Chapter Text
To say Ilya Rozanov looked comfortable inside an FBI interrogation room would be an exaggeration. Still, considering he had been sitting there for nearly fifteen hours, one wrist secured to the metal table, his shirt wrinkled, and three different agents having failed miserably to get any useful information out of him, comfortable was an irritatingly close approximation of the truth.
He did not look tired. Not the way he should have, at least.
There were faint shadows beneath his pale eyes, his curls were messier than usual, and stubble had begun to define his jaw, but his posture remained relaxed against the chair.
His legs stayed spread beneath the table, as though he had chosen to be there rather than been led into the building in handcuffs in the middle of the night. Even the small silver hoop in his ear seemed like a personal affront to the seriousness of the room.
Shane knew it was calculated. He knew every one of Ilya’s strategies for hiding discomfort because he had spent months watching them up close. The lazy smile, the way he tilted his head before answering a question, and the apparent lack of concern that surfaced precisely when he was assessing every possibility around him.
The problem was that Shane also knew the signs other people missed.
Ilya’s thumb moved slowly over the chain hidden beneath his shirt, finding the Orthodox cross every so often. The motion was discreet, almost invisible beneath the table, but Shane had seen it many times before. Before meetings. After phone calls with his father. During silences that lasted too long, when Ilya pretended he was merely thinking but was actually trying to convince himself he was still in control.
He was not comfortable. He was simply refusing to give anyone in that room the satisfaction of realizing it.
– He still hasn’t said anything? – Hayden’s voice came from behind Shane, though the question did not need an answer.
Shane did not look away from the glass.
On the other side, Ilya lifted the paper cup an agent had left on the table, studied the water as though he doubted the man’s good intentions, and took a small sip. There was a practiced calm to the gesture that would probably make any reasonable person want to throw the cup against the wall.
Hayden had moved past that stage a few hours earlier.
– He said the coffee here is an offense against human rights – Shane replied, keeping his voice low. – He also corrected Agent Willis’s pronunciation of Petrov and asked whether anyone planned to offer him real food before he had to report the FBI for mistreatment.
Hayden stopped beside him and crossed his arms.
– So he’s enjoying himself.
– No.
The answer came too quickly. –
Shane realized it before Hayden even turned toward him, which did not make the situation any less unpleasant. His friend did not speak immediately. He merely watched Shane for a few seconds with that patient, irritatingly perceptive look he usually reserved for the moments when Shane said something correct for all the wrong reasons.
– Right – Hayden murmured at last.
The truth was, Shane did not know exactly what Ilya was doing. Ever since he had been brought into headquarters, he had refused to answer questions about the establishments, the shell companies, the men tied to his father’s organization, or the records seized that night.
He had not denied a single accusation. He had not demanded a lawyer, though he was entitled to an entire legal team and had enough money to buy one of their buildings.
He simply waited.
– Willis isn’t going to get anything out of him – Shane said.
Hayden exhaled through his nose and dragged one hand over his face. He was tired. They all were, but in Hayden, exhaustion had begun to turn into irritation, and irritation into an increasingly unprofessional desire to walk through the glass and wipe that smile off Ilya’s face.
Not that Shane could judge him.
He had been imagining different ways of doing exactly that for months. Most involved arguments, some included closer contact, and none of them had any business crossing his mind inside a federal building.
– The supervisor wants to call it for today – Hayden continued. – He said we’re going in circles, and keeping Rozanov here without formal charges isn’t going to get us anywhere.
– He’s waiting for something.
– Yes, Shane. Probably a pillow and room service.
– Hayden.
His friend looked at him again, and every trace of humor vanished from his expression.
Shane knew that silence. It was the moment Hayden stopped being merely his best friend and became, once again, the agent responsible for overseeing the operation Shane had compromised in so many different ways that he could no longer organize them into a coherent list.
– You think he’s waiting for you – Hayden concluded.
It was not a question, though Shane wished it had been. Questions allowed answers. This was merely a fact placed between them, too uncomfortable to ignore and too dangerous to confirm.
Shane rubbed his thumb against the side of his index finger, pressing into the skin in a repetitive motion he had been trying to control since Ilya was led into the building.
– He doesn’t know I’m here.
Hayden gave a humorless laugh.
– Do you actually believe that?
Shane did not answer.
On the other side of the glass, Ilya turned the cup between his fingers and swept a slow glance around the room. First toward the door, then the camera in the upper corner, and finally the mirror.
