They work swiftly, dragging the two unconscious men toward the back exit with the efficiency of a well polished routine.
I glance down at the bar where one of the men’s heads made contact. A faint smear of blood mars the polished surface. The bartender is already moving to clean it up, his expression calm and detached.
“Send the bodies back to Lombardi,” I instruct Igor. “Make sure he knows who did this.”
“Of course, sir,” he replies smoothly, heading for the same door as the staff.
“Wait,” I say and he skids to a halt, turning back to face me.
“Sir?”
“Tell Vladimir to find Veronica somewhere safer than this or I’ll have his head.”
“At once.”
I roll my shoulders, exhale, and adjust my cuffs, ensuring I’m presentable before making my way back to Elena.
She’s still seated where I left her, her posture as composed as it can be under the circumstances. But when her eyes meet mine, I see the tension in her gaze. The faint tremble in her fingers as she lifts her glass.
“Let’s go,” I say, my voice steady, the command clear. “There could be more.”
She doesn’t hesitate, sliding off the stool and stepping toward me. Her fingers brush mine as I take her hand. It’s warm, soft, and trembling slightly. I grip it firmly, a silent reassurance.
“What about Veronica?” she asks, her voice low but urgent.
I nod, steering her toward the back exit of the bar. “She’s safe. I’ve made arrangements.”
“And I’m just supposed to trust you?”
The hallway is dim, quiet, and empty, just as I prefer it. My hand on Elena’s back, I guide her toward the rear of the hotel. Vladimir appears at the end of the corridor, his posture sharp and composed as always.
“Veronica?” I ask.
“She’ll be on the move in three minutes,” he replies. “I must apologize, Dmitri, for this appalling breach of our rules.” He holds out a car key. “A gesture of apology. The Bentley in bay seventeen.”
I take the key. “Forward our things to the address I’ll send you. Keep my car here.”
Vladimir nods. “Of course.”
We shake hands, a quick exchange of respect before I turn my attention back to Elena. Her eyes dart between me andVladimir, tension written across her face. I don’t give her time to ask questions.
“This way,” I say, urging her forward.
The service exit leads to the alley behind the hotel. The night air is cold, sharp, biting against my skin as I scan the surroundings.
Four figures linger near the parking lot entrance, talking in low voices. They look dressed for a bachelor party, loud shirts, too much aftershave. It’s a front. They’re here for us.
Elena opens her mouth to speak, but I shake my head, pressing a finger to her lips. Her eyes widen slightly, but she nods.
I scan the area again, my mind calculating the quickest and safest route. The men are too close to the Bentley. A direct approach isn’t an option. I need a distraction.
Spotting a nearby sedan, I pull a penknife from my pocket, crouch low, and approach the car.
The blade is small but sharp enough to get the job done. I jam it into the door’s keyhole, twisting until the alarm erupts in a blaring, ear-splitting wail.
The men whip their heads toward the noise, their attention diverted as they move toward the source.
I don’t waste a second, gripping Elena’s hand tightly as I lead her in a low crouch around the edge of the lot.