Chapter 1
Layla looked down at her hands. They were bruised—small dark patches blooming across her knuckles and the heels of her palms. Her skin burned slightly from the fall, a thin trail of blood mixing with the water dripping from her fingertips. The rain had soaked through her hoodie, making it cling to her like a second skin, heavy and cold, like the guilt she refused to acknowledge.
She sighed, breath shaky, fogging the air before her lips. Her heart still pounded from the sprint, from the fear, from the chaos she always carried like a curse. She had been running. Again. Not from anyone in particular this time, not really. The sirens had flared somewhere behind her, distant, harmless. But her body reacted before her brain could reason. Her feet had moved, her pulse had spiked, and panic had driven her forward—down alleys, across slippery sidewalks, through puddles that soaked her boots. She tripped in the blur of her desperation, and the pavement greeted her like an old, brutal friend.
Now, she sat under a small, rusted bus shelter with a cracked plexiglass wall, its roof barely doing anything to shield her from the relentless downpour. Water dripped through one of the rusted seams, forming a rhythmic patter beside her, a metronome to her fractured thoughts. She wasn’t really waiting for a bus. She rarely ever did. The shelter was just a brief escape from exposure, a tiny refuge from the world that always seemed to chase her. The rain didn’t care.
People passed by, their coats drawn tight, their umbrellas like black flowers blooming in the storm. No one paid her any attention. A few glanced her way, eyes flicking over her soaked hoodie and torn jeans, her bruised hands and hunched shoulders, before quickly turning away. She had grown used to those glances—curious, judgmental, dismissive. She was no one to them. A shadow sitting beneath the cold.
Thunder cracked above her, deep and rumbling, shaking something inside her chest. Layla looked up at the sky, blinking against the rain. It had no mercy tonight.
She knew she couldn’t sit there forever. She hadn’t eaten since morning. Her limbs were starting to go numb, and the ache in her knees was getting worse. Her apartment—or rather, the apartment she was currently using—wasn’t far. She’d have to walk.
With a deep breath, she forced herself to her feet. Her jeans clung to her legs, heavy with water. The hoodie stuck to her like glue. She shivered as a gust of wind sliced through her, unforgiving. The streets were a blur of neon lights distorted by rain, casting long, shifting shadows that made her feel like someone—or something—was following her. But she kept walking.
The building was old. Faded bricks, iron bars on the windows, and a rusted fire escape that creaked with the wind. It was the kind of place where secrets lived comfortably. The landlord, an old woman named Mrs. Hepler, barely spoke. She didn’t ask for IDs, never questioned names, didn’t even look up when you handed her cash. Perfect. Layla had checked in under a name she no longer remembered using before—probably something like Sarah or Melinda. It didn’t matter. It never mattered.
She’d been staying there for a week. Long enough to know how the plumbing hissed at night, how the radiator clicked when the heat kicked in, how the neighbour two doors down snored like a bear. She had another week, maybe less. Then she’d disappear again. Like always.
Inside, she peeled off her clothes, letting them fall in wet heaps on the cracked bathroom tile. Her skin was pale, marred by bruises and old scars. She stared at her reflection in the mirror—dripping, tired, hollow-eyed. She barely recognized herself anymore. The girl who had once dreamed of something more had died a long time ago, somewhere between the first lie and the first stolen wallet.
After a quick shower, Layla wrapped herself in a threadbare towel and padded barefoot into the dimly lit living room. She sat on the couch, legs curled under her, and let her eyes wander. It was a sparse space—just a couch, a rickety table, a lamp with a flickering bulb. Nothing personal. Nothing permanent. Just the way she liked it.
But she needed a new mark.
She had two fake IDs left and about $500 in cash. That wouldn’t last long. She needed a fresh credit line, a new identity to drain. And she knew exactly where to find one: the club.
Clubs were her hunting grounds. Loud music, flashing lights, desperate men who mistook a pretty smile for affection. They were predictable, drunk on ego and alcohol. She’d lean in close, brush a hand down their chest, laugh at a joke she didn’t hear, and when they blinked, their drink would be laced, their wallet gone, their identity halfway to being sold.
Layla stood and walked to the small dresser where she kept her tools. Hair dye. Lenses. Makeup. Clothes that screamed expensive even though they weren’t. She started preparing. Tonight had to be smooth. Quick. Clean.
Her phone buzzed with a burner app reminder: "NEW TGT. $$$ NEEDED." She scoffed. Like she needed a reminder.
The rain still hadn’t stopped, but she didn’t care anymore. The city was hers tonight. And someone out there—some rich, arrogant prick—was about to become her next mistake.
And he would never see it coming.