Straight at Shane.
The glass was one-way; Ilya could not see him. He knew that because he knew rooms like this, knew interrogation protocols, and had probably been questioned by different agencies before. Even so, his eyes remained fixed on the exact spot where Shane stood, as though the wall did not exist or had never been particularly good at hiding him.
Shane felt his throat close.
On the other side of the mirror, Ilya smiled. It was not the broad, shamelessly seductive smile he usually wore when he wanted to provoke a reaction. Nor was it the polite, dangerous smile that appeared seconds before a threat.
It was small, almost tired. Far too personal.
– He knows – Hayden said.
Shane looked away just enough to catch his own reflection in the glass. His suit was rumpled, there was a dark coffee stain near his shirt cuff, and a few strands of hair had fallen over his forehead. He looked as exhausted as he felt, which was terrible news considering the years he had spent learning to look functional even when he was not.
– It doesn’t matter.
– Of course it matters.
– He won’t talk to me.
– So far, he hasn’t talked to anyone.
– It’s not the same thing.
Hayden remained silent for a moment, watching him closely.
Shane knew what his friend saw. Not only the agent who had spent months undercover inside the Rozanovs’ network, but the man who could still tell Ilya was anxious from the movement of his fingers beneath the table. The idiot who knew exactly how he took his coffee, which songs he hated, and how many seconds of silence it took before his sarcasm stopped being a joke and became a defense.
There was enough evidence of his emotional involvement scattered everywhere. Shane had simply been arrogant enough to believe no one would know how to put it all together.
– I’m going in – Hayden decided.
– You’ve already gone in twice.
– The first time, he asked whether I’d stolen my suit from an undertaker. The second, he spent twenty minutes trying to convince me Marleau was a collective invention of the government.
– Cliff Marleau exists.
– Thank you, Hollander. I nearly requested a psychological evaluation over it.
Shane closed his eyes for a moment, drawing a deep breath before looking back into the room.
– You’re tired.
– We all are.
– Exactly. He wants you to lose your patience.
– He already got what he wanted.
Hayden picked up the folder from the counter and opened it, though they both knew he did not need to consult the documents. The photographs, bank records, transcripts, and reports had been burned into everyone’s memory after months of investigation.
Hayden opened the door and crossed the hallway to the interrogation room. Shane remained behind the glass, forcing his body to stay still as his friend stepped into Ilya’s line of sight.
The Russian did not move at first. He simply followed Hayden with his eyes as he closed the door, crossed the room, and sat in the opposite chair.
– Agent Pike – he greeted him with a politeness that would fool no one. – I was beginning to think you’d given up on me.
– The thought crossed my mind.
– But you missed me.
Hayden set the closed folder on the table and took a deep breath. Shane recognized the effort behind his neutral expression. His friend had an impressive tolerance for provocation, but Ilya had an equally impressive talent for finding the last reserve of someone’s patience and stepping on it in Italian shoes.
– We’ve been here for fifteen hours, Rozanov.
– I noticed. The clock is ugly, but it works.
– You’ve refused to answer every question, you haven’t asked for a lawyer, and you’ve shown no interest in leaving. So let’s stop wasting time.
– I thought wasting time was a federal specialty.
Hayden opened his mouth, closed it again, and shot a quick glance at the mirror. Shane did not need a full view of his face to know it was a silent attempt to ask whether murder committed by an exhausted agent could be classified as a workplace accident.
Ilya followed the movement. His smile widened only slightly.
– What do you want? – Hayden asked.
The change was subtle.
Ilya stopped turning the cup. His fingers remained curled around the crumpled paper, but all the practiced lightness seemed to disappear for a second. There was no boredom left in his eyes, no amusement, only that dangerous focus that surfaced when he finally decided to take something seriously.
Shane noticed.
– Finally – Ilya murmured. – An intelligent question.
– Don’t test my patience.
– From what I’ve observed, there isn’t much left to test.
Hayden leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
– You’re here because you chose to be. You could have called a lawyer before you even walked through the door, but you didn’t. You could have kept sitting in silence until we were forced to release you, but you’ve spent the last few hours making sure no one ended this interrogation. So cut the shit and tell me what you want.
Ilya watched him for a few seconds. His eyes dropped briefly to the closed folder before returning to Hayden’s face, studying him with a calm that no longer seemed mocking.
– Immunity.
Hayden did not react, but Shane felt his own body go rigid behind the glass.
– For you? – the agent asked.
