it felt as if he could see every knife and every ceramic panel. “I knew the Lean Dogs were weak,” he mused, his accent less pronounced than Toly’s. He’d had some formal education in English along the way. “But I didn’t think they’d truly send a woman to negotiate.”
She tilted her head to mirror his pose, her face a smooth, perfect mask of calm and disdain. “You might try it some time. A few more women, and fewer of your men would wind up in prison.”
One of his eyelids twitched. Point to her.
“Like it or not, it’s me who’s come. I assume you can lower yourself to speak to a woman? Or do you simply set them up in townhouses and throw fine furnishings at them?”
Ian shifted beside her; they’d not set a firm plan, but they’d talked of using Connie as a trump card.
In the moment, reading him in real time, Raven didn’t think wasting time on back and forth would benefit anyone. Misha was a serious, no-nonsense sort, and he didn’t respect women a whit. She’d have to get his attention, and hold it.
Which she’d done, if his reaction was anything to go by. Subtle, but she saw him stiffen, muscles tensing beneath his suit, gaze widening a fraction before his jaw clamped tight and his nostrils flared. He sat forward slowly, and thumped his tumbler down on the table. His tone was even, when he spoke, but she could hear the undercurrent of a growl building in his throat. “How did you know about that?”
“She’s a lovely thing, your Connie,” Raven said. “Bit thick, but I suppose that doesn’t matter to you. She was so keen on meeting me – said she told you all about me, how she wanted to be like me one day.Mike.”
Both his guards came alert, leaning forward, hands ghosting to hips.
Misha lifted a hand to stay them.
Ian put his hand on her thigh and clamped down hard in warning.
Misha said, “You have resources.”
“I have resources you can’t dream of,” she responded. “So when I say ‘negotiations,’ I mean as in you give something, and I give something, none of this Toly dies either way bollocks. You and me, we’re negotiating. Understand?”
His jaw worked, but he nodded.
She checked her watch. “It’s now…nine-fifteen. If we don’t walk out the front door at exactly nine-forty-five, my people move on Connie.”
Another nod.
“Very good. I’ll begin with what I know, and then tell you what I want. Then it can be your turn.
