THE TRANSLATOR'S GAMBIT

Two weeks later, Eleanor was dressed in a four-thousand-dollar silk gown, standing in the corner of a glittering ballroom in a luxury penthouse overlooking Central Park. She looked the part of a high-society arm candy, but her ears were equipped with a microscopic earpiece, and her mind was working at lightning speed.

Damien was hosting a summit. The room was filled with the most lethal men in the five boroughs. Eleanor’s job was to stand in the corner, sip champagne, and listen.

"The Italians are nervous," she whispered into the microphone hidden in her diamond necklace. "The boss in the blue suit just told his capo that if Volkov doesn't show up tonight, they are pulling their shipments out of the docks."

"Understood," Damien’s voice crackled softly in her ear. He was across the room, charming a senator's wife, looking every inch the untouchable billionaire.

Suddenly, the heavy mahogany doors at the entrance slammed open. The music abruptly cut off. A man walked in, flanked by heavily armed guards. He was older, with a face like weathered stone and eyes as dead as winter. Volkov.

Eleanor’s pulse spiked. She had never seen him in person, but she knew the fear his name commanded. Volkov bypassed the pleasantries, marching straight toward Damien.

"Orlov," Volkov barked in Russian. "You are throwing parties while a rat runs loose in our city."

"The only rat I see is the one crashing my party," Damien replied smoothly in Russian, taking a sip of his scotch.

Eleanor moved closer, weaving through the terrified socialites. She needed to hear every word.

"Arthur Hale is mine," Volkov hissed. "And I know you have his daughter."

Damien's expression remained entirely neutral. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Yuri. But if you raise your voice in my home again, I will have your tongue cut out and served as an hors d'oeuvre."

Volkov sneered, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. Eleanor strained to hear.