Page 11

Chapter 11

Kingdom of Glass

Vasiliyi

T he detectives stride into the Velvet Echo, their badges catching the light from the crystal chandeliers.I tighten my grip on the security monitor, observing their purposeful approach across the main floor.The female detective’s sharp gaze sweeps the room with a meticulousness reminiscent of FSB training—this isn’t a routine visit; they’re building a case.

Jaromir, stationed across the room, acknowledges them with a subtle nod, a signal for me to act.He moves toward the stairwell leading to the surveillance control room, prepared to monitor the situation closely.

The detectives navigate past a group of well-dressed patrons in the salon, heading directly for the bar.Their presence doesn’t go unnoticed; an air of tension ripples through the club.Several shady figures near the stage lower their heads and disperse, retreating like roaches exposed to light.

“Sir,” Jaromir’s voice crackles through the intercom, “what are your orders?” His tone is smooth, obedient. But something about it scratches the inside of my skull. Jaromir’s usually sharper, more clipped. Today he sounds...strained.

I adjust my tie, a reflex honed from countless interrogations, both as the questioner and the questioned.”Escort them up.”

Returning my attention to the monitors, I position myself on the sofa, placing a tumbler of vodka on the armrest.I must embody the role of the startled yet cooperative businessman, always ready to assist the authorities.But their calculated approach suggests deeper intentions.

The security feed shows them ascending the stairs, the male detective’s hand hovering near his concealed weapon—a rookie mistake, revealing his nerves.The woman, however, moves with the precision of someone who knows exactly what they’re after.

As they reach my office door, Galina emerges from the storeroom below.Even through the grainy footage, I notice her brief hesitation upon spotting them.Then she squares her shoulders, lifting her chin in that familiar defiant manner—the same stance she adopted confronting Antonov.A complex emotion stirs within me—pride, perhaps, mingled with anticipation.

Galina intercepts the detectives in the hallway, engaging them in a conversation beyond my hearing.She gestures toward the main room and begins walking, the detectives following her lead.

Recognizing my cue, I switch off the monitors just as my office door opens, revealing the trio.Galina enters first, her expression composed.The male detective’s gaze briefly drops below her neckline, his hand twitching toward the recorder in his pocket.His partner, however, fixes her eyes on me, her demeanor that of a hunter assessing potential prey.

“Good evening, detectives,” I greet them with a measured smile.”How may I assist you tonight? A drink, perhaps? Or a complimentary table?”

“Mr. Volkov,” the male detective’s tone carries that blend of authority and condescension typical of law enforcement, “I’m Detective Lawson, and this is Detective Rong. We have a few questions regarding your establishment.”

I gesture to the chairs across from my desk, noting how Detective Rong’s eyes sweep the room like she’s cataloging every inch. Her gaze lingers on the new security cameras. Smart. She’s not just here to ask questions—she’s looking for the story behind the walls.

“Of course,” I say smoothly, settling into my seat. “Though I was under the impression all our permits are in order.”

“Oh, they are.” Rong’s smile is all precision, no warmth, no humor. “Impressively so, considering how recently you acquired the property. Almost like someone wanted everything to look perfectly legitimate.”

There it is. The blade beneath the silk.

Before I can respond, Galina steps forward, her presence cutting through the tension like a scalpel. She’s dressed in that simple black dress hugging her like armor. The soft smile she offers Rong is all charm and strategy.

“I’m afraid we haven’t been properly introduced.” Her voice is calm, just the right amount of professional. “Galina Olenko. I helped manage the club under the previous ownership.”

My jaw tightens at the name. Olenko. She drops it like a grenade. She knows what it means. So do they, even if they don’t yet understand why.

She positions herself perfectly—close enough to appear cooperative, far enough to signal independence. The move is elegant and tactical, setting my teeth on edge.

Rong shakes her hand, polite but already recalibrating. Lawson’s brow furrows, the name clearly setting off something in the back of his mind. Good. Let them dig.

“Ms. Olenko,” Rong says, and I can hear the shift in her tone—interest sharpening. “Actually, we’d love to hear your perspective on the club’s…transition of ownership.”

Galina’s brow arches, the faintest flicker of mischief dancing behind her expression. She perches on the edge of my desk like it belongs to her. The move is disarming, yet calculated. She’s drawing the spotlight to herself, buying me time to gauge our guests.

“Transition is one word for it,” she declares lightly. But I see the tremor in her hand as she smooths her skirt. A tell. She’s not as calm as she looks. Only I would know that.

“I’m not a lawyer,” she continues, feigning innocence, “so I’m not sure how much insight I can offer into the legal side of things.”

Bullshit. Her understanding of power dynamics is razor-sharp. She was raised in the middle of this world—trained for it. She’s walking a tightrope now and doing it damn well.

