Chapter 9 – The Event
The dress clung to Isa's body like it had been made for her. Black silk, high slit, diamond straps. She smoothed her palms down her sides and tried not to look at the girl in the mirror who didn't look like her at all.
"Ready." Lena stood at the door, holding a small black clutch. She was young, maybe twenty-two, with neat brown hair pulled into a bun and a calm, unreadable face. She'd been assigned to Isa two days ago, a "servant" from Ivan, and so far she had been efficient and silent.
Isa forced a nod. "Yeah. I guess."
Lena opened the apartment door without another word. Outside, a black Mercedes waited with Ivan already in the backseat. Isa slid in next to him, clutch tight between her knees.
Ivan glanced at her. "Nervous?"
"What do you think?" she muttered.
He chuckled low. "It's a private gathering. Nothing will happen. Viktor wants you seen."
"Seen as what?"
Ivan's eyes cut to her. "As his."
Isa's stomach flipped. "I'm not..."
"Don't argue with me in the car," Ivan said mildly, eyes back to his phone. "We're almost there."
The rest of the ride was quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the city lights streaking past the tinted windows.
The club wasn't like any she'd seen before. No neon lights, no pounding bass. Instead, there were marble floors, chandeliers, and men in suits speaking Russian in low tones. Women glittered like jewellery. Everything smelled of money and danger.
At the entrance Viktor was waiting, flanked by two guards. His black suit was cut sharp, his tie loosened just enough to look effortless. He glanced at Isa once, eyes dark, before offering his arm.
"Come," he said.
She hesitated, then took it. His hand was warm, heavy on hers. The moment they stepped inside the crowd shifted, turning subtly toward him. Heads dipped, eyes flicked. She felt like every gaze cut into her skin.
At the centre table, Viktor pulled out a chair. She sat. Lena moved to stand behind her, silent as a shadow. Ivan took a place at Viktor's right.
"Mr. Baranov," a man at the table said in accented English, smiling too wide. "And this must be the future Mrs. Baranov?"
Isa's cheeks burned. "I'm..."
"She's Isa," Viktor said smoothly. His hand landed briefly on the back of her chair, a casual gesture but firm enough to shut the man up.
Another man laughed quietly. "Beautiful. You always had good taste, Viktor."
Isa shifted. "Is this what this is? Show and tell?"
Viktor's mouth twitched—half a smile, half a warning. "Eat. Drink. Don't talk unless you have to."
She stared at him. "I'm not a prop."
"Then stop acting like one," he murmured without looking at her, already pouring himself a drink.
She bit her lip and reached for water instead.
The conversation at the table slid back into Russian. Isa caught fragments, shipments, ports, someone named Baranov moving against a rival. She stared at the candle in front of her, trying to look bored. Inside, her heart thumped like a drum.
She leaned a little toward Viktor. "You really talk about this stuff in public?"
"It's not public," he said without glancing at her.
"So you're… what? A businessman?"
His eyes finally met hers, black and unreadable. "Something like that."
"You're lying."
A faint smile touched his mouth. "And you're shaking."
"I'm not..." she began, but a crash from the front of the club cut her off.
Shouts. Glass breaking. Then a single, sharp gunshot.
Isa froze. Around her, the crowd erupted in movement. Guards rushed toward the entrance. Chairs scraped. Another shot cracked the air.
Viktor rose instantly, smooth and controlled, speaking fast Russian to his men. Ivan appeared at Isa's side like a ghost.
"Down," Ivan hissed.
Isa ducked under the table as another shot rang out. Her breath came in harsh gasps. High heels clattered on marble. Someone screamed.
A strong arm hooked around her waist. Ivan. "Move," he ordered, dragging her out from under the table and into a back hallway.
"Viktor!" she cried, twisting to look back. Through the chaos she caught one last glimpse of him, tall, unflinching, barking commands like a general in a war zone.
Ivan shoved her into the hallway and slammed a door behind them. The noise muted instantly.
He pinned her against the wall, eyes blazing. "Do you know where you are?"
She blinked at him. "A club?"
He barked a laugh. "A club. This is Baranov territory. Viktor Baranov. He runs half this city."
She stared. "He's mafia."
Ivan's lips curved, not quite a smile. "He's the mafia. And you're wearing his ring, even if you don't see it yet."
Her stomach lurched. "I didn't ask for this."
"You don't ask," Ivan said. "You survive."
Sirens wailed in the distance. Footsteps thundered back in the main hall. Isa pressed her palms to the cold wall, breathing fast.
Viktor Baranov. The name rolled in her head like thunder. Everything suddenly made sense, the car, the guards, the contract.
And now she was standing in the middle of it.
That night, Isa knew her life had crossed a line she could never uncross.