CHAPTER SIX – Bratva Bass thumped against Isa's ribs like a second heartbeat. The club swallowed her whole the second the back door closed behind her, neon pinks and electric blues streaked the dark, bodies moving in one thick pulse. Sweat, vodka and smoke clung to the air.
A tray clattered into her hands before she'd even found her footing.
"Red tie. Booth seven. Don't talk. Don't think, Just deliver the drink and walk away."
The man who handed it to her disappeared into the crush of dancers.
Isa stared down at the glasses trembling on the tray. Her black dress clung too tight to her thighs. She'd never carried drinks before; she'd never been this kind of girl. The black card in her bra felt like it was burning her skin. She whispered the plan under her breath like a prayer:
"Walk. Smile. Serve. Leave. Easy. Survive."
She pushed into the crowd, weaving between shoulders and elbows, the tray a fragile raft in a storm. The target sat in a velvet booth at the far wall, a heavy man with a red tie and a face like carved stone. Two bodyguards flanked him, arms folded, eyes like knives.
Isa's throat dried. She reached the booth and forced a smile.
"Your drink, sir," she said, voice high and thin. She lowered the glass toward the table.
A hand clamped around her wrist before it touched down.
"Who sent you?" the bodyguard growled, Russian accent thick, his grip iron.
"I...I'm just staff..." she stammered, heart hammering.
The tray tilted. Liquid splashed across her fingers. The second bodyguard rose, eyes narrowing.
"Not staff. Not tonight," the first hissed.
The club's music cut like someone had thrown a switch. For a heartbeat there was only Isa's ragged breathing. Then everything exploded, Russian shouts, gunfire, screams. Glass shattered overhead. The heavy man flipped the table for cover. Isa ducked instinctively, crawling, palms slick with spilled drink and blood.
A chair toppled. Boots pounded past her. She scrambled toward a speaker, knees slipping on the floor. People stampeded for the exits. Smoke burned her eyes.
She was on her hands and knees, breath coming in tiny sobs, when a huge hand closed around her waist. She gasped, twisting, nails raking air.
"Quiet," a deep voice snapped in her ear.
She was yanked off the ground like she weighed nothing. Through the smoke and strobe she glimpsed the man hauling her: tall, broad-shouldered, shirt dark with someone else's blood, eyes pale steel. His arm locked around her middle like a band of iron.
He shouldered a door open and pulled her into a narrow hallway. Gunshots echoed behind them, the sound turning metallic in the enclosed space. He didn't loosen his grip; he just kept moving, long strides, dragging her with him.
"Who, who are you?" Isa panted, half-running to keep up, heels slipping on the tile.
The man didn't look back. "Ivan," he said. "Don Viktor's right hand. Remember that."
The name cut through her panic like a blade. "Viktor? The one..."
He stopped so abruptly she crashed into his chest. He turned, eyes burning down at her, a wolf sizing up prey.
"You should know what you've walked into," he said. "Viktor Baranov is not some man with a gun. He is the Bratva. The Head of the Baranov Family. The underworld of Russia bends for him."
Isa stared, mouth open. The hallway tilted again, but this time from the weight of the name. Baranov. She'd heard it whispered in news stories, in rumors at the office. Drugs, weapons, disappearances. A name you didn't even say aloud.
"I didn't..." she started, voice cracking.
Ivan cut her off. "Doesn't matter. You belong to him now. You play your part, or you're dead before you hit the street."
He turned, dragging her forward again. They burst out a back door into icy night air. Sirens wailed somewhere distant. A black car idled at the curb, engine low and throaty. Ivan shoved her inside, slammed the door, then slid in after her, his gun still in his hand.
Only then did he release her.
Isa curled into herself on the seat, arms wrapped tight around her knees. She tried to breathe but her chest felt too small. The club noise faded behind them, replaced by the hum of the engine.
Across from her Ivan watched, pale eyes unblinking. He looked like he could break her in half without trying.
"First lesson," he said finally, voice a low rasp. "Nothing goes to plan. Second lesson, don't ever freeze again. Don Viktor doesn't keep liabilities."
Isa squeezed her eyes shut. The name echoed in her head: Baranov. Bratva. Underworld. This was far from something illegal.
Ivan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You want to live? Learn fast."
The car turned, tires hissing on wet pavement. City lights streaked across the window, neon turning to steel. Isa pressed her forehead to the glass, trying to swallow the taste of smoke and terror. Somewhere far behind them the club burned with noise and chaos. Somewhere ahead, Viktor Baranov waited.
And for the first time, Isa understood exactly whose world she was in.