Page 3 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
“There are so many things I could be doing tonight rather than sharing the air with these vapid assholes,” Dima grumbled.
“Agreed,” I muttered.
Across the room, I caught sight of Popov slipping away, the diplomat close at his side, with Boris following them. They disappeared down a hallway toward the study, where the real reason we were in attendance would begin. The actual discussion that mattered. Money. Weapons. Promises. Masks dropped behind closed doors.
I was supposed to remain out here, visible enough to remind everyone that Boris wasn’t alone tonight. But my gut twisted. My instincts had kept me alive in this business, and right now they were screaming that something was off. It wasn’t just small talk between Konstantin, Dima, and me. Too many people. Too many ears.
Instead, I shifted my weight, scanning the crowd again, every nerve in my body on edge. A masquerade was perfect camouflage—for anyone who wanted to make a move.
And I was never the kind of man to trust camouflage. Too much could hide in it.
“Watch the room, I’m going in with Boris,” I whispered to my comrades before following the path Boris had recently taken.
Chapter 4
Sofia
Glancing back down the hall, I counted the doors again. Yep, this was the right one.
Careful not to tilt the tray too much, I pressed the lever handle, the door swinging silently open a crack. Using my elbow, I pushed it open further and prepared to enter.
The study was darker than I expected. Heavy drapes muted the sound of music and laughter from the ballroom, leaving only the soft glow of a lamp against mahogany shelves lined with books I doubted Igor Popov had ever opened.
Balancing the tray with three crystal glasses of vodka, I stepped inside, rehearsing the same line in my head: Just drop the drinks and get out.
But the voices made me pause.
“…funding secured. By December, we can move the first shipments,” a man said in a low, clipped Russian accent.
Another voice, smoother, calculated. Boris Volkov—the name I’d heard whispered at the bar. The same man always in the media as the seemingly untouchable head of the Russian Bratva in New York City. “Arms deals take precision. We can’t afford mistakes. Washington is already watching.”
My stomach twisted. Arms? Shipments? This wasn’t small talk about yachts or stock portfolios. This was a completely different kind of business—the kind of business people disappeared for overhearing.
Shit.
Pulse thundering in my ears, I froze—every instinct screaming at me to turn around. But my foot betrayed me, shifting on the polished floor, the tray rattling just enough to draw attention.
Three heads turned.
Popov’s eyes skimmed over me with mild annoyance before dismissing me entirely. A diplomat I’d seen in the news but didn’t remember barely blinked. Volkov stared with a narrowed-eyed glare for a moment before casting a glance toward a fourth man resting against the far wall, then returned to the conversation.
He was so still, at first I hadn’t noticed him.
But once I’d seen him, I couldn’t unsee him—taller, broader, masked in black—attention fixed on me like a predator scenting blood.
And suddenly the room felt ten degrees colder. A chill skated down my spine.
You’re only doing your job, Sofia.
As I gathered my courage and calmly approached the three men with my tray, our eyes locked. Even half-hidden, his gaze burned into me, sharp and merciless. He didn’t need to speak for me to know he was dangerous. His presence alone told me everything: this was not a man you wanted to notice you.
But he had.
And I knew, without a doubt, I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life.
When he pushed off the wall as I turned on my heel to leave, it was confirmed.
“Leave the drinks,” he demanded as he intercepted me halfway across the room.
