A Veil Of Vengeance

Chapter 3: The Artist’s Mask

Sofia’s POV

Mic check, Lia. You reading me? Agent Torres’s voice buzzed in my earpiece as I adjusted my black dress backstage at Velvet Pulse, the club’s neon pulse thrumming through the walls.

“Loud and clear,” I whispered, smoothing my hair to cover the earpiece. Volkov’s in the VIP section, right?

“Yup, front and center,” Torres replied, his tone clipped. Eyes on you. Don’t get too cozy with him.”

Not planning to. I glanced at the crowd through the stage curtain, spotting Damian Volkov leaning against the bar, his dark suit sharp, that birthmark on his temple catching the light. It was identical to Matteo’s, and it made my stomach twist. Just get me through this performance.

You got the poem memorized? Torres asked. “Crane’s riding my a*s about this…. Says you better hook Volkov tonight.”

Crane can kiss my …I caught myself, exhaling. “I know the poem. I’m ready.”

Break a leg, Lia,” Torres said. “And watch your six. This place is crawling with Volkov’s crew.

Got it. I stepped toward the stage, heart pounding, the mic cool in my hand.

Lia Russo, everybody!” The emcee’s voice boomed, and the crowd clapped as I took the stage, spotlight hot on my skin. I gripped the mic, my voice steady despite the nerves.

This one is for the shadows, I began, locking eyes with Damian. For the secrets we bury, the lies we wear like skin. You think you’re free, but the chains are invisible, forged in blood and whispers.

The crowd hushed, hanging on my words. Damian’s gaze burned, unblinking, his whiskey glass paused midair.

“Damn, girl,” a woman in the front row whispered as I finished, applause erupting. “You just called out the whole damn city.”

Just poetry, I said with a smile, stepping offstage, my legs shaky. Damian’s stare followed me, intense, like he’d seen through my mask.

Lia Russo? A bouncer—Sal, from earlier loomed, his keychain glinting with that pendant. It was my mother’s; I was sure of it. Mr. Volkov wants a word. VIP section.

Now? I glanced at the bar, where Damian was already moving toward the stairs, his stride predatory.

“Now,” Sal said, gesturing. Don’t keep him waiting.

Torres, you hearing this? I muttered, adjusting my earpiece as I followed Sal.

Loud and clear, Torres replied. He’s biting. Keep it cool, don’t blow your cover.

You’ve got a way with words, Lia.” Damian’s voice was smooth as velvet, dangerous as a blade, as I reached the VIP section. He lounged against the railing, tattoos peeking from his collar—a hand of Hamsa on his arm. “That poem felt… personal.

Maybe it was. I met his gaze, forcing a playful smile. You like poetry, Mr. Volkov?

Call me Damian. He stepped closer, his scent—whiskey and cedar—hitting me. “And yeah, I like it when it’s honest. You calling me out up there?

Would I dare? I tilted my head, heart racing. “Just telling stories. You got any?

“Plenty.” His lips curved, but his eyes were sharp, searching. “None as pretty as yours, though. Where’d you learn to spin words like that?”

Italy. Grew up there.” I kept it vague, sticking to my cover. “Arts in the blood, I guess.”

“Italy, huh?” He leaned in, voice low. “Parli Italiano fluentemente?”

Sì, perfettamente,” I shot back, matching his tone. “You testing me, Damian?

“Maybe.” He chuckled, but his eyes didn’t soften. “You’re not what I expected, Lia Russo. Most artists beg for a spotlight. You act like you don’t need it.

Maybe I don’t.” I held his stare, my pulse hammering. Or maybe I know what I want.

And what’s that? His voice dropped, a challenge in it.

A chance to be seen.” I let the words hang, ambiguous. Your club’s the place for it, right?

“It’s my world.” He gestured to the club below, his ring glinting. “But it comes with rules. You play by them?

Depends on the rules.” I smiled, sharp. “I’m not big on cages.

“Bold.” He stepped closer, close enough I could feel his heat. “Careful, Lia. Bold gets you noticed, but it can also get you burned.”

“Is that a warning or an invitation?” My voice stayed steady, but my mind screamed—too close, too fast.

Both.” His eyes flicked to my wrist, where I’d brushed it earlier, hiding the earpiece. “You hiding something, Lia?

“Just nerves.” I laughed it off, heart in my throat. First night in a big club. You make me nervous, Damian.

Good! His smile was dangerous. You’re on my gala list next week. My personal guest. Don’t disappoint.

“I’ll try not to.” I nodded, forcing calm. Thanks for the invite.

Don’t thank me yet. He turned, dismissing me with a nod to Sal. See her out.

Torres, you still there? I whispered, slipping into the club’s back hallway, the pendant still haunting me.

“Right here,” Torres said. Nice work with Volkov. He’s hooked. You okay?

Not sure. I glanced back, ensuring Sal wasn’t following. That bouncer’s keychain, it’s got a pendant. Exact same as my mom’s.

What? Torres’s voice sharpened. You sure?

“Dead sure.” My chest tightened. It’s not a coincidence, is it?

Slow down, Russo,” Torres said. Could be nothing. Focus on Volkov. We’ll dig into the pendant later.

Later might be too late. I pressed against the wall, voices approaching. Something’s off, Torres. I can feel it.

Stick to the plan, he snapped. You’re in too deep to chase ghosts now.

Ghosts? I hissed. My parents died in that fire, and now I’m seeing their pendant in Volkov’s club. You telling me that’s random?

I’m telling you to stay focused!” Torres’s voice crackled. “Crane’s watching. Don’t screw this up.

I froze as footsteps stopped nearby. “Lia Russo?” A new voice, low and unfamiliar, came from the shadows. You dropped something on stage.

Who’s there? I spun, hand on the knife strapped to my thigh, hidden under my dress.

A man stepped into the light, holding a folded paper—my poem’s draft. But his other hand held something else: a g*n, glinting with a silencer. “You’re asking dangerous questions, Lia,” he said, his smile cold. “And Damian Volkov doesn’t like questions.”