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I skim through the short bios. The taller brunette is Romanian. Her name is Misha Albescu.
It’s a common Romanian surname, if it’s even her real name. There’s not much information on her in the file. Fucking Interpol. Knowing them, they have more than they shared. That’s how it always is with those assholes.
“Do we know if either the Italian or Ms. Clarke are involved?” It kills me to ask about Lexie, but I have to know, and the answer needs to come from an unbiased source, because I sure as hell am not that.
He shakes his head. “I can’t imagine, but we shouldn’t rule out anything until we talk to Interpol. Although as soon as we make the call, they’ll be all over this place, barking orders with their usual flair for incompetence. Then it’ll be a real nightmare.”
It’s already a real nightmare. Although losing these bastards to Interpol would be worse.
“Hold off on contacting the authorities. But until we learn otherwise, we need to proceed as though all five are associates.” Even Lexie. It’s such a gut-wrenching thought, I almost choke on the words. But the safety of everyone in the club is at risk. There’s no fucking choice. “Handle the Italian and Ms. Clarke carefully. Despite how we’re proceeding, it’s a very low likelihood that they’re involved.”
“You don’t need to say it twice. The last person I want to tangle with is Ms. Clarke’s father.”
That makes two of us.
Will is one of the most lethal men on the Continent, and when it concerns his daughter’s safety? He doesn’t ask questions before he lowers the boom.
“We put extra security on her,” Xavier continues, “and I upped the number of personnel around the prime minister’s daughter as well.”
The room is quiet. Anyone not studying the feed has eyes glued to the club floor. We’re taking some huge risks. I’m on edge, like everyone else. But I’m confident the men and women who work for me can pull this off without anyone getting hurt—including the blonde in the dress that’s too damn short.
“Your people out front did a good job tonight,” I murmur to Xavier. “Make sure they get something extra in this week’s paycheck.”
He nods. “They’ll appreciate it.”
After sipping her drink for a few minutes, Misha leaves the table and heads in the direction of the ladies’ lounge. The blood vessels on the right side of my head begin to throb.
“Security is following,” Xavier says, “and I just alerted the bathroom attendant.”
“You’ve switched out the regular attendant for a guard in there, I hope?”
“Not just there. All the bathroom attendants have been replaced with guards.”
The four left at the table are engaging in what looks like a lot of flirting. My blood pressure skyrockets every time Lexie gifts those fuckers a smile. It takes everything I have not to go down to the floor and drag her ass out of the club. But I can’t. Too many women are missing, and too many families are searching for answers. I can’t blow this now. Not even for her.
“The target has left the ladies’ room. She looked about a bit, but that’s it. The attendant checked the stall after she left and didn’t find anything.”
I hope she’s right.
“Maybe she just had to take a piss,” Zé grumbles.
Shortly after Misha returns to the table, Lexie leans over to say something to the Italian, who shakes her head.
“Is there a way to know what they’re saying?”
Xavier shakes his head. “I thought about having the waitress slip a mic under the table or on the back of one of their chairs when she brought the drinks, but it’s too loud in the club. We don’t have anything sophisticated enough here that could get us anything useful. It’s not worth the risk.”
Lexie drains her drink, and the taller Czech puts his filthy hand on her lower back. Every muscle in my body tightens.
She grabs her purse and says something to the Italian, who shakes her head, before Lexie leaves the table, alone.
For a long moment, I contemplate having a guard intercept her, but in the end I’m back to the same thing. In two years, this is the closest anyone’s ever gotten to them. I won’t risk tipping them off—not now.
“Security’s on her heels,” Xavier explains, as she makes her way across the room to the ladies’ lounge. “Giana will go in behind her. I’ve let the attendant know.”
“We’re sure nothing was left in that bathroom? Not even a powdered substance?”
Contact poison that could cause injury or death. The kind of powder the Eastern Europeans, the Russians in particular, are so fond of using. We’ve been careful, but if they believe they’ve been made—tipped off in some way—contact poison would make a nice distraction in a crowded club, affording them an opportunity to slip away.
