Page 55 of Red Fury

The bouncer scrolls through his tablet, his massive finger moving across the screen. After what feels like an eternity, his eyebrows lift slightly.

“Ah, yes. Here you are.” The change in his demeanor is immediate and dramatic. Where before he looked ready to send us to the back of the line. “Mr. Kozlov is expecting you. Please, follow me.”

He gestures to another bouncer, who immediately steps forward. Like the rest of them, he is wearing strong cologne. I wonder if it’s a Russian thing. The bouncer, we are dealing with, hands the other guy the tablet, and without another word, we’re being escorted past the long line of disappointed faces and through the heavy glass doors into the club itself.

The first thing that hits me is the music – a deep, pulsing bass that I feel in my chest. The second thing is the sheer scale of the place. Black Blood isn’t just a club; it’s a fucking monument to excess. Multiple levels of dance floors stretch out before us, connected by sleek staircases and walkways that look like they belong in a spaceship.

And the people. Jesus!

Every single person in this place looks like they stepped off the cover of a magazine. The women are all legs and curves and perfect makeup, dancing in a way that has Thompson almost falling over his own tongue.

Scattered throughout the various levels are raised platforms where dancers move to the beat. The whole place pulses with energy and sex appeal and money.

“This is insane,” Thompson says, his voice barely audible over the music. His eyes are wide as he takes in the scene around us. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Neither have I, but I keep that observation to myself. This is my first time in a club, but I can well imagine that it isn’t the norm.

Our escort leads us toward a private elevator, past more bouncers, who eye us with interest. The higher we go, the more exclusive everything becomes. When the doors open again, we’re in what can only be described as VIP heaven.

This level is smaller than the main floor. The lighting is softer, the music more subdued, and the clientele clearly a cut above.

More bouncers guard this area, their presence a clear message that you don’t just wander up here. This is invitation-only territory.

“Gentlemen, welcome to the Black Blood VIP Elite members section.” A waitress appears out of nowhere. She is stunning, but in an artificial, perfectly constructed way – blonde hair, legs that go on for miles, and a dress that’s tiny. Her huge fake breasts strain against the black shimmery fabric.

Webb can’t find it in him to look her in the eye. I almost laugh just watching him.

“Mr. Kozlov has sent champagne for you,” she continues, her voice honey-sweet. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

Thompson’s jaw actually drops. “Champagne? From Kozlov himself?”

“Of course,” Webb says, trying to play it cool even though I can see the excitement in his eyes. “Kozlov and I are like this.” He twists his fingers together.

The waitress leads us to a prime table with a perfect view of both the dance floor below and the rest of the VIP section. She removes a reserved sign, and we sit on the leather chairs.

“Holy shit,” Thompson whispers, following my gaze. “Is that…?”

“God, yes!” Webb murmurs, trying to play it cool. “That’s Jessica Swift.”

“Itisher. I knew it,” Thompson says, his eyes bright. “Holy crap! We’re at the next table. Just a few feet away from her.”

I’ve never heard of Jessica Swift.

I let my eyes wander around the VIP section, once again making a note of the exits and security measures. It’s second nature to me.

The space is larger than it initially appeared, with several smaller seating areas clustered around the main floor. What catches my attention are the two doors down below, both heavily guarded by more bouncers.

One probably leads to private rooms or offices. Maybe even living quarters, if Kozlov keeps a residence here. The other could be service access or lead to emergency exits. Either way, they’re clearly not for regular patrons.

But what really draws my attention is something else entirely: a section of glass positioned high above the main club floor, across from the VIP area. It’s cut and shaped like a massive black diamond, jutting out from the wall like a piece of expensive art.

A viewing area with one-way glass. It has to be.

I stare directly at the diamond-shaped window, wondering if Kozlov is up there right now, watching us. Watching me. The thought sends a prickling sensation down my spine. Yep, I think he’s watching, alright.

My dragon pushes against my skin.

“Here we are, gentlemen.” The waitress returns with a silver bucket filled with ice and a bottle sticking out.