Page 7

7

THE ELEMENT OF SURPRISE

RORY

W e’ve no sooner entered the club before Petr’s phone rings again . He holds it up to his ear, one hand over the receiver. “Take her up to the office,” he shouts in Russian at the two guys who escorted us into the building before turning and disappearing back outside.

I stare after him. I’m immediately uncomfortable being left with the two unfamiliar men in the dark sultry light of the gentlemen’s club.The sun has barely set, but business at Elements is already in full swing.

The club caters to an upscale clientele. However, it doesn’t matter how much money you have—sleazy men are sleazy men. Having money just makes them more dangerous.

As we move through the busy floor, I’m instantly aware of how short my skirt is. It falls in a triangle, with the upper part of my thighs on full display. I grip the sleeves of my hoodie in my fingers and resist the urge to tug the hem down as we weave through the busy club floor.

I feel eyes on me but keep my head down, avoiding eye contact with any of the patrons or dancers we pass. The tantalizing beat of the music only increases my anxiety.

Quickening our pace, we move directly for the far stairs; the ones guarded by a hulking bouncer. He nods a curt greeting as we pass him; the two men in suits leading me up to the back offices—and VIP rooms.

It’s a major red flag we are here at all. I’ve been to Elements before to see my father, but only when it was closed or early in the morning. Never while it was open. As much effort as my father has put in to shield me from his world, being here at all suggests whatever is happening out in the city is a big fucking deal.

But as weird as the car ride over had been, everything inside Elements appears to be business as usual.

The two men ahead of me speak rapidly to each other in Russian as I follow them down the narrow corridor, passing by a series of numbered doors.

I’m quiet, listening to every word they exchange.

It’s work to school my face so I don’t show a reaction, but they’re barely paying me any attention. I discern there have been multiple hits tonight on Bratva strongholds, all over the city, all different locations.No one knows who yet.

The hits were coordinated attacks, targeting crucial supply lines and storage facilities. I can’t help the sigh of relief when they confirm that last they heard, both my father and Niko are still alive. I’m uncertain what would happen to me if they died.

“Your father is on his way.” The taller of the two men turns my way, addressing me for the first time. The sudden switch over to English surprises me and I manage a terse nod in response. The men show me into my father’s office before pulling the door closed behind me, remaining in the hall.

The overhead lights are off in the empty office, but flashes of light and a soft neon pink glow blankets the room. Opposite the door sits a wall of soundproof glass; windows overlooking the entire first floor of the club. I walk slowly over, my eyes widening at the scantily clad girls spinning on poles or dancing provocatively in the cages hanging from the ceiling.

I scan the crowd with a growing sense of despair. I’d always known who my father is, but it is one thing to know and something else entirely to experience it firsthand. Life within the Bratva still feels surreal. Like a bad dream from which I can never wake up.I miss the quiet, suburban life my mother and I shared. Privacy, freedom… safety.

Commotion on the floor below catches my attention. I see flashes of light and hear loud popping sounds, loud enough to permeate the soundproof glass. In a second, all hell breaks loose.

Club patrons dive for the floor. The dancers run screaming for the back room hidden behind the bar.

Men flood in through the entrance of the club, standing out in the crowd of suits with their dark colors and obscured faces as they engage in a brutal firefight with the Bratva already inside the club.

I watch, mesmerized, and still as stone, at the horror show playing out before me in muted fascination. One of the masked men in front shoots a male patron on his knees, point blank.

The man is dead before his body hits the floor. I can feel the fear and the terror coursing through me, but can’t make myself do anything in response to it. Stunned, I stare down at the body of the patron. Blood pools around his head, and his eyes are frozen open in fear.

Shattering glass breaks me out of my state of shock. Struck by a stray bullet, the window overlooking the floor falls before me in a sheet. The screams, the shouts, the gunshots flood in. The sounds are overwhelming alongside the music still blasting at full volume.

I hit the floor and cover my ears for several minutes until the sound of gunfire finally dies down. I jump at each pop I hear now, only sounding out once every thirty seconds. They’re taking care of any survivors. Sweat coats my palms.

An eerie silence falls. Someone has finally turned off the music.

Heart racing, I tentatively lift my head just high enough to allow myself to peer down onto the floor below without making myself obvious. Men I don’t recognize walk through the space. Masked men.

The Bratva have lost the firefight.

Not good.

Fuck .

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckkkkkk.

Panicking, I scramble away from the edge as I crawl backwards on my stomach so I’m hidden from view once again.

I’m increasingly aware of the stinging pain on my left cheek. Bringing my fingers to it, I wince at the sharp pain when I graze the wound. My fingertips come away red. I must have gotten cut when the window shattered. A couple of my fingers are bleeding too, and probably my knees, now that I think about it, from crawling across the broken glass.

Knowing I can’t just sit here, I look around. I need to move, hide, something ....

In the near silence below comes the sounds of boots crunching on glass and the heavy groaning of the door leading upstairs as it’s dragged open. The bouncer is likely amongst the bloody bodies below.

My eyes fly to the office door. Closed—but not locked.

Crawling as fast as I dare to the door, I reach up, pushing in the little pin to lock it before resting my back against it. My breaths are coming fast and shallow.

It’s too late to run.

The Mafia couldn’t care less about fire codes and so the stairwell is the only way down. Only a small push-button lock stands between me and the big, bad men with guns.

A choked laugh escapes my lips and I look around the office again for something I can use—a weapon, maybe?

A nything .

For the office of a mob boss, it’s shockingly lacking. To keep out of sight of anyone still below, I stay on my knees and crawl around to the other side of the desk, hoping to find a gun stashed inside.

I try the drawers and feel tears well up when I find each and every one of them locked. A quick perusal of the neat desk doesn’t reveal a key readily accessible.Not even a letter opener I could use as a make-shift knife.

Voices carry in from the hall and I think I stop breathing, shaking violently as I turn back to face the door.

They’re speaking English, but through the door they’re still too far away to make out any words. What I hear is not Russian accents, nor Italian....

They’re Irish .