It was your third week at Volkov's. The club was sleek, expensive, and just a little too clean for the crowd it pulled. The kind of place where the drinks were overpriced and the patrons had secrets.

Your shift manager, a wiry man named Dmitri with a permanent scowl, grabbed your elbow as you passed the bar.

The velvet rope parted as you approached, the bouncer—a mountain of a man with a shaved head—stepping aside without a word.

The VIP room was dimmer than the main floor. Low amber lights cast long shadows across leather booths. Cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling. Laughter—low, dangerous, unhurried—rumbled from the far corner.

Three men sat in the largest booth.

The first was older, silver threading through his dark hair, his suit immaculate. He was laughing at something, but his eyes were cold, watchful, scanning the room even as he smiled.

The second was younger, lean, with sharp features and a cruel mouth. He was scrolling through his phone, bored.

And the third—

He was the one who looked up as you approached.