Head up to meet the Russian Widow

Even if I hadn’t known which of the hotel suites Vera Angeloff and her guests were currently occupying, all it would have taken was one glance down the west hallway to figure it out.

Only demanding, entitled VIPs asked for an entire display of fresh flowers outside their suite door.

Now, to be fair, Ash’s team had done a lovely job. They’d set up a shallow side table and gotten three bouquets of different heights that still worked together and complemented the peachy colour of the walls. It was just as nice a display as they might have put up anywhere down in the public areas of the casino or hotel areas - I tried not to think of how much the Vaso spent weekly on flowers, let alone the entirety of the Las Vegas Strip. Part of me thought I should invest in a greenhouse company or something as a side gig.

But still, a request for fresh flowers inside a Suite wasn’t that uncommon. But outside?

I shook my head, wondering how many days Ash would be able to milk this one before he had to swap them out for a new one, and then turned and knocked on the door with my ‘polite but firm’ rat-a-tat-tat. My job rarely brought me up to the hotel rooms, but I’d learned that little rhythm and amount of firmness from some of the cleaning crew - enough to draw attention immediately, but still light enough to not be mistaken for rudely banging on the door.

It wasn’t until the music turned down inside the Suite that I realised there was a low level playing - that, at least, was a check in favour of Angeloff. I knew Jonas infrequently had to deal with the managers of musical acts when their clients were just begging for noise complaints while they blared music at ungodly, deafening volumes. I could only imagine the issues if Angeloff was a Russian rave girl playing euro trance music or drum and bass at top volume, shaking the walls with it.

Our suite doors were heavy oak, each one elegantly carved to look like stonework pillars and scenes from some generally ancient Middle East culture, and I tapped my toes and blew out a breath as I waited for it to be answered. Angeloff’s suite door had a scene of turbaned riders charging across some sort of desert scene, but the longer I looked at it, the more I felt like the horses looked kind of… derpy. And I also wondered if any of our Owners had really stopped to look at it. Were the turbans ‘accurate’ or kinda racist?

The heavy lock of the door gave its classic ka-chunk as it was opened from the inside, and I put on my big customer service smile.

Then I almost lost it.

“Robbie, right on time,” Ada said with a smile. “Please, come in.”

The British blonde was wearing a white bikini, the cups of the top fitting so snugly to her moderately sized breasts that it was impossible not to see that she had some pretty long nipples hidden under the fabric. Between the cups, holding them in place, were a trio of golden rings that also pulled her tits into a significant cleavage, and it looked like the back and shoulder straps were also made of the same delicate gold rings, while the bottoms were low slung on her hips and easily had to be showing off half her pubic hair if she wasn’t shaved smooth. Her stomach wasn’t flat, but had that healthy, fit naturalness to it that I knew women would probably kill for, and with her hair up in a stylishly messy bun, her smile and eyes were highlighted all the more.

“Thank you,” I managed to say without coughing, and she ushered me in and shut the door before familiarly looping her arm through mine and escorting me out of the vestibule area and into the Suite proper.

I’d long ago seen the different layouts of suites we offered in the hotel - Cassidy and I had even stayed in one once during the lowest point of the off-season. The ceilings were high, the decor was lovely, and the views out of the floor-to-ceiling windows were pretty fucking great out. There was an entire kitchen, a bar, a small hot tub room, two different sitting areas for entertaining, and four bedrooms in the extra-luxury suites like this, each with its own en suite. The inside of the suite was loaded with flowers, along with an array of open wine bottles and used wine and champagne glasses.

I barely saw any of it, because sitting on the couch was Vera Angeloff with her arms spread wide and grabbing the top of her seat as she reclined her head back. That in itself might not have given me too much pause, but Vera was wearing even less than her assistant was. Her red silk robe had fallen from both of her shapely shoulders, baring her elegant throat and most of her chest, and one side had fallen further to show off one of her sizable breasts. It was large and globular like a fake boob, defying gravity, and yet somehow also looked so real. They were easily a rival for Ami’s amazingly crafted breasts, and part of me wanted to ask who had done Vera’s work so I could see if it was the same person Ami had gone to. Vera, however, had further accented her breast with a circular golden nipple piercing that made a ring around her firm, fleshy nub and drew the eye to it.

The robe continued to fall open down her stomach, showing off a pierced belly button with a dangling gold charm, and I was sure I would have seen everything if not for the back of the head blocking my view.

That head, with long black hair, was pressed between Vera’s thighs and was clearly performing oral. It was also attached to a slender feminine body, and from the slight angle I could see that the girl was topless, her decently large breasts hanging beneath her, her only stitch of visible clothing a skimpy blue bikini bottom that hugged her ass tightly as it pointed back towards Ada and I.

“Vera,” Ada sighed like she was chiding a goofy child who was mildly misbehaving.

Vera opened her eyes, grinning as she looked at us. “Oh, I apologise,” she said, her accent thickly Russian to the point it was a little hard to understand here. “I lost track of time.” She lowered both hands, not moving to cover herself, and instead running her fingers through the thick black hair of the girl between her legs. She said something in Russian that I could barely hear, let alone understand, and the girl let herself get pulled up by her hair as she looked up into Vera’s face with something I would have called adoration.

“We’re a very open group,” Ada said conversationally to me. “Sometimes Miss Angeloff forgets that people might be a little shocked by her antics.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, not sure how to even start. I’d walked in on guests fucking in places they shouldn’t before - during weddings, during birthdays, in the middle of conferences. Once I walked in on the father of a Bar Mitzvah kid, balls deep in a woman who was definitely not his wife, but kinda looked like her. I’d even walked in on staff fucking - it wasn’t exactly uncommon in the food industry, though Dayana did a pretty good job at keeping it at a minimum.

I knew what someone who’d been caught in a compromising situation looked like.

This wasn’t that.

Vera leaned forward, lips pursed, and gave the younger South American girl a kiss on the lips. Still not caring that I could see her half-naked.

Ada would have had to come through part of the Suite, if she hadn’t started here to begin with, to answer my knock at the door. They’d been expecting me.

Either they wanted me to see what I’d seen, or they just didn’t care that I or anyone else did. And I wasn’t sure which of those options would be more trouble. Whichever it was, I was getting weird vibes all around. The sort of vibes that made me feel like maybe I should run.

Then the moan erupted from the direction of one of the bedrooms, the door half-open but at an angle I couldn’t see anything inside. A distinctly feminine, sexual moan, followed by a laugh and something in Russian.

That probably answered where Nikolina was in all of this.

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