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I know where to find him.

The Capitol Lounge in Silver Heights. Not the most obvious choice for a confrontation, but perfect for my purposes. Exclusive. Controlled. And according to Sofia’s bitter ramblings during our engagement, her father’s Friday night ritual.

Today is Friday. I’ll never have a better opportunity.

I study my reflection in the bathroom mirror, applying the final touches to my disguise. The beard sticks perfectly to my jawline, dark and full enough to change the shape of my face without looking theatrical. Tinted glasses obscure my eyes. A custom-tailored suit— different from my usual style— completes the transformation.

Not unrecognizable, but enough to buy crucial seconds if needed.

This isn’t an assassination. Just a warning. A conversation with consequences.

Sasha waits by the car, expression neutral as I approach. He opens the door without comment, though his eyes linger on my disguise.

“The Capitol Lounge,” I tell him, sliding into the backseat. “Wait outside. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, come in after me.”

“Sure, boss.” He nods, starting the engine. “Weapons check?”

I pat my jacket. “Just the Glock and the PSM. This isn’t a war.”

Not yet, anyway.

The drive through Los Angeles takes us from downtown to the hills, where mansions hide behind gates and privacy hedges. Silver Heights sits at the summit— a neighborhood where wealth whispers rather than shouts, where power moves quietly through handshakes in private clubs.

The Capitol Lounge occupies a colonial-style building set back from the road, its exterior understated aside from a small brass plaque beside the door. No signs. No advertisements. Those who belong know where to find it.

Sasha pulls to the curb half a block away. “Thirty minutes,” he confirms.

I nod, stepping out into the cool evening air. The neighborhood hums with quiet money—the soft purr of luxury engines, the clinking of ice in crystal glasses from hidden patios. A place where men like Sergei Novikov feel safe.

A mistake I intend to correct.

The doorman recognizes neither my face nor my name, but the black card I present speaks a language he understands. He steps aside with a deferential nod, gesturing toward the interior.

I enter the sanctum of America’s elite.

Dark wood paneling. Leather upholstery in deep burgundy. Crystal decanters catching light from discreet fixtures. The scent of aged whiskey and Cuban cigars hangs in the air— both technically illegal, both readily available to those who matter.

My first stop is the men’s room. I need to understand the terrain.

The bathroom matches the lounge’s opulence— marble countertops, individual hand towels, attendant conspicuously absent. Perfect for my purposes, except for one detail: a small security camera mounted in the corner, its red light blinking steadily.

I retreat to a secluded alcove and dial Vasya.

“I’m in position,” I tell him when he answers. “I need you to prepare for a power cut in Silver Heights when I signal. Specifically, The Capitol Lounge.”

“Wait,” Vasya’s voice crackles through the connection. “Their system is isolated from the main grid. I can’t override it remotely without access.”

“How long?”

“Fuck knows. An hour to hack it, maybe more.”

I suppress a curse. “What the fuck am I supposed to do in this fucking costume for an hour?”

“I don’t fucking know,brat.” His keyboard clicks rapidly in the background. “Get inside. Get a drink. Flirt with a waitress.”

“Just hurry.” I end the call, irritation simmering beneath my skin as I shoot a text to Sasha.

Change of plans.