The Russians Arrive

Dayana and I made our way through the back halls of the hotel and surreptitiously found ourselves a spot near the front doors. Ash spotted us and gave us a grimace and a smirk, acknowledging that we wanted to get a look at this lady who was about to make our lives more difficult. And we weren’t the only ones - I noticed at least two extra members of the security staff loitering around, and a woman from housekeeping. And those were just the other staff I noticed.

Everyone knew by now that we were going to have an ‘indefinite’ resident at the Vaso who hadn’t been there before. And we all wanted to know what we were about to be dealing with.

“So this woman is twice-widowed,” Dayana murmured to me. “And somehow caught the eyes of a wealthy Kuwaiti prince. I could see mistress being a possibility, I guess, but marriage? How the hell he convinced his father this is a good idea, I can’t tell you. A Russian widow?”

“Hey,” I said. “You’re the one with the back line to a member of the board. I just work here.”

She snorted a little and smirked at me. I noticed Ash stiffen a little, correcting his posture as she stepped more central to the front doors of the hotel.

“Here she comes,” I murmured, and we both did our best to stare without looking like we were staring.

Four women came in through the front doors, three in a group and one trailing behind. The first three were all in their thirties, and I got money vibes from all of them.

The first one through the door was a brunette with dark, long hair hanging straight in what I could only describe as a classic Russian look from the movies. It framed her face symmetrically and highlighted her big, piercing eyes and plush lips, along with her sharp jawline. Whether it was excellent Russian genetics or some plastic surgery, it was hard to tell. Those lips were in a neutral position, not smiling and not quite frowning, pressed firmly together, and her makeup was flawless in its dark maroon from her lips to her eyeshadow.

Where it was fairly obvious she’d had some work done is her figure. She was medium height, boosted a bit by her expensive strappy heels, and despite having slightly broad shoulders her bust didn’t match her build. She had big, high and firm tits that were clearly after-market add ons - and she was showing them off in what looked like an outfit I would have expected in some sort of a late-60s or early-70s movie with busty hippies. Her top was a knit or crocheted bikini top in brown with lots of tassels that fell around her hourglass figure - she was technically well covered, but the hints of vision of her stomach, sides and back were strong, and the amount of cleavage she was showing to either side of the decent-coverage cups was still significant. It was paired with a pair of high-waisted and high-legged jean shorts that didn’t show off any ass cheek, but definitely hugged her shapely caboose tightly.

The second woman was a blonde, older than the other two by a couple of years by my guess, and she was elegant compared to the first. She had strikingly sharp features and wore almost no makeup, though I wondered what her skin routine was because it was both warm and glowing, but also almost too taut while also showing natural signs of her age at the corner of her eyes and lips. She was smiling lightly and taking off a pair of big, black sunglasses that she hooked into the V-neck of her top, a loose and flowing black vest that melded down into a matching pair of full black pants and ended in black, strappy heels. The outfit made her strides seem even more elegant than her poise, and I would have assumed she was the VIP if it wasn’t for the fact that she was carrying a small leather dossier folder that made me think she was probably the assistant instead.

The third woman was as beautiful as the other two, but with a more natural, full look about her instead of potentially being enhanced. Her lips weren’t as full as the other brunette, her hair a more natural brown and showing just a bit of frizz from the heat outside instead of being almost slickly straight. She was smiling as well, looking up at the towering atrium ceiling and the hanging chandeliers.

I almost would have guessed she was the VIP, but she was almost more scandalously dressed than the first brunette - at least in terms of what I would have thought acceptable for the fiancee of an Al Maktoum in public. She was wearing a green bikini top, the cups doing an alright job of covering her considerable, natural breasts except that her nipples were making clear bumps in them, but the strings leaving most of her torso and cleavage bare. The only indication she gave to not being out at the pool, even having her sunglasses pushed up on top of her head, was a small green designer backpack. Her lower half, at least, was more covered… sort of. She was wearing a maxi skirt in green that matched her bikini top, but it had a slit at the front of each leg that ran all the way up to the waist and she flashed a hell of a lot of leg with each step. And the slits were high enough to very much question whether she was wearing anything under the skirt at all.

That meant the first woman was likely the VIP.

“Fucking Russians,” Dayana murmured next to me, shaking her head at the display.

To be fair, we weren’t exactly the Go-to Hotel for Russians coming to Vegas. I wasn’t even sure which hotel that was. Dayana, however, with her three years working at a resort in the UAE, had gotten plenty of experience with uber-wealthy Russians. They were much closer geographically than Nevada was.

The last woman through the doors was wheeling a pair of big black suitcases behind her and, after a moment of clear view, I could tell she was attempting to project the same sort of natural… ego of the others. The issue she was running into was that she was clearly young. Maybe not even twenty. She also had very different features than the others - if anything I would have guessed she was Latina of some sort. Her hair was black and silky, hanging long down to light-skinned but still tanned shoulders. Her features were pretty, and I had a feeling she could probably be stunning if someone set a skilled hand on her. She was wearing the most appropriate outfit of the four as well - if she did up the buttons of her blouse. It was high collared but sleeveless, tucked down into a black tennis skirt that hung to her mid-thigh, but she hadn’t done a single button up so a solid vertical line of her young, softly fit torso was showing. The only thing keeping her modest was a black bikini top or bra - it was hard to tell which it was - with sparkly sequins studding the lower half of each cup. The effect was hot, and maybe even fashion, but also oddly ‘work outfit but definitely not safe for work.’

Ash, smiling with his best customer service smile, intercepted them and introduced himself, running through his VIP spiel as he gestured them towards a bank of elevators. No checking in for them, no card on file in case of damages or charges to the room. They had control of the elevators from the front desk, too, and Ash pushed the call button and the closest elevator immediately opened for them, one of the staffers at the desk activating it again after having put it on hold for that moment.

And then the doors closed, and the elevator started heading up towards the suites. And the front doors opened as three of the hotel porters started wheeling in more suitcases. Each one was patent leather and designer, and probably cost as much as those guys made in a week.

“Well,” Dayana sighed. “Shows over.”

“Ever seen one like that before?” I asked. “Miss ‘Fucking Russians?’”

“Did I say that out loud?” she chuckled, then shook her head. “No, never that… blatant? And definitely not associated with a high-up Muslim family. And definitely not showing that much skin as a girlfriend or fiancee of someone important.”

“Think Rashid knows she dresses like that?”

She shrugged. “If he doesn’t, th
en whenever he comes to see her here we’ll see her change up her habits fast. That’ll tell us a lot.”

We both sighed and looked back at the porters as they were waiting for the freight elevator to arrive, leaving the regular ones to hotel guests since they would fill the smaller cars with three big stacks of luggage.

“See you at lunch?” I asked.

“See you at lunch,” Dayana agreed.

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