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Layla stepped into the club, the air thick with sweat, perfume, and the low bass of a beat that made the floor hum beneath her stilettos. The rain outside still clung to the edges of her skin, even though she'd dried off as best she could. Her red wig framed her face like flames licking at porcelain, her green contact lenses bright and otherworldly under the flickering strobe lights. Heavy eyeliner and shimmering eyeshadow adorned her lids, making her eyes pop dramatically in the chaos of neon. Her lips were glossy and tinted a dark cherry red. She looked like temptation personified. A short, sequined black dress hugged her curves, and every move she made shimmered under the lights.
She walked with a sway in her hips, her heels clicking softly on the floor as she stepped deeper into the den of bodies and debauchery. The club was already buzzing—bodies grinding together on the dance floor, limbs tangled like drunken vines. Glasses clinked, laughter erupted in waves, and some people were too drunk to stand, let alone notice her slip past them like a shadow. She wasn’t here to party. She was here for a job.
Her eyes scanned the crowd, analysing her options like a predator in a new hunting ground. Some men were too sloppy, their intentions written all over their glazed expressions. Others were clearly the type who thought they could buy anyone or anything—including her—for the night. She’d dealt with men like that before. Easy targets. But easy wasn’t what she was after tonight. No, she wanted someone who would keep her sharp. Someone who made the game worth playing.
And then she saw him.
He was seated in one of the VIP booths, lounging with a kind of calculated stillness, one arm stretched over the back of the couch like he owned the entire building. He wasn’t surrounded by admirers or girls hanging off his every word like most men in VIP. No, he was alone. His blonde hair was slicked back with precision, his face angled to catch the low golden light in a way that exaggerated the sharpness of his cheekbones. His eyes—an icy, clear blue—scanned the room like he was hunting, or maybe just waiting. A dangerous type.
He looked like the kind of man your mother would warn you about, but fantasize about behind closed doors. The kind who didn’t just break hearts—he shattered them and walked away without a backward glance. Layla’s pulse quickened. He was exactly the kind of challenge she loved.
She tilted her head and smirked.
She approached slowly, deliberately, giving him time to notice her. And yet... he didn’t. Or maybe he did, but he didn’t care. His gaze never flicked toward her, not even a twitch. It wasn’t indifference—it was control. He was aware, she could tell, but he wasn’t playing. Not yet.
She slid into the seat beside him without asking, crossing one leg over the other with elegance.
"You look like you could use some company," she said lightly.
He didn’t glance at her. Just took a sip from his glass and said, "That depends. Are you good company or just another mouth trying to talk my ear off?"
Layla chuckled softly, unfazed. "That depends on whether you’re worth talking to."
That earned her a side glance. Brief, assessing.
"You’re bold."
"Only on Thursdays," she quipped.
He didn’t laugh, but a smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. A dry, knowing expression. He still hadn’t offered a name, and she hadn’t asked. Not yet. She wasn’t going to throw all her cards on the table. No, this had to be strategic. He wasn’t the type to fall for a flash of leg and a flirtatious laugh.
So she shifted tactics.
"You come here often?"
"Do I look like someone who enjoys crowds?"
"No. You look like someone who comes here to watch people make fools of themselves."
He turned to her then, fully. His gaze was sharp, unsettling. It peeled back layers and demanded answers.
"And you? What do you come here for?"
She smiled lazily. "Entertainment."
"And do you find it?"
"Sometimes. Other times, I make my own."
He tilted his head. "Is that what you're doing now?"
"You tell me."
He chuckled then—low, deep, and unsettling in its confidence. "You're good. What's your name?"
She leaned in slightly, letting her perfume drift between them. "Cassie."
He raised a brow. "Cassie?"
She nodded. "Short for Cassandra."
It wasn’t. But that wasn’t important.
"Leonid," he said, finally giving her something real—or maybe not. She filed it away for later.
Leonid.
The name rolled around her mind. Russian. Dangerous. He had the air of someone untouchable. She was intrigued and slightly annoyed that her usual charms weren’t working as quickly as they did on others. But she liked the game. He was still a target, after all.
She had her plan: get him alone. Hotel, apartment, she didn’t care. Somewhere she could slip something into his drink the moment he turned his back. Before anything happened. She never slept with marks—that wasn’t part of her method. She'd drug them, search them, take what she needed, and vanish like smoke.
So now came the slow seduction.
She leaned back, played with the straw in her drink. Let her lips linger on it a moment longer than necessary. Flirted through body language more than words.
Leonid watched. Observed. Calculated.
And then he leaned forward slightly, his voice quiet but firm. "You're playing a game."
Layla blinked. "Aren’t we all?"
"Some are better at it than others."
"Are you good at games, Leonid?"
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "I don’t play games. I win them."
Possessive. Arrogant. Dangerous. The perfect mark.
"Well then," she murmured. "Let’s see how well you play."
He raised his glass to her. "To games."
She clinked hers against his, her mind already racing. She needed to steer this night toward her goal. And she would.
Because Layla never lost.
Not to anyone.
Not even to men like Leonid Ivanov.