Rong mirrors her posture, easing back in her chair. But that glint in her eye? It’s all threat.

“Let’s start simple then,” Rong says. “Mr. Volkov, how exactly did you acquire the Velvet Echo?”

Lawson pulls out a notepad with theatrical flair, clicks his pen. Galina plants her hands on the desk, bracing herself.

The question is bait—barbed and waiting to catch.

I lean back slowly, composing my answer with the same precision I used to dismantle enemies in interrogation rooms. “As far as public records go, the previous owner transferred the title to me,” I say evenly. “If your investigation suggests otherwise, I’d be very interested to hear it.”

“No,” Rong says, her mouth pressing into a line. “But we were hoping you could explain the reasoning behind the acquisition.”

Before I can answer, Galina cuts in. “Mr. Volkov keeps meticulous business records,” she says smoothly, throwing her gaze my way. “He’s here to answer your questions. Not to offer insight into his private affairs.”

There’s something in her eyes, a fire I haven’t seen in weeks. Not defiance. Not rebellion. Something closer to loyalty. Or maybe just survival instinct. Either way, it holds weight.

Lawson’s frown deepens. “What about the renovations? The security system? The change in clientele?”

“The club needed a facelift,” Galina replies without missing a beat. “Mr. Volkov has simply been modernizing the business.”

I glance at her, just for a second. And I know we’re thinking the same thing. This isn’t just about damage control. It’s about keeping our stories aligned long enough to survive this.

I offer her a short nod; one she returns with practiced subtlety.

But the truth presses against the back of my mind. The renovations were meant to elevate the operation, not draw heat. Unless they know something I don’t. Unless this whole performance is just cover for a deeper move.

And if that’s the case, then the detectives aren’t the only ones playing a dangerous game.

“Forgive me for being blunt,” I say, folding my hands on the desk, my tone as polished as the wood beneath my elbows. “But as you can imagine, I don’t have much time for theater. Why are you really here?”

Rong doesn’t flinch. She just taps her fingers against the chair’s armrest—measured, rhythmic, as if to remind me she’s the one keeping time. Lawson shifts beside her, his discomfort bleeding into the air like cheap cologne.

“No reason,” he says after a pause, the words clumsy. “Just doing our rounds. Making sure neighborhood standards are…upheld.”

A weak line. A placeholder. But Rong doesn’t let him flounder for long.

“In the interest of building trust between the Velvet Echo and the NYPD,” she says, slipping on professionalism like a second skin, “we won’t be asking for your client list. After all, discretion benefits everyone.” Her eyes cut to mine. “We’re interested in a…symbiotic relationship.”

And there it is. The real ask. Dressed in silk and civility, but it reeks of pressure. The kind that doesn’t come from a precinct. It comes from something higher. Something darker.

I offer her a smile, polite and empty. “You’re welcome to stop by anytime. Enjoy a drink, maybe a show.” I keep my voice neutral, steering carefully around the wordpartnership. Dirty cops are useful tools, but I prefer to use them through intermediaries. Never directly. Never visibly. Exposure is vulnerability.

Rong stands. A signal. We’re done here.

But her eyes stay on mine just a fraction too long. And in that sliver of silence, her mask cracks—barely. Not fear. Not yet. But desperation. The kind that comes from running out of options.

I watch her go, the door clicking softly behind her. The moment it does, the weight of it presses on my spine. My instincts flare, teeth bared beneath the surface. She’s not just nosing around. She’s trying to survive something. And she thinks leaning on me will buy her time.

She’s wrong.

But it’s not her I focus on as the silence folds in again. It’s the woman still standing in my office, framed in soft light and sharper lines.

Galina.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile. Just lifts her chin slightly, that defiant fire still burning in her eyes.

She played it perfectly.

Distracting. Composed. Untraceable. She offered them nothing of substance and made it look like generosity. Her performance would’ve made Boris proud—hell, even I’m impressed. But the pride curdles quickly. Because no matter how artfully she protects this club, I know she doesn’t do it for me.

She does it because, in her mind, it still belongs to her.

And that will always be our fatal flaw.

“That will be all,” I say, keeping my voice even.

She doesn’t move. Not at first. Then, “Yes, sir.”

The words drip with obedience. But her tone? Her posture?

It’s a challenge.

Her mouth is painted in that shade I can’t fucking stop thinking about, and her hair spills like fire over her shoulders. One word, one look, and I could have her back in my lap, riding the edge of her own rules. But I don’t move. Because the second I touch her again, I’ll lose the last sliver of control I’m still pretending to have.

She turns, the sway of her hips just subtle enough to be intentional.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

And the worst part?

So do I.

As the door closes behind her, silence returns.

But it doesn’t feel empty.

It feels like the opening move in a game neither of us is ready to quit.

Not when we’re both playing for keeps.