– For me and Marleau.
– Full immunity?
– I don’t negotiate in half measures.
– You’re asking the FBI to overlook every crime the two of you committed in exchange for what? So far, you’ve barely said anything.
– And yet you’re all still here. It must be humiliating.
Hayden clenched his jaw but refused to be sidetracked.
– Immunity for you and Cliff Marleau – he repeated. – What else?
Ilya touched the chain beneath his shirt again. This time, his fingers closed around the pendant, and the mockery vanished from his expression long enough for Shane to feel an uncomfortable pressure in his chest.
– Protection for Svetlana Vetrova.
Hayden leaned back in his chair.
– Is she involved?
– No.
– Then why does she need protection?
– Because you aren’t the only people interested in what happens when a Rozanov starts talking.
– If she isn’t involved, we can assess–
– No. – Ilya’s voice remained low, but the interruption cut off the rest of the sentence. – You’re not going to assess anything. You’re going to guarantee full protection, a new identity if necessary, and no contact with members of my family without her authorization.
– I can’t promise that on my own.
– Then call someone who can.
– And Marleau?
– Immunity.
– He carried out your orders for years.
– Yes.
– Some of those orders left people dead.
Ilya held Hayden’s gaze without blinking.
– Yes.
There was no irony in the answer. No attempt to soften or justify it. Only a simple confirmation, heavy enough to alter the air inside the room.
Ilya had never pretended to be innocent, and that was precisely the problem. It would have been easier to hate him if Shane had found a man who denied every act, who hid cruelty behind good intentions or tried to turn his own last name into an excuse.
But Ilya had always known exactly what he was. He also knew what he refused to become.
– Do you understand what you’re asking for? – Hayden asked.
– Better than you imagine.
– And you expect to get all of that before giving us anything?
Ilya released the pendant and rested his hand on the table again.
– I don’t expect to get it. I expect a signed agreement.
– That isn’t going to happen in fifteen minutes.
– You’ve already had fifteen hours to think about it.
Hayden let out a short laugh entirely devoid of humor.
– You spent fifteen hours making comments about coffee and refusing to answer questions.
– I needed to know how long it would take one of you to ask what I actually want instead of continuing to tell me what everyone already knows.
– You could have just said it.
– And deprive all of us of this learning experience?
As typically Ilya as the answer was, his gaze never left the mirror. Shane once again had the absurd impression that he was being watched, even though he knew the Russian could see nothing but his own reflection beneath the room’s white lights.
Hayden noticed too.
– Immunity for you and Marleau, protection for Vetrova – he listed, studying him carefully. – Anything else?
Ilya fell silent.
One second.
Two.
Three.
The pause was not hesitation. It was a choice, and Shane knew that because he knew him far too well to keep pretending otherwise.
– I’ll only talk to him.
– To whom?
Ilya smiled slowly, but there was no amusement in his expression when he lifted his face toward the mirror.
– Let’s avoid insulting each other’s intelligence, Pike. We’ve done enough of that today.
Behind the glass, Shane felt the air leave his lungs.
– I don’t know what you’re talking about. There are dozens of agents working this case.
– And yet we both know exactly who I mean.
Ilya’s voice remained controlled, but his accent had become more noticeable. His consonants were sharper, his words slightly slower, the way they always were when he was tired or too close to an emotion he preferred to hide.
– Hollander isn’t conducting this interrogation – Hayden replied.
– Then this interrogation is over.
– Do you think this is some kind of game? – Hayden curled his hands into fists on the table.
– No.
The answer came without a smile.
For the first time since entering the room, Hayden did not seem to have a response prepared. Ilya leaned forward, and the chain slipped through the opening of his shirt, briefly revealing the gold cross resting against his skin.
– I know what you have – he continued. – I know what you found, I know what you believe you can prove, and I know how many people inside this building are trying to decide whether I’m more useful in prison, dead, or talking. I’m not mistaking any of this for a game.
– Then why Hollander?
Ilya could have answered with a provocation. He could have mentioned the operation or the months Shane had spent close enough to gather information that could now destroy him. There were dozens of strategic answers available, and every one of them would have made more sense inside that room. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on the glass.
– Because he’ll know when I’m lying.
Shane felt his fingers tremble.
Hayden turned his face for a moment, looking toward the place where he knew his friend stood. There was concern in his expression, but also a silent plea for Shane not to do anything before thinking.
– Hollander lied to you for months – Hayden said. Ilya’s jaw tightened.
