Three Hours Earlier
PAVEL’S POV
Everybody is staring. The two security guards at the back entrance of the club. The cleaning lady mopping around the tables. The barman. I ignore them and climb the narrow stairs leading to the gallery housing our administrative spaces that overlook the dance floor.
I pass the room where two security guys are hunched in front of the screens, watching the camera feeds, and enter my office. Kostya is sitting behind my desk, looking at the monitor and clicking angrily on the mouse. The whole tabletop is covered with papers. Off to the side, there are two empty coffee cups and a half-eaten sandwich with crumbs scattered everywhere.
“Such a pig,” I shake my head.
“You picked the worst f*****g time to take a vacation,” he mumbles and keeps hitting the mouse.
