Page 19 of Red Fury (The Dragon Tributes #8)

F ury

The line outside Black Blood stretches around the block. It’s a sea of designer clothes mingled with desperate hope. There are several bouncers stationed at the entrance. They’re all built like tanks, dressed in black suits and ties.

“Wowza,” Thompson says, craning his neck to get a better look through the side window of our Uber. “Look at the size of those guys.”

Even by my standards, these bouncers are big.

“I hope we get in,” Thompson mutters.

The bouncer closest to the entrance has a tablet in his hands, scrolling in that bored fashion that comes from turning away hundreds of people every night.

“Don’t worry about it,” Webb says, straightening his tie as our driver pulls up to the curb. “We’re VIP guests. It won’t be a problem.”

The confidence in his voice doesn’t quite hide the nervousness underneath as he rubs his hands together. He wants this to go well just as much as I do, probably more. His career could depend on maintaining a good relationship with Kozlov.

We climb out of the car into the humid Chicago night, and I immediately scope the area out of habit. Multiple exits, good sight lines, but also plenty of places for trouble to hide. The kind of place that looks glamorous on the surface but could turn dangerous fast.

Webb strides toward the entrance. Thompson and I follow, and I can’t help but notice the way people in line eye us with curiosity. Especially me. At six-foot-eight, I tend to draw attention whether I want it or not.

They elbow one another and talk under their breath. I don’t care to listen in because, by now, I’ve heard it all before.

“Excuse me,” Webb announces to the bouncer with the tablet, his voice carrying that bureaucratic authority he’s perfected over the years. “We’re guests of Roman Kozlov. Laurence Webb, Robert Thompson, and Damien Marsh.”

The bouncer looks up from his tablet. “Let me check.” I catch the slight Russian accent in his voice when he speaks. “You say you’re on the list?” He seems dubious, like he’s heard this line a thousand times before from people trying to talk their way past the velvet rope.

“We should be,” Webb replies, though I detect a hint of uncertainty creeping in. “Check under Webb…Laurence Webb.”

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.”

“It is her. 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.

“Holy fucking shit, it’s Cristal,” Thompson breathes as the waitress pulls the bottle, then immediately looks embarrassed. “Sorry. It’s just that I…I’ve never had Cristal before.” He shakes his head.

Webb laughs, some of his nervous energy bleeding away. “Neither have I. This is definitely a first.”

The waitress expertly opens the bottle with a soft pop, the cork flying out in a perfect arc. She pours three flutes.

“Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” she asks, placing the bottle back in the ice bucket with a crunch and setting a leather-bound drink menu on the table.

“We’re good for now, thanks,” Webb replies, already reaching for his glass.

“If you need anything, I’m here. I left the menu.” She winks at me and then leaves.

“Well,” Webb says, raising his flute, “here’s to new business relationships and expensive-as-shit champagne. I could get used to this.”

“Me too, and cheers to that,” Thompson agrees, clinking his glass against Webb’s.

I toast them both and then lift my own flute and take a sip. The champagne is smooth and crisp. But I’d rather have a beer. Give me something simple and straightforward over this fancy stuff any day.

“God damn,” Thompson says after taking a generous gulp. “That’s incredible. How much do you think a bottle like this costs?”

“You don’t want to know,” Webb replies with a laugh.

I nod and make appropriate sounds of agreement, but my attention keeps drifting back to that diamond-shaped window. Still no sign of Kozlov himself, which is starting to make me antsy. What’s the point of inviting us here if he’s not going to show?

“Excuse me.”

I turn to find a woman standing beside our table. She has long dark hair and olive skin.

And she’s looking directly at me.

“I couldn’t help but notice you from across the room,” she says, her voice smoky and confident. “I’m Carla.”

“Damien,” I reply automatically, trying to inject some warmth into my voice.

She slides closer, one perfectly manicured hand coming to rest on the back of my chair. “You’re new here. I would remember seeing someone like you.”

“First time here,” I tell her.

There’s an invitation in her voice, in the way she’s positioning her body. Under normal circumstances, I might have been interested.

Instead, all I can think about are green eyes and a lush-as-fuck smart mouth that challenges me at every turn.

“I might let you buy me a drink,” she tells me in a husky voice.

“I would.” I smile. “But I’m here on business tonight. Maybe another time.”

The disappointment in her eyes is brief but unmistakable. She recovers quickly, though, flashing me a smile.

“Of course. Business first.” She trails one finger along my shoulder as she steps away. “Maybe once you’re done, you can come and find me.” Then she walks away.

“What the hell are you doing?” Webb demands, leaning forward in his chair. “Do you have any idea what just happened?”

Thompson nods vigorously. “Dude, she was perfect. Absolutely perfect. And she was totally into you. I would give my left testicle for a night with that.”

“That?” I raise my brows. “Don’t you mean her ?”

“Of course.” Thompson chokes out a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

I nod once. “We are here for business,” I tell Webb, taking another sip of champagne. “Once we meet with Kozlov, maybe I’ll go and find her like she suggested.” I shrug.

The truth is, I’m not interested in Carla or any other woman in this place, which irritates the shit out of me.

“You look…uptight,” Webb observes, his expression growing serious. “Actually, you look angry. That’s not good, Damien. Kozlov will be here soon, and he’ll expect to see us having a good time. Relaxed. Enjoying his hospitality.”

“I guess I’m a little nervous,” I lie.

“Well, stop and have some fun, will you?”

Shit. Maybe Webb is right. If I keep broadcasting my mood like this, it could affect our business relationship with Kozlov. And right now, I need to gather as much intel as possible about those nuclear weapons.

I force myself to scan the crowd again, looking for any sign of our host. Still nothing.

Where the hell is he?

“You’re right,” I admit, sitting back in my chair, taking a drink of champagne.

“Good man.” Webb raises his glass again. “To loosening up and having some fun.”

We’re halfway through our second round of champagne when another woman approaches our table. A redhead with pale skin and freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her green dress is certainly figure-hugging.

“Mind if I join you?” she asks, her voice carrying a slight British accent that somehow makes everything sound more sophisticated.

“Please,” Webb says immediately, gesturing to an empty chair. “I’m Laurence, and this is Rob and Damien.”

“Lovely to meet you. I’m Bella.” She sits. “First time at Black Blood?” she asks me.

“That obvious?” Thompson asks with a self-deprecating laugh.

“The wonder in your eyes gives it away,” Bella replies with a warm smile. “But don’t worry; everyone has that look their first time here. Isn’t it great?”

Her attention shifts to me, and I can see the same interest I saw in Carla’s eyes. The same invitation.

I think about Webb’s warning about needing to appear relaxed and engaging. I think about the nuclear weapons and the mass genocide being planned for my people. I think about Shadow, probably sitting in her hotel room, hating my guts.

Then I force all of that aside and smile at Bella.

“It’s definitely impressive,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet,” she replies, her smile turning playful. “It only starts hotting up after midnight.”

I smile, working hard at appearing relaxed. “Sounds interesting.”

“Oh, it is.” She leans forward, giving me the perfect view of the tops of her breasts. I don’t take the bait.

“Do you live in Chicago?” I ask her.

“Nope, I’m here on business. Tonight is my last night in town, and I want to make it count.” She winks at me.

“Would you like some champagne?” I ask her, not wanting to delve any deeper into that particular line of conversation.

“That would be great.” She leans over and touches my arm. “You’re sweet, Damien. Tell me all about yourself…then maybe we could…um…dance.” She bites a glossy lip.

Somehow, I don’t think she’s referring to the kind of dancing fit for public consumption.

Shit!

I’m already regretting my decision to loosen up. Where the hell is Kozlov?