– Yes.
– And you still trust him?
This time, Ilya took longer to answer. His fingers returned to the cross, squeezing the small pendant between them. His expression remained controlled, but his pale eyes hardened in a way Shane knew well. It was not anger at Hayden.
– I didn’t say I trust him.
The sentence struck Shane with enough precision to feel physical.
Ilya leaned back again and released the chain, gradually recovering the careless smile he wore like armor. The problem was that Shane had already seen what existed beneath it, and no attempt at indifference could erase that.
– You said you’ll only talk to him – Hayden insisted.
– Those are different things.
– Not to us.
– That sounds like your problem.
Hayden dragged a hand over his face and stood, collecting the folder from the table. He had reached his limit. Shane could tell by the rigidity of his shoulders, the abrupt scrape of the chair, and the way he avoided looking directly at Ilya, probably because one more second could turn a federal interrogation into a far less professional argument.
– I’ll take your conditions to the supervisor, but I can’t promise they’ll be accepted. – Hayden walked to the door but stopped when his hand touched the handle. – And if Hollander doesn’t want to talk to you?
For a moment, Ilya did not answer.
His gaze remained fixed on the mirror, and Shane had the uncomfortable sensation that the rest of the room had disappeared. There were no cameras, agents, accusations, or glass wall separating them. Only Ilya’s eyes directed at a point he should not have been able to see.
– Then he can come in here and tell me that while looking at me – he said, his voice lower.
Hayden opened the door and left without replying.
In the hallway, his footsteps approached the observation room, but Shane remained motionless in front of the glass. Ilya was still staring at him, patient, as though he knew running had never been a real option.
Ilya had spent fifteen hours in silence, enduring questions, accusations, and provocations only to force them to offer a choice Shane had been avoiding since the moment the operation began.
Entering that room meant facing him without a false identity, without a prepared cover, and without any lie capable of protecting him from the consequences.
Remaining outside meant leaving him alone with everything Shane had once promised he would never allow him to face.
– Don’t do this – Hayden pleaded.
Shane closed his eyes for a moment but did not turn around.
On the other side of the glass, Ilya tilted his head, his fingers resting on his mother’s cross and a small smile appearing at the corner of his mouth, as though he already knew what Shane’s decision would be before Shane himself had found the courage to make it.
And well, perhaps that had always been the problem.
Ilya Rozanov knew Shane far better than a target should ever know the man who had betrayed him.
***
New York, 2 years earlier
The nightclub was already crowded when Shane walked through the main entrance shortly after eleven at night, though it would still be a few hours before the place reached the kind of capacity that made sensible people give up on finding an emergency exit and accept that they would die surrounded by strangers, electronic music, and absurdly expensive bottles of champagne.
He had prepared himself for the noise. He had also studied the building’s floor plan, memorized the known positions of the cameras, and examined enough photographs to recognize the longest-serving employees before ever seeing them in person. None of that, however, lessened the impact of the music vibrating beneath his shoes or the lights moving through the room at irregular intervals, shifting between blue tones and white flashes that made it difficult to keep track of everything at once.
Shane breathed slowly and discreetly adjusted the sleeve of his blazer.
The outfit had been chosen carefully. A black shirt, tailored trousers in a dark shade of gray, and a well-cut blazer, elegant enough that no one would question his presence but understated enough that it did not look as though he was trying to be noticed.
The top button of his shirt remained open, and the small silver earring in one ear helped support the image of someone accustomed to moving through expensive spaces without needing to prove he had money.
Shane Williams needed to look comfortable there.
It was the name printed on the documents inside his wallet, on the professional references prepared by the FBI, and throughout the history carefully constructed over the past several months.
Corporate security consultant, specializing in risk management and compliance for companies that valued discretion. Canadian, based in New York, with previous experience in hotels, casinos, and nightclubs, and an unquestionable connection to the Chicago mob.
Shane was still his real first name. The last name, like practically everything else, had been chosen to disappear in a superficial search.
He still did not like the decision to keep his first name, but there were reasons for it, and at that moment none of them mattered as much as finding Ilya Rozanov before someone decided his presence had drawn too much attention.
The nightclub occupied two floors and seemed designed to impress without resorting to obvious extravagance. The main room was surrounded by dark walls, metallic details, and large illuminated panels that changed color with the rhythm of the music. At the center, the dance floor was crowded with bodies moving beneath the lights, while reserved areas lined the sides, protected by smoked-glass partitions and security guards dressed in black.
