The guard who hurries to Vladimir’s side catches the glass just before it hits the floor.
The line of Bes’s jaw turns hard, but his regard remains expressionless. “As I told Oleg, Volkov moved. One second more, and I would’ve had him.”
Vladimir rolls onto the balls of his feet. “Unfortunately, one second is all it takes to blow a plan to pieces.”
A muscle ticks in Bes’s temple. “Mistakes happen in my business, but I’ve never failed to finish a job. I don’t intend to start now.”
“Mistakes.” Vladimir utters a soft laugh as he crosses the floor, coming to stand in front of the glass wall that forms one side of a Perspex pool.
The turquoise water is lit. The filter pump causes a gentle current, the movement throwing soft waves of light over the walls.
“Once, maybe, it’s a mistake,” Vladimir says, studying the way the water distorts the figure of the woman who walks over the stage to the edge of the pool. “But twice?”
“Slipping and fracturing my wrist was an unfortunate mishap,” Bes says. “If not, you would’ve had Katherine Morrell by now.”
The woman looks straight at Vladimir. From behind the wall of water, he can’t make out her face, but she knows for whom she’s performing. She stretches out her arms in front of her and dives gracefully. Her naked body comes into focus as she glides through the water and swirls like a ribbon, making a stunning live portrait in the Perspex frame.
“The truth is, Bes,” Vladimir says, focusing on the way her nipples contract into hard points from the cold water, “I’m growing tired of excuses.”
The dancer bends a knee and jumps elegantly with pointed toes. Her poise is regal. With eyes the color of the water and lips naturally red, like ripe cherries, her delicate face is classically beautiful.
“There won’t be another mistake,” Bes says in a flat tone.
“Yet you made one.”
For that, the assassin deserves a bullet in the head. The thought alone makes Vladimir’s hands tremble with violence. The urge to grab a gun is so strong he has to curl his fingers into fists to prevent himself from acting on it. He’d like nothing more than to crack Bes’s skull and paint the walls with his blood, but he can’t get rid of him yet. He has bigger plans for the assassin.
“What are you talking about?” Bes asks.
Vladimir allows the woman’s graceful movements to calm him. Natasha is an accomplished but retired ballerina. She’s one of Russia’s treasures. She’s too old for the stage now, but her ass is still firm, her tits pert. People flock to the club to see her show. Vladimir’s personal favorite is the one where she performs with the water snakes.
“You made a grave mistake by delivering Katherine Morrell’s key card to Volkov,” Vladimir says.
“That was intentional. I’ve got him worried,” Bes says, meeting Vladimir’s gaze in the reflection of the glass. “Worried men make mistakes.”
The naked male dancer dives into the water. His strong body is lithe and well defined, his cock thick and long. He scoops up the woman, lifting her in a choreographed dance.
Vladimir follows the dancers’ underwater ballet, moving his head to the side and up as they surface for air. “He also ran home to protect his lover, and we both know he’s as good as untouchable here.”
“An opportunity will come. It always does,” Bes continues in a bored tone.
The arrogance makes Vladimir shiver with fury. Controlling it is difficult. He focuses on the couple diving to the bottom. The man presses the woman against the wall, flush against Vladimir’s body. Only the glass separates them as the man spreads her legs and shoves into her from behind.
Not even the highlight of the performance is enough to abate Vladimir’s anger. Natasha’s breasts push flat against the glass. She snakes her arms around the man’s neck and locks her legs around his ass, pulling her supple body into an artistic C-shape as the man pummels her splayed pussy for Vladimir’s visual entertainment. A tongue of heat licks through Vladimir’s stomach and stirs his cock, but with the nagging worry in the back of his mind, the spark of arousal doesn’t catch.
“This is what you’re going to do,” Vladimir says, not taking his eyes off the show. “From now on, you’re following my orders.”
The woman throws back her head. A bubble escapes from her lips, floating to the surface.
“What about Oleg?” Bes asks.
“Oleg had his chance.”
The male dancer meets Vladimir’s gaze through the water, a wordless request for permission to end the show. Vladimir shakes his head.
“What do you want me to do?” Bes asks in his infuriatingly disinterested voice.
Vladimir clenches his teeth. The woman opens her eyes. She draws a line with her palm across her throat, indicating she’s out of air and needs to surface.