I had no intention of questioning him about Emilia. Stealth and anonymity were the only tools I had, the only way I could retrieve her and get out without an altercation that would impel me to call my dear husband to come to the rescue.
My next stop was the bar. I figured one of the bartenders could send me in the right direction. The bar was massive, stretching the entire length of the wall. I pinched and pushed my way closer. I may have even kicked someone. Subtlety and manners were luxuries I couldn’t afford at the moment. The closest bartender was a young man around twenty-five.
“Excuse me! Excuse me!” I shouted, fervently waving an arm at him. Even as I screamed at the top of my lungs, my voice could barely be heard over the music. He finally glanced my way and came over. Cupping my mouth, I screamed in French, “Do you know Emilia Gani?” He nodded. “Where can I find her?”
“I don’t know. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re kind of busy.”
“Well, can you at least tell me where Yuri’s office is?”
He gave me a skeptical look. Scanning left and right he said, “Why do you want to know that?”
“Because I have to find Emilia and I think she’s in his office. Look, this is kind of an emergency.”
He raked his fingers through his dark, shoulder length hair. I could tell he was anxious, that he wanted no part of this––or me. And yet I could also see that he wanted to help Emilia. His eyes met mine again. “Go to the back, make a left, then two rights. If anyone stops you, tell them Stefan sent you to get more singles.”
“Thank you, Stefan.”
He nodded again. “Be careful…and take care of her.”
“I will.”
I pushed through an endless supply of bodies. Packed tightly on the dance floor, the sweat pouring off of them landed all over me. The neon lights coupled with the techno music made me dizzy. Just before I reached the end of the dance floor, I spotted a familiar face. It took me a minute to place her. Sebastian’s neighbor, Lucida. She was sandwiched between two very young men who were grinding against her. Cupping the head of the one behind her, she brought him closer and stuck her tongue down his throat. I kept walking.
The halls was not empty. There was a woman leaning against the wall and a man on his knees with his mouth fastened onto her groin. Neither one of them noticed me walk right past them, too busy celebrating their party of two.
“What you doin’ here?” A thick Russian accent stopped me in my tracks. I turned slowly, taking the time to gather every drop of courage I possessed. Before me stood a man that was easily six foot seven and all of it pure muscle, the kind of exaggerated muscles that have veins popping out all over the place.
My eyes climbed up to his surprisingly refined features. It almost seemed that the muscles were an attempt to balance a face that could’ve easily been described as pretty. That’s not what held my attention though. It was the dagger tattoo drawn on his collarbone. A tattoo signifying he’d been in the Russian prison system and committed murder; no doubt he was wearing the tank top as warning. I swallowed the lump of unadulterated fear clogging my throat.
“Stefan sent me.”
“Stefan?”
“Yes, Stefan. Are you hard of hearing?” Where the hell that came from, I’ll never know. “He sent me to get singles in Yuri’s office.”
Muscle man just stared right back at me. Most unnerving. Sweat beaded on my forehead as if I was running a marathon across the Arabian Desert. “No need to be bitch.” He stepped aside and let me pass. Instinctively, I reached up and rubbed the diamond cross hidden under my shirt. I didn’t breathe again until I reached Yuri’s door.
Without knocking, I opened it. Emilia was sitting on the ground with her back against the wall, her arms wrapped around her bare knees, the micro mini she wore gathered around her waist. Her face was red from crying, her shoulders hunched over in defeat. My gaze immediately zeroed in on her swollen cheekbone. She glanced up then. When our eyes met, a fresh set of tears ran down her face. I was at her feet, crouching down, a moment later.
“You okay?” I whispered, wiping away the tears still running down her face. She nodded. “We’ll talk later. We need to move fast. Are you hurt, or can you walk?”
“I can walk,” she mumbled in a timid voice. As I placed my hands under her arms to help her up, she winced. “Don’t look at me that way.”
“I’m not angry at you. I’m angry with him. But we don’t have the luxury to sit around and chat right now.” Something told me we were running out time, the danger escalating every second we remained inside the walls of the club.