Waiters moved between the tables carrying trays of drinks, weaving around customers with the ease of people who had learned that spilling alcohol on rich people was an excellent way to lose a job.
On the upper floor, a mezzanine wrapped around part of the room and offered a privileged view of everything happening below. Some areas appeared reserved for specific guests, and Shane immediately recognized the security pattern: two men near the stairs, a third patrolling the corridor, and a camera positioned to record anyone who tried to go up.
That was where he would probably find the owner.
The FBI had been watching Ilya Rozanov long enough to compile hundreds of pages about him and, at the same time, understand very little. Grigori Rozanov’s youngest son, removed from the Bratva succession, invisible owner of seven nightlife establishments, possible architect of a money-laundering network spanning multiple companies, and the closest, most reliable source to what truly interested the federal agents.
Officially, his name appeared on almost nothing. In practice, every path ended with him.
Shane crossed the room without hurrying, pretending to study the environment the way any consultant would.
He noted the exits, the guards, and the way some employees glanced discreetly toward the mezzanine before making decisions. It was not an exaggerated gesture, but it happened often enough to confirm that whoever was upstairs was running the place.
He found Ilya a few minutes later.
He was seated on a dark leather sofa in a reserved area that allowed him to watch nearly the entire room. He wore a long-sleeved black shirt, open at the first few buttons, and equally dark trousers. The gold chain around his neck disappeared beneath the fabric, leaving only a small section visible against his skin. His light curls looked deliberately disordered, though Shane suspected men like Ilya rarely allowed anything about their appearance to happen by accident.
A woman sat beside him. Svetlana Vetrova.
Shane recognized her from the photographs in the file. Mikhail Vetrova’s daughter, one of Grigori’s longtime allies, but with no proven involvement in the organization’s activities. She worked in events and public relations, appeared occasionally at Ilya’s establishments, and was, according to the few sources willing to discuss the matter, the person closest to him since childhood.
That night, she wore a gold dress that contrasted with her reddish-brown hair, partially pinned at the crown of her head.
Ilya had one arm around her shoulders while she said something close to his ear, and the two of them looked comfortable in a way that matched none of the formal photographs Shane had examined.
As he approached the stairs, one of the security guards stepped into his path before he could reach the first step. He was tall, broad enough to block practically the entire passage, and wore the impassive expression of someone paid not to be impressed by expensive clothes or well-rehearsed arguments.
– Private area.
Shane glanced briefly toward the mezzanine before looking back at him.
– I need to speak with Rozanov.
The guard showed no reaction to the name.
– Do you have an invitation, sir?
– No.
– Then you don’t need to speak with him.
The answer came so quickly that Shane almost respected the efficiency. Almost.
– Viktor Sokolov believes I do.
The man studied him with slightly more attention, though he did not move aside.
Viktor Sokolov had been chosen for a reason. He was an influential figure in the Chicago Bratva, close enough to the Rozanov family for his name to open doors but far enough removed from the New York operation that Ilya could not confirm every detail with a quick phone call.
The real Sokolov knew his name would be used, though he had probably not been given every detail about who Shane truly was. Cooperation from criminals rarely came with complete transparency.
– I can deliver a message – the guard said.
– I wasn’t sent to deliver messages.
The guard did not react at all. Shane took a deep breath. The music seemed even louder near the speakers installed beside the stairs, and a white light crossed his field of vision twice in only a few seconds. He kept his hands relaxed at his sides, resisting the urge to press his fingers together.
– Call Sokolov – he suggested. – Ask whether he sent Shane Williams to New York. Then, when he confirms it, you can explain to your boss why you left me waiting in the middle of the dance floor.
The guard raised an eyebrow.
– Was that a threat?
– I’m only trying to save you time. A threat would be much less polite.
The man’s expression changed just enough to show that the answer had not helped.
Shane had already begun calculating whether insisting would look right or merely stupid when he noticed movement on the upper floor. Ilya was no longer speaking with Svetlana. He was looking directly at the stairs, his arm still resting behind her and his head tilted slightly as he watched the argument.
Even from a distance, there was something uncomfortably attentive in his gaze.
Shane held the eye contact. Attempting to establish a silent contest with the target before they had even introduced themselves had not been part of the plan.
Still, looking away now would appear insecure, and Shane Williams had not crossed the city in search of work only to be intimidated by a man sitting on a sofa.
