I moved through the VIP section, my steps silent as I approached the back rooms. The dimly lit hallway was lined with expensive decor, but I wasn't here to admire the place.
Third door on the left.
I stopped in front of it, taking a deep breath before pushing it open without knocking.
Inside, the room was lavish—leather couches, a glass table with half-finished drinks, and a faint sll of cigars and expensive perfu.
And sitting in the middle of it all was Irena Vasiliev.
She was even more dangerous-looking in person—long, dark hair, piercing green eyes, and a confidence that ca from knowing too much.
She didn't even flinch when I entered. Instead, she casually swirled a glass of whiskey, her lips curling into a smirk.
"Well, well... Samuel Gebb."
She leaned back, crossing her legs. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
I closed the door behind , keeping my expression unreadable. "Good. Saves the introductions."
She chuckled, sipping her drink. "You have questions. I have answers. But tell , Samuel—what do you think happens to n who dig too deep?"
I smirked. "They find what they're looking for."
Her amusent didn't fade, but there was a flicker of sothing else in her gaze—curiosity.
She set her drink down. "Fine. You want to know about Gregory Volkov? Here's the truth."
The Truth About Gregory
She leaned forward, her voice dropping slightly.
"Gregory wasn't just investing in real estate. He got involved with the wrong people—a syndicate that operates in the shadows. Smuggling, illegal trade, high-stakes deals that make even the richest n nervous."
I narrowed my eyes. "And you? You were part of this?"
She smirked. "No. I was the middleman. I introduced Gregory to the real players. But he thought he was smarter than them."
I exhaled. "Let guess. That didn't end well for him."
Her expression darkened. "No, it didn't."
She reached into a drawer, pulling out a small black USB drive.
"This has everything," she said, sliding it across the table toward . "Gregory's last deals, the people he t, the transactions... and the nas of the people who wanted him gone."
I picked it up, inspecting it. "And why are you giving this to ?"
Her eyes t mine, unblinking. "Because I'm next on their list."
I let out a short laugh. "So, this is you covering your ass?"
She smirked. "Call it what you want. But I know you, Samuel. You don't just take cases—you finish them. And if anyone can uncover what happened to Gregory, it's you."
I pocketed the USB drive. "And what happens to you after this?"
She stood up, grabbing her coat. "I disappear. I have no intention of ending up like Gregory."
I studied her for a mont. She was smart—probably one of the few people who understood how dangerous this ga really was.
Finally, I nodded. "Then I suggest you leave tonight. Because once I go through this? There's no turning back."
She smirked. "I never planned to stick around anyway."
With that, I turned and headed for the door, gripping the USB drive tightly.
As I walked out of the club, the night air was crisp, but my mind was already focused on the next step.
I moved toward my black Maserati MC20, the sleek design glistening under the city lights. Sliding into the driver's seat, I shut the door and exhaled slowly.
I pulled out my laptop, placing it on the passenger seat, and inserted Irena's USB drive.
The screen flickered, files loading instantly. A list of transactions, ssages, locations, and surveillance footage popped up.
I started scanning through Gregory's last movents.
Last transaction: A wire transfer to a private account two days before he vanished.
Last known GPS ping: A warehouse near the outskirts of the city.
Last communication: A cryptic ssage to an unknown number.
I narrowed my eyes, zooming in on the GPS data.
"There you are."
The warehouse wasn't just so random place. It was connected to one of the syndicate's shell companies.
I pulled up my private tracking program, tapping into the city's traffic and surveillance feeds near the warehouse.
Within seconds, I found footage from two days ago.
A black SUV pulling up.
Gregory stepping out, looking nervous as hell.
Then, a group of masked n surrounding him.
The footage cut off.
I clenched my jaw. "Damn it."
But I had enough.
Gregory was there.
And if he was still alive...
I was going to find him.
I closed my laptop, gripping the steering wheel.
Ti to Pay a Visit to That Warehouse.
I pressed the ignition, and the Maserati roared to life.
"Hold on, Gregory. I'm coming."
As I drove down the dimly lit streets, my mind was focused on one thing—tracking Gregory. But before heading straight to the warehouse, I figured I should make a quick stop.
A small convenience store ca into view.
I smirked. "Might as well buy so cigarettes."
I smoothly parked my Maserati MC20 near the shop, stepping out and shutting the door behind .
But just as I was about to enter—
A hand grabbed my wrist.
I instantly tensed, ready to break whoever was stupid enough to try sothing—
Until I heard that annoying voice.
"How did you get this car without my permission!?"
I didn't even need to turn around to know who it was.
Abigail.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair before finally turning to face her. "Of course, it's you."
She stood there, arms crossed, eyes burning with disbelief.
Like she actually thought she had the right to question .
Ti to Have So Fun
I smirked, stuffing my hands into my pockets.
"What? You think you're the only wealthy person in this country?" I tilted my head. "Hate to break it to you, Ms. Bardot, but you're not as special as you think."
Her jaw tightened, her fingers curling into fists. "Samuel, stop playing gas! Where did you get this car?!"
I chuckled, leaning slightly closer. "Why do you care?" Then, my smirk widened as I casually added, "Shouldn't you be inside buying condoms for your little lover Joshua? Don't bother with your nonsense."
Her face turned red—whether from rage or embarrassnt, I couldn't tell.
But damn, did it feel satisfying to watch.
She opened her mouth, probably about to start her usual self-righteous rant, but I was already done with this conversation.
I stepped past her, heading into the shop.
She could stand there and stew in her delusions all she wanted.
I had more important things to do.
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