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Give me an hour.

An hour is a long time to maintain a disguise in hostile territory. Especially for a man my size.

I move into the main lounge, scanning the room methodically. Twenty-three patrons. Four staff. Two exits. One target.

Sergei Novikov occupies a corner booth, looking every inch the Russian oligarch. A woman half his age sits beside him, her hand resting possessively on his arm. Young, blonde, expensive— the type of woman men like Novikov collect to prove they still can.

I catalog the threats surrounding him. Two men at the bar, positioned for optimal sightlines. Another at a nearby table, shoulders too broad for his tailored suit. Bodyguards posing as patrons. Amateur work, but effective enough.

I select a table with a clear view of Novikov’s booth while keeping my back to the wall. A waiter approaches immediately.

“Just water,” I tell him. “And perhaps the charcuterie board. Served slowly.”

He nods, disappearing silently. I settle in for the wait, keeping my posture relaxed despite the tension coiling inside me.

Novikov laughs at something his companion says, his hand sliding up her thigh in a practiced gesture. The same hand that signed contracts with my former clients. The same hand that shook James Whitmore’s after stealing my Pentagon deal.

Pizda.

I’d like to take that hand off at the wrist.

I force my attention elsewhere, cataloging the room’s occupants. A senator with a woman not his wife. A tech billionaire drinking alone. Two studio executives arguing quietly over financing.

Powerful men creating the illusion of privacy in a place designed to be seen.

My thoughts drift to Stella, to her face before I left. The confusion in her eyes. The questions I couldn’t answer.

“I have to handle something. I’ll be back soon.”

A lie by omission. She deserved better, but the truth is something she doesn’t need to know. Better she think me cold than know I’m hunting.

The waiter returns with water and a carefully arranged board of meats and cheeses I have no intention of eating. I thank him with a nod, forcing my mind back to the present. To the mission.

Stella is a distraction I can’t afford right now.

Fifty minutes crawl by. I watch Novikov order another drink, whisper something in his companion’s ear that makes her giggle. His bodyguards maintain their positions, occasionally scanning the room with cool indifference.

I call Vasya again.

“Almost done,” he says before I can speak. “Give me fifteen more minutes.”

“Fifteen,” I repeat. “No longer.”

The connection ends. I check my watch, counting down the seconds. Fourteen minutes and thirty seconds. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.

The longest fifteen minutes of my life.

Novikov drains his glass. His companion excuses herself, heading toward the ladies’ room. One bodyguard shifts position slightly, maintaining visual contact with his principal.

Thirteen minutes. Twelve.

I sip water, keeping my movements unhurried. The beard itches against my skin. The glasses press uncomfortably against my nose. Small discomforts, easily ignored.

Ten minutes. Nine.

Novikov checks his phone, frowning at whatever he sees. He types a response, movements sharp with annoyance. Business, perhaps. Or another woman demanding his attention.

Or maybe stealing another one of my contracts, the cunt.