I hesitate. “With Roman.”
Her eyebrows lift. Just slightly.
It’s gone before I can decide what it means.
“Then definitely no one will stop you,” she says. “Go up the stairs, turn left before the private rooms, then right at the end. Much better bathroom. Actual towels, no existential crisis.”
I laugh despite myself. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
She returns to her lipstick.
I leave before I can lose my nerve.
The man near Roman’s table is not there when I pass back through the club. Another man has taken his place, but he’s speaking to someone at the bar. I could go back to my seat and wait. I know that. Roman told me not to wander, and for once, he had sounded less arrogant than concerned.
But I’m only going to the bathroom.
Upstairs. Where Roman is.
This barely counts as disobedience.
The guard at the velvet rope looks at me. I prepare to explain, but his gaze drops to my face, then to something behind me, and he steps aside without a word.
That’s not comforting.
The upper floor is quieter. The music from below becomes a low pulse under the floorboards. The hallway is narrow and dark, lit by brass sconces that make the walls glow amber. Doors line one side, each marked only by a number. Behind one, someone laughs. Behind another, a man speaks Russian in a low, angry voice.
I turn left, as instructed.
The bathroom is probably at the end of the hall.
I nearly reach it when I see Roman.
He stands inside a private room with the door not fully closed. I can see him through the narrow gap and the reflection in a mirrored panel across the hall. His back is partly turned, one hand in his pocket, shoulders broad under his suit jacket. He looks calm.
There are two other men with him.
One is older, thickset, with a shaved head and a heavy face that looks as if life has carved suspicion into every line. The other is younger, standing by the wall, silent, one hand folded over the other.
I know I should turn around. I know it before I hear the first word.
Then the older man says a name.
“Andrei Morozov.”
My blood cools. I stop moving.
Morozov.
The name does not belong here. It belongs to the family I was supposed to meet, the family I ran from by coming here.
Roman says nothing for a moment.
Then his voice cuts through the narrow opening, low and controlled.
“Don’t say his name like he still owns the room,” Roman says.