Shadow Agent

The dinner is held in a glass-walled pavilion at the edge of the cliff, the Adriatic black and infinite beyond the windows, the table set for twelve with linen so white it seems to glow. Crystal catches the candlelight. A chandelier hangs low, each prism throwing slivers of light across the faces of the guests as they take their seats.

Serena is not seated.

She stands against the far wall, hands clasped in front of her, the green dress doing nothing to hide the fact that she's been positioned here like a piece of furniture. Two other women stand at intervals around the room — escorts, like her, in silk and jewelry, their faces arranged into pleasant masks. None of them meet each other's eyes.

The guests are mostly men — a Greek shipping magnate, an Italian arms dealer, a French politician whose face Serena recognizes from news broadcasts. They drink Petrov's wine and laugh at his jokes and occasionally glance at the women the way diners glance at the menu before ordering.

Irina sits at the far end of the table, opposite Petrov. She's changed into a black gown, her hair still in that tight bun, the gold chain still at her throat. She doesn't eat. She watches. Her eyes find Serena every few minutes — a brief, assessing glance — and then move on.

"Elise." Petrov's voice carries across the room. "Come. Stand by me."

Serena pushes off the wall and walks the length of the table. Twelve pairs of eyes track her. She feels the weight of them — the men's greedy and speculative, the other escorts' flat with recognition, Irina's unreadable and cold.

She stops beside Petrov's chair.

"Gentlemen," Petrov says, gesturing with his wine glass, "this is Elise. She arrived today. French, former model, now a companion. I'm still deciding what to do with her."

Laughter around the table. A few of the men raise their glasses.

The Greek shipping magnate — thick-necked, silver-haired, with a wedding ring that looks like it cost more than Serena's car — leans forward. "She's lean. Do you feed her?"

"I feed her whatever she likes," Petrov says. "She just doesn't eat it."

More laughter. Serena holds her position. She doesn't look at any of them. She looks at a point on the wall above the French politician's head and counts her breaths.

"Turn for them," Petrov says. "Let them see what they're working with."

The request lands in her chest like a stone dropped into still water. She hesitates — a beat, two — then turns, slowly, presenting her profile, her back, her other profile. The green dress shifts against her thighs. The scar beneath her rib catches the candlelight.

"Exquisite muscle definition," the Italian says. "But where does she hide the soft parts?"

"She doesn't," Petrov says, and there's a warmth in his voice that doesn't reach his eyes. "She has no soft parts. Every inch of her is built for work. Some men find that appealing."

"And some men want something to hold onto," the Greek says.

"Then they won't book her." Petrov sets down his glass. "But I think she has other uses."

Irina speaks for the first time. Her voice carries, low and precise. "She has excellent posture. The kind that comes from training, not from a deportment class. I'd be interested to see how she handles herself under pressure."

The table goes quiet. All eyes shift to Irina.

"Is that a request?" Petrov asks.

"It's an observation." Irina picks up her wine, swirls it, doesn't drink. "She held herself well during the inspection this afternoon. Most women flinch when I find the interesting places. She didn't."

Serena feels the words like a hand on her throat. The inspection. The gloved fingers. The way Irina's thumbs parted her and looked. The shame of it blooms hot in her chest, and she has to work to keep her breathing even.

"Elise has many talents," Petrov says smoothly. "I'm sure we'll discover them all in time." He reaches up and touches Serena's wrist — a light, proprietorial brush of his fingers. "You can return to your post. I'll call you when I need you."

Serena walks back to the wall. She takes her position. She resumes counting.

The dinner continues for another hour — courses served by white-jacketed staff, wine flowing, the conversation shifting from business to gossip to the kind of casual cruelty that wealthy men indulge in when they think no one is listening. Serena stands through all of it. Her heels begin to ache. Her lower back tightens. She doesn't shift her weight.

At ten-thirty, Petrov rises. The table rises with him. He makes a round of farewells, shaking hands, clasping shoulders. When he reaches Irina, he leans in and murmurs something Serena can't catch.

Irina nods once.

Then Petrov crosses the room to Serena.

"Walk with me," he says.

She follows him out of the pavilion, past the reflecting pool, down a stone path that winds through the oleander bushes. The night air is cool, salt and jasmine. The sound of the dinner fades behind them.

He stops at a bench overlooking the sea. Sits. Gestures for her to sit beside him.

"I'm going to be direct with you," he says. "I have a guest arriving tomorrow. A woman of considerable importance. She collects interesting people the way other people collect art. I think you'd interest her."

Serena says nothing.

"She'll want to evaluate you herself. That's how she works. She'll ask you questions, touch you, test your limits. If she likes what she sees, she'll make an offer." He turns to look at her, his gray eyes flat in the moonlight. "I'm not going to tell you what to do. But I will tell you this: if she buys you, you'll leave this island. If she doesn't, you'll stay here until I decide what else to do with you."

The words hang in the salt air.

"The woman," Serena says. "What's her name?"

Petrov smiles — that thin, mirthless expression.

"Madame Korvin."