Ilya said something to the guard standing near him. The man touched his earpiece and, almost immediately, the guard in front of Shane received the message. His gaze remained suspicious as he stepped aside, clearing the way to the stairs.
– He’ll see you.
The climb to the mezzanine took only a few seconds, but it was enough for Shane to feel Ilya’s gaze following every movement. The music became slightly less aggressive up there, softened by the partitions and the distance from the main speakers, though it still vibrated through the walls and the railing beneath his hand.
When he reached the reserved area, another guard searched him quickly. Shane allowed the procedure without protest, aware of the gun hidden in a secure compartment of the car three blocks away and the discreet transmitter fastened beneath his shirt.
Ilya remained seated.
Up close, he looked younger than he did in the photographs, though no less dangerous. His pale eyes were difficult to define beneath the blue lighting, shifting between green and gray as he turned his head. Shane should not have noticed.
– Shane Williams – Ilya said before he could introduce himself.
There was no surprise in his voice. Only a calm curiosity, as though he had received an interesting piece of information and was still deciding what to do with it.
– So your security team works.
– On good days.
Svetlana looked Shane up and down without making any effort to hide the assessment. Her pale eyes remained on him for a few seconds before turning toward Ilya.
– Is he the one who was arguing with Anton?
– Apparently.
– I like him.
Shane could not determine whether that was a provocation or merely a sincere comment. Judging by Ilya’s faint smile, probably both.
– Sit – he ordered, indicating the armchair in front of the sofa. – I want to find out why Viktor Sokolov sent a man to my nightclub without having the courtesy to warn me first.
Shane took the offered seat, keeping his back straight and his feet firmly on the floor. The position allowed him to see the exit, the guards, and part of the room below, though Ilya was seated in a way that let him observe everything without needing to turn.
– He believed a recommendation would be more useful if I delivered it in person.
– Viktor believes many things. Very few of them have ever been intelligent.
Svetlana laughed and took a sip from the drink in her hand.
Ilya’s arm remained behind her shoulders, his fingers idly playing with one of the curls that fell over the back of the sofa. There was intimacy in the gesture, but not the tension Shane would have expected between lovers. They looked like people accustomed to each other’s space, too comfortable to need to prove anything.
– Sokolov said you might need someone with my experience – Shane continued.
Ilya looked away from Svetlana and returned his attention to him.
– And what exactly would your experience be?
– Corporate security, risk analysis, asset protection, and compliance. Mainly for companies that deal with important clients and can’t afford to appear in the papers for the wrong reasons.
– So you’re a lawyer?
– I don’t have enough patience.
– Police?
The question came with a small smile. Shane had expected it, yet he still felt the weight hidden beneath the casual tone.
– Terrible salary. I like living well.
Svetlana laughed before she could stop herself.
Ilya’s eyes remained on his. The music continued to fill the space, people moved through the corridor, and a bottle was opened at a nearby table, followed by excessive celebration. Even so, Shane had the impression that the space around them had grown smaller.
It was an interrogation technique, he told himself.
Ilya used silence to pressure people, watching how long it took them to fill the emptiness with unnecessary information. Shane knew the method because he used it too.
– Did Viktor say you were good? – Ilya asked after a few seconds.
– Viktor said I’m discreet.
– That isn’t what I asked.
– Men like Sokolov rarely recommend incompetent people. It would cast doubt on their judgment, and Sokolov values his reputation too much to take that risk.
– That doesn’t answer whether you’re good.
Shane tilted his head slightly.
– If I told you I was excellent, would you believe me?
– No.
– Then answering seems like a waste of time.
Svetlana smiled again, this time hiding part of the expression behind her glass. Ilya glanced sideways at her, as though he already knew exactly what she was thinking and was not particularly pleased about it.
– He’s funny – she commented.
– He thinks he is.
– Which already puts him above most of the men you hire.
Ilya removed his arm from her shoulders only to reach for his own glass on the table. The clear liquid shifted beneath the lights as he drank without looking away from Shane.
– You came here to ask for a job – he concluded.
– I came to offer a service.
– Is there a difference?
– To me, yes. A job suggests I need you. A service means you might need me.
Shane knew he had crossed a line. His cover had been built to project confidence, but too much confidence could look like provocation or, worse, a desperate attempt to attract attention. Still, backing down now would destroy everything he had just established.
– And do you usually walk into someone’s business and announce that they need you?
