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Can’t it be both?

Working in colder climes makes disguises a bit easier to conceal. A fur head wrap, a matching coat. Still, it’s a point of pride to be able to look in the mirror before I leave and not recognize the person looking back at me.

A half hour and a cab ride later, I’m standing beneath the glittering sweep of Moscow’s high-rises. It’s a small district compared to most major cities.

A soft snort behind me makes my muscles tighten, but I resist any other reaction. With a twitch of my head, I spot Ero emerging from the shadows.

“You look spectacular.” He hums, his hand finding its way into my coat.

“You like what you see,Papochka?” I purr back at him in a thick Russian accent.

“Gross. Iamimpressed if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Just playing the part, Daddy.”

“Save it for the gala.” That sharp, cold tone again. Ever since Morocco, he’s been closed off. He steps off the curb at thecrosswalk, his hands in his coat pockets. “I’ll see you there. Bring a date.”

I wait on the corner for a short while, until a limo finally arrives. The man inside is older, broad chested and thick necked. He’s balding, but carries himself like a man who owns his aging. Power and money. Gold rings on nearly every finger tell me some of his affiliations.

“Karanina?”

“Da, dorogoy,” I smile seductively.

The ride to the event is quiet, only interrupted by a bottle of champagne and my client’s brief toast to a lovely evening. I clink my glass and pretend to sip the bubbly, thankful for the fact that he doesn’t try to sample the goods before our date.

Wouldn’t be the first time that I had to put a John in his place. It’s also why my cover agency hires me out as a “security escort” and not just a pro.

This guy gets it. I’m a jewel on his arm and a dagger up his sleeve. Lets him show up without bodyguards and look like he’s the boldest bastard in the room.

Or he’s got so many mistresses that he doesn’t need to bother with me. The cynicism that I’ve built up over the last few years tries to rise up and strangle me.

Focus.

Fancy cars wait in queue. Lights. Butlers.

It swishes past in a blur, my senses heightened to take in every detail. Including the flicker of a shadow landing on the roof. Don’t get sloppy, E.

Opulence is the name of the game inside, gold and marble, velvet and crystal. There’s only subtle differences between the mix of gangsters and government officials. Favors and threats pass freely over vodka and raucous laughter, masking schemes and double crosses.

We mingle for a few moments, Mr. Karlov greeting closer acquaintances on the first pass. Shots will come later. Well, they would. But I need him preoccupied.

“Kara, a moment.” He looks peaked, a bit sweaty. Nodding toward the facilities, he walks a bit too quickly into the men’s room. Taking a casual post outside, I wait for an opening to peek into the bathroom.

One attendant.

“Izvinite…” I whisper to him, waving him over. Slipping him a sizable tip, I play coy, glancing and pointing toward Karlov. The attendant takes the hint and the tip with a conspiratory smile, heading toward the back hallway for a smoke.

Karlov is definitely getting laid tonight. Laid out.

Fortunately, the powder I slipped into his champagne in the limo is already taking its toll. A quick prick of a needle and he’s resting quietly on the toilet in the farthest stall. Just another drunk.

A dark figure falls in beside me as I exit, leading the way toward the back rooms.

“Got the keycard?”

“Naturally. Did you get the passcode?” Ero swipes the card in the security door and lets us into the chilly confines of a server room.

“Is that even a question?” Slipping the makeup pad out of my clutch, I set the rest of my tools on the desktop beside one of several computers. Combining two viles, I pour the solution into the mold of Karlov’s fingerprint.