Shadows of Loyalty

Chapter 20

The dim red and gold lights bathed Sasha’s skin as she stepped onto the stage. Music with a low, seductive rhythm echoed through the thick haze of cigar smoke and whispered conversations. The entire club seemed to pause as her silhouette emerged from the shadows. Dressed in sheer black lace lingerie and stiletto heels, she looked like a dark angel—dangerous, untouchable, and mesmerizing.

Quinn swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on her as she glided toward the pole. Her movements weren’t rushed or desperate for attention. They were deliberate—calculated like everything Sasha did. She didn’t dance like the others. No, she moved with the fluid grace of a ballerina, her body flowing in a rhythm that spoke of strength and elegance, danger cloaked in beauty.

She arched her back, gripping the pole and spinning slowly. Her hair caught the dim light like a halo of silver, her limbs long and graceful. Even her smallest movements commanded attention. The entire room was locked onto her, but her eyes flickered toward one booth only—toward Quinn.

His heart pounded. Gary beside him sat frozen, jaw slightly slack.

Sasha descended the stage steps like a queen dismounting a throne. Each stride was slow and sure. She moved through the haze of the crowd with hypnotic poise, until she stood in front of their booth.

Without a word, she straddled Quinn’s lap, facing him.

Quinn froze, his hands instinctively hovering, unsure of where to place them. Sasha’s thighs locked around his waist and her hips rolled gently. Her eyes bored into his with a knowing gleam. She wasn’t asking permission. This was a message.

"You’re tense," she whispered, her Russian accent soft in his ear, teasing.

Quinn said nothing, jaw clenched tight. He didn’t trust his voice.

Sasha’s hands slid up his chest, and then she firmly, but gently, gripped his chin, turning his face to the right.

"Look over there," she whispered. "Far corner. Black jacket. Scar over his left eye."

Quinn obeyed, eyes scanning. He saw the man immediately, seated near a cluster of other patrons but isolated enough to stand out. The scar was unmistakable.

"That’s our guy," Sasha murmured, her lips now brushing against the skin of Quinn’s neck.

He pressed his lips together harder, struggling to focus as the heat of her breath and the slow press of her hips lit his nerves on fire.

"He’s got the key to Ryan’s vault," she continued. "I’m going to lure him to one of the private rooms. Give me ten minutes. Then you come in. Quiet. Fast. Knock him out. We grab the key and vanish."

She shifted on his lap, turning so her back was pressed against his chest. Her hips moved in slow, deliberate circles, grinding against him with expert control.

Quinn’s fists clenched tightly on the booth’s leather seat. He inhaled deeply through his nose, pulse thundering.

Her head tilted back, resting on his shoulder. Her lips hovered by his ear.

"Is that your gun in your pocket," she whispered with a smirk, "or are you just happy to see me?"

He exhaled sharply through his nose, trying not to react. Every nerve in his body screamed.

"I'm kidding," she teased, her voice sultry and low. "Your gun’s not that big."

Before he could respond—not that he could—her lips brushed his neck. A soft kiss, barely there, but it sent molten heat down his spine.

She stood gracefully and walked away, hips swaying to the beat, leaving Quinn sitting there like a statue, fire crawling under his skin.

Gary stared at him, speechless. Quinn didn’t look at him.

The hunt was about to begin.

Calvin slid back into the booth beside Quinn, a satisfied smirk curling the corners of his mouth. His eyes flicked toward the haze of lights and bodies.

“What’d I miss?” he asked, plucking a cigar from his coat pocket and lighting it with deliberate flair.

Quinn didn’t answer immediately. His face was flushed, a sheen of sweat clinging to his temples like he’d just gone a few rounds in a ring. His hands were clenched on the table, knuckles white.

Calvin’s smirk widened. “She gave you a little dance, didn’t she?”

Quinn’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak. He couldn’t trust his voice—not yet.

Calvin gave a low chuckle, exhaling a curl of smoke. “They don’t call her the Silver Fox for nothing. Beautiful. Lethal. And knows exactly how to crawl under your skin.”

Quinn finally cleared his throat and forced his expression into something more neutral. “Sasha found the guy. The one with the key to Ryan’s vault.”

That made Calvin raise an eyebrow.

“She’s going to lure him to one of the private rooms,” Quinn continued, voice lower now. “After ten minutes, we move in, knock him out, get the key, and get out. Simple.”

“Simple,” Calvin echoed, nodding slowly. “Right. Except nothing’s ever simple when Aleksandra’s involved.”

For a few long moments, the noise of the club consumed them—pounding bass, muffled laughter, the soft moans and gasps of women dancing for cash and attention.

Then, from across the room, they heard a loud, feminine laugh—high-pitched, girlish, and sweet.

Quinn turned instinctively. It was Sasha, seated at a plush booth across the room, legs crossed, posture relaxed, her arm draped loosely on the man beside her. Her eyes sparkled under the dim lights, her lips curved in a flirtatious smile. She leaned in closer, giggling again, and spoke to the man in Russian in a voice that didn’t even sound like her usual self—higher, airy, naive.

Quinn narrowed his eyes.

She was pretending to be someone else—an easy mark, a willing distraction. The man she sat with, a large brute with a scar over his left eye and a black jacket stretched tight over his thick frame, didn’t know he was dancing with death.

Sasha gently placed her hand on his upper thigh, inching it just slightly closer to his lap.

Quinn’s pulse quickened. He swallowed hard.

And then she glanced up—just for a second—and caught him staring. Her eyes flicked with recognition, then mischief. She winked.

Quinn blinked.

And then she was back to the act, leaning closer to the man’s ear, laughing again as if he were the most charming thing in the world.

A tight heat bubbled in Quinn’s chest. It took him a moment to recognize it for what it was.

Jealousy.

Why the hell was he jealous?

This was the mission. This was Sasha doing what needed to be done. She wasn’t enjoying it—this was just acting. A role she played like all the others. That’s what spies do.

And yet…

That kiss she’d pressed beneath his ear—gentle, warm, slow—there had been no code behind it. No instruction. No hidden meaning.

It hadn’t been necessary.

Was that part of the act too?

Before he could chase the thought further, Gary leaned forward at the edge of the booth, eyes sharp. “They’re on the move.”

Quinn snapped his head toward the floor.

Sasha was rising gracefully, biting her lower lip as she giggled at something the man said. She took his hand, slender fingers curling into his like a lover’s. With a playful sway of her hips, she began leading him toward the back hallway lined with thick red curtains and velvet ropes.

Private rooms.

Quinn tensed, every nerve firing.

She disappeared behind the curtain with the man in tow.

Ten minutes.

Quinn checked his watch.

Tick.