– Only when the business has four cameras with blind spots in the main room, an emergency exit partially blocked by boxes, and a guard who spends more time watching the women on the dance floor than the side door.
Svetlana raised her eyebrows, but Ilya remained still.
– How long have you been here?
– Twelve minutes.
– And you decided to insult my security in the thirteenth minute?
– I could wait until the twentieth, but I don’t believe the problems will solve themselves in seven minutes.
Ilya’s smile returned, slow and genuinely interested.
Shane felt a small change in his own breathing and immediately became irritated with himself. The target’s approval was necessary for the mission; it should not have provoked any reaction beyond professional relief. The problem was that smile did not feel professional.
– Right – Svetlana said, setting her glass on the table and leaning forward. – If the two of you are going to start talking about cameras, blind spots, and all those terribly exciting things, I’m going to leave before someone completely ruins my night.
She stood and smoothed the dress over her thighs. Ilya lifted his face to follow her, and Svetlana took his chin between her fingers before leaning down and pressing a brief kiss to his lips.
Svetlana drew back with a satisfied smile.
– Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do – she told Ilya. She gave Shane another look, this time with a curiosity that seemed more personal than before. – It was a pleasure, Williams.
– Likewise.
Svetlana headed toward the stairs, the guards immediately clearing a path, and disappeared among the people on the lower floor without looking back.
Shane returned his attention to Ilya.
The arm that had been around her now rested along the back of the sofa. Svetlana’s absence made the space between them more noticeable, though nothing else had changed. Ilya remained seated with the same calm, his glass within reach and his eyes far too attentive for someone pretending he was merely having a conversation.
– Are the two of you together? – Shane asked.
The question escaped before he could decide whether it belonged to the cover. Ilya raised an eyebrow.
– Is that relevant to your risk analysis?
– Personal relationships can create vulnerabilities.
– So it was a professional question.
– Naturally.
– How disappointing.
Shane kept his expression neutral, though he had the uncomfortable impression that Ilya could see exactly where professional curiosity ended and something else began.
– Svetlana is family – he explained, after letting Shane sit with the discomfort long enough. Then Ilya leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. – Let’s return to why you came. Viktor may have lent you his name, but he doesn’t decide who works for me.
– I didn’t expect him to.
– Then tell me why I should hire you.
Shane had prepared several answers to that question. He could talk about experience, references, and proven results. He could mention the fictional clients listed in Williams’s history or the problems he had supposedly solved in Chicago.
They were all correct answers. None of them seemed right for the man in front of him.
Ilya did not want to hear a list of qualifications. He wanted to find out whether Shane understood the kind of business he was trying to enter and, more importantly, whether he would show fear when faced with the parts that never appeared in contracts.
– Because your security was built to keep obvious threats away – he answered. – Armed men, violent customers, police without warrants, and any idiot drunk enough to believe money makes him invincible.
Ilya did not interrupt.
– But your greatest vulnerabilities don’t walk through the door carrying a gun. They appear in poorly written contracts, indebted employees, suppliers with inconvenient connections, and people who have information without understanding what it’s worth. Your team knows how to remove someone from a dance floor. I know how to keep that person from getting close enough to create a problem.
– You analyzed all of that in twelve minutes?
– No. In twelve minutes, I found the problems anyone with training would find. I imagine the more interesting ones are hidden.
Ilya rested his face against one hand, watching him with interest that was becoming less disguised by the second.
– And you believe I’m going to let a stranger examine my contracts, employees, and suppliers because Viktor Sokolov recommended you?
– No.
– Good. For a second, I thought you were stupid.
– I believe you’re going to hire me to find out whether I’m lying.
Ilya’s smile disappeared. Shane felt his own heart accelerate, though he maintained his posture.
– That sounds like a dangerous strategy – Ilya commented.
The silence returned, but this time it carried a different energy. It was no longer merely an assessment. Ilya seemed intrigued, perhaps even slightly amused by the possibility that Shane had entered his nightclub already expecting to be treated like a threat.
The truth was, he had.
– You’re arrogant – Ilya concluded.
– I was told you liked confident people.
– Confidence and arrogance are not the same thing.
– Usually, the difference depends on who is judging.
Ilya let out a low laugh. It was the first time Shane had heard the sound properly, without the distance of recordings or the interference of security microphones. It was lighter than he expected and seemed, for a moment, to transform the severity of his face.
Ilya lifted one hand, catching the attention of a waiter passing through the corridor. The man approached immediately.
– Two vodkas – he ordered. – The bottle in my office, not that garbage we serve the tourists.
