Chapter 2 The First Look

• The black Escalade slid to a stop in front of Midnight Maidens.
• Rain misted off the rooftop awning in silver droplets as the engine cut. The club looked like a shrine from another world—all velvet shadows, gold accents, and seductive mystery. Outside, a crimson neon sign buzzed low, half-hidden behind the arching silhouette of the building. It wasn’t loud, but it pulsed in rhythm with the bass that thudded from within.
• Konstantine Volkova stepped out of the passenger side, suit crisp, expression unreadable beneath the low cast of his brow. He adjusted the cuffs of his dark jacket as if he had all the time in the world, then surveyed the entrance. His eyes missed nothing. The security cameras, the doormen, the pattern of cars parked nearby. Every detail clocked.
• Grigori Kynazev emerged behind him with a quieter kind of menace. Bulkier than Konstantine, with a thick beard and long coat that billowed in the wind, he cracked his knuckles once as they approached the doors.
• "Remind me again why we’re here and not breaking kneecaps in Brooklyn?" Grigori asked, voice low.
• Konstantine didn’t glance at him. "Because information buys more power than blood. And Seamus has plenty to sell."
• They entered the club with the grace of lions in a ballroom.
• Inside, Midnight Maidens hummed with life.
• The air was warm with perfume, whiskey, sweat, and anticipation. Music wrapped around the walls like silk, smooth and bass-heavy. Chandeliers hung from high ceilings, casting slow rotations of golden light across marble floors. The stage at the center of the room was circular, surrounded by plush, midnight-blue chairs and intimate candlelit tables.
• Patrons filled the space in curated shadows. Most were men in expensive suits, nursing drinks and trying to look unaffected. Some were regulars. Others were ghosts with too much money and not enough soul. No one looked too closely at the ones who mattered.
• Konstantine and Grigori were ushered to a private table beside the stage—a favored corner where shadows stretched longer, and the sound system was sharp enough to eavesdrop without trying.
• Their drinks arrived without being ordered. Brandy for Konstantine, neat.
• Vodka, always vodka, for Grigori.
• A few moments passed in calculated silence as they scanned the room.
• Then the DJ's voice cut through the hum. Deep. Confident. Almost reverent.
• "Gentlemen, give it up for the newest flame of Midnight Maidens. Pour yourself something dark and sweet, and welcome... Brandy."
• Konstantine's glass paused midair.
• A single spotlight flared overhead, golden and hot.
• She stepped into it like it belonged to her.
• Long legs wrapped in gold mesh. Black lace clinging to every curve like it had been sewn onto her skin. Chocolate-brown hair tumbled over her shoulders in glossy waves, catching the light like silk. Her amber eyes, framed in gold glitter and black smoke, shimmered beneath a delicate half-mask. A pair of golden stilettos caught the edge of the spotlight with every step.
• She was poetry in firelight. A storm in heels.
• Konstantine couldn’t move.
• Her body melted into the music. Not just dancing—she told a story with every roll of her hips, every arch of her spine, every calculated pivot around the pole. It wasn’t just sensual. It was defiant. Like she dared the world to look away.
• He didn’t blink.
• She lifted herself into a spin, muscles taut, hair fanning around her face like a veil. Her eyes met his for half a second—just enough.
• Time stuttered.
• Konstantine felt heat coil in his chest, unfamiliar and sharp. It wasn’t just lust.
• It was curiosity. Hunger. Recognition of something he couldn’t name.
• Grigori leaned forward, raising a brow. "You’re staring, Pakhan."
• Konstantine didn’t respond. Not even when his drink slipped from his hand and thudded softly onto the table.
• Brandy descended slowly, spine arched, eyes locked on some invisible horizon. The music dipped lower, darker, slower.
• And Konstantine felt like something inside him cracked.
• ---
• The dance ended. Applause followed, thick with hunger and awe.
• She vanished into the shadows.
• Only then did Konstantine speak. "Find out who she is."
• Grigori nodded once and pulled out his phone. "On it."
• They didn’t speak again until a red-haired man in a tailored jacket slipped into the booth across from them.
• Seamus O’Doyle. Irish mobster. Charmer. Opportunist.
• He smelled like expensive vodka and fear.
• "Konstantine Volkova. A pleasure. And you must be the infamous Grigori."
• Grigori gave him a smile that showed too much tooth. "Infamous is generous."
• Konstantine cut through the pleasantries. "You owe me weapons. And time. I hate being short on both."
• Seamus cleared his throat, trying not to fidget. "There was a delay in shipping—"
• Konstantine leaned forward. "You were paid four weeks ago. I expect my merchandise. Or the bodies of the men who lost it."
• The atmosphere cooled.
• Seamus swallowed hard. "Of course. I’ll—I’ll have it rerouted tonight. You have my word."
• "Your word," Konstantine said slowly, "is what I use to light my cigars."
• The Irishman turned pale.
• Grigori poured himself another drink.
• The meeting wrapped in threats disguised as diplomacy. Seamus left with a tight smile and sweat dampening the collar of his shirt.
• Grigori chuckled. "You know you scared the piss out of him, right?"
• Konstantine didn’t laugh.
• His eyes had drifted back to the stage. Empty now, but haunted by the memory of amber eyes and glittering gold.
• ---
• Backstage, Brandy stood before the mirror, her fingers trembling.
• She didn’t know his name. Not yet. But she knew what power looked like. And that man wore it like a second skin.
• She’d felt his gaze before she saw his face. It burned.
• Made her slip once, slightly, on the spin. No one else noticed.
• But she did.
• And worse—she cared.
• ---
• Later, long after the club emptied and the stage went dark, Konstantine stood under the edge of the awning outside, cigarette burning low in his fingers. Rain slicked the pavement, streaking red and gold beneath the glow of streetlamps.
• Grigori stood beside him, watching the doorman wave down their car.
• "So," he said quietly, "do you want to tell me what the hell that was?"
• Konstantine didn’t answer.
• Instead, he exhaled a long drag, lips tight. His eyes didn’t leave the door to the dressing rooms.
• The club might have been the reason he walked in.
• But Brandy was the reason he stayed.
• And for the first time in a very long time, Konstantine Volkova didn’t feel in control.