Page 3 of Diamond Don

I pretend to mingle with the distinguished guests as I glance around the assembly, accepting a fresh glass of champagne from a passing server. I could never refuse some liquid courage, and the sparkling drink does wonders for my dry mouth.

In a perfect world, I would have loved to linger and enjoy the luxurious soirée, people-watching while sipping cocktails. But tonight is about work, not play.

My smile deepens as I visually confirm my planned exit’s location. The museum’s gardens extend to a service alley at the back, just a hundred yards away from the main building, as A.J. and I discovered during our surveillance work yesterday.

While caterers and servers efficiently walk among the guests, I will sneak past all of them to the street right outside, where my getaway car awaits me. As far as planned escapes go, mine is simple and straightforward. Yet, in my professional experience, that’s never a bad thing. All I have to do is get to the car without drawing unnecessary attention.

This is always my least favorite part of any job. It’s always a thrill to snag a beautiful bauble from under an unsuspecting owner’s nose, but it is pure torture to force myself to stroll out of a job site when all I want to do is get the hell out of Dodge.

I glance down at my chest and spot the slight bulge of the Flame of Mir enclosed by my gown’s cloth. The stone’s solid pressure between my breasts is hard to forget, but it’s still comforting to have visual assurance of its whereabouts.

Now, I must get out of here and place this beauty in that horrible man’s filthy hands. I hate the mere thought of parting from it, but I can’t wait to regain my independence, even if it is a temporary respite. Not to mention, it means A.J. will live to see another day. At least until the stronzo can concoct another one of his schemes.

Unless we strike first.

The diamond should buy us enough time to uncover his rumored secret and plot out the best way to give him a taste of his own medicine. I have no qualms about blackmailing the bastard who is making my life a living hell.

With small steps, I discreetly shorten the distance to the alleyway, avoiding making eye contact with the women and men taking part in the festivities.

I do my best to look casually bored while I make my way around the dance floor, the last obstacle in my path. As I unhurriedly stroll past an empty table, I set down my champagne flute. The drink has served its use as a prop and a source of much-needed courage.

As inconspicuously as I can manage, I touch the diamond through my outfit’s fabric. It’s a bad idea to keep drawing attention to it, but I can’t help reassuring myself one final time that it’s still right where I placed it.

After taking a deep breath, I allow myself a sigh of relief as all the pent-up tension accumulated during the past few days finally begins to leave my shoulders. I feel slightly lightheaded as I head to the alley.

Paranoia compels me to scan the celebration one last time, but nobody is watching me too closely as I take the last steps toward the exit.

And that’s when I walk right into the arms of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.

2

NIK

I can’t stop staring at the woman in the dangerously distracting black velvet dress.

As I sip my whiskey, I do my best to refocus my attention on the museum director’s speech, but it’s pointless. My gaze drifts to her again and again, almost as if irresistibly drawn by gravity’s pull.

That dress ought to be illegal.

And I know a thing or two about illegal things.

As she glances around the museum’s grand hall admiring the decorations, I admire her.

Her dark hair, artfully piled atop her head, temptingly exposes her neck. I wonder what she smells like.

She turns around, looking around the room, and I almost choke on my drink.

Mercy. I struggle to suppress my cough—her dress is backless.

The overhead light fixtures bathe her in their soft glow, and I can’t help but imagine what it would feel like to run my fingers over that beautiful, mesmerizing stretch of skin.

I try to catch her eye, but she is lost in thought. She doesn’t notice me at all, which makes me smile.

Many of the country’s most powerful men and women are present at tonight’s gala. There isn’t much they wouldn’t say or do for a few moments of my time. And yet, this slip of a girl doesn’t seem to know who I am. She certainly doesn’t realize she has my undivided attention.

Her careless disregard doesn’t concern me in the slightest. I know how to get what I want. One does not rise from the direst, most remote parts of Siberia to reach the highest rank of the Russian bratva by being timid.

Over the decades, I have been many things. Most of them are, frankly, not any good. I’m not ashamed to admit it. Unsure of myself, however, is not one of them.

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