The waiter nodded and disappeared before Shane could object.
– I didn’t say I would take the job – he commented.
– You came all the way here to ask for it.
– To offer a service.
– Right. The extremely important distinction.
Ilya leaned back against the sofa and looked him up and down again without making any attempt to hide it. His eyes lingered a little longer on the opening of Shane’s shirt before returning to his face.
– I still haven’t decided whether I’m going to hire you.
– So the vodka is part of the interview?
– I want to find out whether you become more interesting when you drink.
– And if I don’t?
– I’ll assume you’re hiding something.
Shane nearly laughed.
– That sounds like a poor hiring policy.
– My businesses have survived so far.
– With four blind spots in the cameras.
Ilya smiled again.
– Three.
– Four.
– The restroom corridor is covered by a camera above the bar.
– The reflection from the panel blocks part of the image when the lights turn red.
Ilya’s expression shifted into immediate, precise focus, confirming that Shane had touched on something important.
– You saw that from here?
– I saw it from the main floor.
– In twelve minutes.
– It’s been almost twenty now.
Ilya studied him for a few more seconds and then shook his head, looking more pleased than he should have.
The waiter returned carrying a tray with an apparently unlabeled bottle of vodka and two small glasses. He set everything on the table, poured the shots, and stepped away after receiving a subtle nod. Ilya picked up one glass and pushed the other toward Shane.
– One week.
Shane did not touch the drink.
– What?
– You’ll have one week to analyze the security of this club and present everything that’s wrong. If I discover you’ve wasted my time, Viktor will receive an unpleasant phone call, and you won’t be allowed inside any of my establishments again.
– And if I’m right?
– Then we’ll discuss the others.
That was more than Shane had expected to achieve on the first night. Access to the main establishment alone would have been enough to begin mapping employees, suppliers, and routines. The possibility of entering the other venues turned an initial approach into the opportunity the team had spent months working toward.
Even so, he showed no eagerness. He picked up the glass and studied the clear liquid.
– I need access to the systems, staff schedules, and incident reports from the past six months.
– You haven’t even started and you’re already making demands.
– You may prefer that I guess, but that would make the report less accurate.
– Anything else?
– A quiet room to work in.
Ilya glanced briefly toward the room below, where the music remained loud enough to make the metal structure vibrate.
– You don’t like the noise?
Shane recognized the trap in the question. Admitting to any discomfort could be interpreted as weakness, especially in a job that would require him to move through nightclubs.
– I like to hear when someone tries to approach me from behind.
Ilya held his gaze for a moment and then nodded, as though the answer had explained more than Shane intended to reveal.
– I can arrange that. – He raised his own glass, and Shane did the same.
– To your new job, Williams.
– Service.
– Keep correcting me and it will be very short.
The glasses touched with a quiet sound, nearly swallowed by the music.
Shane brought the vodka to his lips. The drink burned its way down his throat, strong and clean, though not enough to justify the satisfied smile that appeared on Ilya’s face when he did not cough. Shane set the empty glass on the table.
He should have interpreted it as a victory. He had crossed the first barrier, gained access to the establishment, and convinced Ilya Rozanov to keep him close. It was exactly the objective of the night, accomplished within the expected limits and without any immediate compromise to his cover identity.
At least, that was what he would repeat to Hayden in the report. He would not mention the way Ilya’s eyes had lingered on him or the strange feeling that, instead of slipping quietly into the target’s life, he had just announced his own arrival.
He also would not mention that Ilya seemed far too pleased to let him come closer.
– Tomorrow at ten – the Russian said. – Use the side entrance and ask for Marleau. He’ll show you the systems.
– Ten in the morning?
– Is there a problem?
Shane looked at the still-crowded dance floor and then at the clock, calculating how many hours Ilya would probably remain there.
– No. I just didn’t expect someone who runs nightclubs to know that hour exists.
Ilya laughed again.
– Good night, Williams.
The farewell was a dismissal. Shane stood, adjusted his blazer, and walked toward the stairs without looking back. He made it to the first step before feeling the weight of that gaze between his shoulder blades and giving in to the impulse to check.
Ilya remained on the sofa, one arm stretched along the back and the empty glass between his fingers. There was no one else beside him, no guard saying anything, and no distraction capable of explaining why he was still watching Shane.
When their eyes met, Ilya raised the glass in a subtle second salute. Shane resumed his descent before his expression could reveal anything.