She's a Russian call girl
He's an assassin out for blood
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Agent 7 is a seasoned killer with a hit list of corrupt Russian politicians and powerful people.
When he is hired to kill Oleg Borkov, a top politician in Russia...
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We enter the most lavishly decorated ballroom I have ever seen.
Crystal chandeliers are hanging throughout the expanse of the space like dazzling constellations in the night sky, lush floral bouquets cover each table, and fine china sits atop every place setting. The same gold filament from the foyer lines the walls and is woven into the ornate carpeting beneath my feet.
In the middle of the room is a dance floor where a few patrons are swaying back and forth to the classical music and along the far wall are gambling tables.
The large room is dripping with wealth and the air is fermented with privilege.
My captor puts himself in front of me as we step up to an attendant at the entrance, holding a tablet. The young man's attention is solely on my kidnapper whose body is a hulking mass in front of me, never wavering to the side where I'm partially in view.
He asks my captor for our names and a code verification.
"Vladimir Agafonov and Alina Lenkov." The killer says with ease.
My head snaps to him, I blink up at him surprised that he knows my full name, and even more so when he begins to spew a string of numbers and letters for the young man without hesitation.
The code each member receives is highly secretive. I wonder how he found out Vladimir's code. Was it one of his final confessions before his death?
My stomach turns as I blink away the sudden urge to puke when I remember that Vladimir is face down in a pool of crimson somewhere in this hotel. I can still remember the way the room smelled of gunmetal and iron from spilled blood.
My body visibly shivers thinking about it.
The murderer holding me at his side must feel me shake because he turns his head to study me briefly.
I don't want him to see me as weak or vulnerable.
I quickly swipe at the remaining tears lingering on my lashes that are not willing to surrender. I pull my shoulders back and keep my focus straight ahead, ignoring him until he looks away.
"Welcome, Mr. Agafonov and Ms. Lenkov," the young maître d' says stepping aside for us to pass.
No one seems to bat an eye to our presence. The patrons of the party are too consumed by the flowing booze and gambling tables scattered throughout the room.
My eyes take in everything, overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all. Women are dressed lavishly, wrapped in designer gowns and flashy jewelry. While the men don tuxedos capped with Rolexes on their wrists and large golden cigars hanging from their mouths.
