―

like she knew.

She knew what she was doing to the men cheering for her beneath the platform. Enraptured, they watched like she was the sun―and they were the moths, clinging with their fragile wings to the semblance of heat.

And Heaven Almighty, that woman was hot.

There was no other word for it―not in English. Not in Russian.

Heat. Smoke. That dark, dark red between temptation and addiction.

She wasn't thin. Ace liked that. The girls in Moscow had always been slim to the point between modeling and starvation, with long legs and flat stomachs. Ace wasn't picky―all women were beautiful―and she had enjoyed them for what they were: nothing but a good fuck.

Two years. She had been kept in Black Dolphin Prison.

No women. No alcohol. No power.

This was Las Vegas. City of Sins. If she couldn't drown herself in the America's cheap imitation of vodka and fuck a beautiful woman whose name she would forget tomorrow, what was the point?

Aleksi had sent her to America last night. She had three days. He would not expect her to find her target so fast, but Ace had always been the best at her job.

They had announced this woman five minutes ago. Valentina.

Ace wanted her.

When Valentina moved, she was a siren: her caramel skin glistened, hugged by a deep red thong and a sheer bralette. Her brown hair tumbled down her back, her thick legs slung over the pole, and she circled it over and over, as gracefully as a bird of flight. Her eyes were dark and expressive―Latina, she guessed. There was ferocity written in the curves of her round hips, and Ace felt a shiver. She was used to taking what was hers, but this woman . . . she would present an entertaining challenge.

Ace raked a chair out from an empty table, and she sat in the back.

The gun grew warm at her thigh.

She was looking for someone named Mavis Griffon. Aleksi had told her to get in, kill her target, and get out.

But it had been a long time since Ace had been to a strip club.

It had been a long time since she had been anywhere.

When the music began to fade, Valentina hooked one leg over the pole, letting herself arch back. Her hair flowed behind her, the edge of her jaw sharp. The rounded edge of her hip glittered, and Ace dragged her eyes along the length of the woman's body.

There was a word for her, in Russian. Krasotka.

The music ended, and Ace stood.

She had a target―that was her purpose here. But there was nothing stopping her from fucking this woman afterwards.

Once Valentina's show was over, she unwound herself from around the pole, flushed, with glitter on her cheeks. She looked dazed―as though she had just awoken from a dream. The men around her were cheering, and as she bent down, one stood to tuck money into the lace straps of her high heel.

I want proof that Mavis Griffon is dead.

Ace found the nearest stripper. A tall woman with lush brown skin and a neon orange bra.

"Can I help you, sugar? If you're looking for something exotic . . ."

"Don't bother," Ace said curtly. Her brother had always told her she wasn't good with people. "I'm looking for someone."

The woman trailed her fingertips over Ace's white leather jacket.

"You know," she whispered, "if you want a back room . . . I can be anything you desire. That's my name―they call me Desire."

"I'm looking for Mavis Griffon," Ace said. "I was told there would be someone by that name here tonight."

Mavis Griffon. What would he look like? What had he done?

It didn't matter. Not to her. This was her chance to be free―at least, to prove she was loyal.

"Where is he?" Ace repeated harshly.

Something flashed in Desire's face. A brief glimmer of unease.

Ace did things efficiently, and she did them well. This was a waste of time. "I want to know where I can find the person by that name," she growled, and she let the stripper see the gun tucked into the inside of her jacket.

Desire swallowed. Her eyes flicking to the door―where Ace knew there was a bodyguard.

"You're going to tell me where Griffon is, or I'm going to put a bullet in your skull and find somebody who is useful to me."

"She―"

She? Ace had never been good at names, but she hadn't expected a woman.

"She just finished. She's right there."

And Desire pointed to the siren who was now giving a man a lap dance. The one dressed in red, with the full hips and the curvy body. The woman Ace had been set on fucking.

Her target.

"Thank you," Ace said shortly. "Tell anybody and I will come back for you. There's a saying in Russia. A―how do you call it?―snitch deserves the most painful of deaths."

The translation, truthfully, was more along the lines of: Snitches get tortured until we grow tired of them. Sometimes it took weeks, months. She had even kept prisoners for years.

Without waiting for a response, Ace began walking.

She knew she commanded attention. She was at least several inches taller than many of the men―although perhaps many American men were stunted―and it tended to emasculate them. Good. She liked that. Ace hated men.

As she strode towards the stage, she slipped off the white jacket from her bare shoulders.

A silver gossamer dress. Barely up to her thighs.

Ridiculous. But necessary.

When her target looked up, something in Ace's chest twitched. It was slight. Barely noticeable. A stutter of her heartbeat. A tensing of her fingers over the gun.

What was it called? Hesitation?

Ace never hesitated.

The woman's dark, glossy eyes blinked towards her. Long, thick lashes. From up close, there was a beauty mark just above her cheekbone. Her full lips parted, and her warm brown skin was smooth, gilded with the hint of a flush.

Ace opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come.

It took the woman less than twenty seconds to regain her composure. "Hello, beautiful. Do you want a dance?"

"I was ordered to kill you."