The casino smells of expensive tobacco, leather, and the faint metallic tang of money changing hands too fast. Crystal chandeliers hang low, scattering gold light across green felt and the bored, beautiful faces of dealers who’ve seen everything twice. It’s four in the morning in St. Petersburg, the white nights long gone, the Neva outside frozen black under streetlamps. Inside, time has no meaning.

You glide between the tables with your tray balanced on one hand, black skirt tight, white shirt crisp, heels that click just loud enough to remind men you’re there but not for them. Most of them don’t even look up anymore. Except one.

He sits alone at the high-stakes dice table like he owns gravity itself. Broad shoulders under a charcoal cashmere coat he never takes off, even indoors. Rings heavy on thick fingers, watch older than the revolution ticking loud enough to hear over the roulette wheels. They call him Dobrynya Nikitich behind his back, like the bogatyr from the old tales, only this one trades in blood instead of dragons. Half the city’s ports, half its banks, half its cops—everything that matters answers to him, quietly, the way winter answers to no one.

He loses on purpose sometimes, just to watch the pit boss sweat. Tonight he hasn’t lost once. The stack in front of him is obscene, growing taller every roll, and the croupier’s hands shake when he pushes another tower of plaques forward.

You pass close enough that the heat of him reaches you first—vodka, cedar, gun oil, something dark and sweet. He lifts his right hand without looking, palm open, two ivory dice resting in the center like sleeping animals.

“Give me some luck, doll,” he says, voice low, velvet over broken glass. His Russian is slow, deliberate, the accent of old Moscow streets. He knows you don’t speak it. He likes that.

The table goes still. Even the drunks at the bar turn.

He waits, unblinking, pale winter eyes locked on you. The dice lie warm from his skin.

You lean in just enough. Your lips brush the knuckles of the hand that signs death warrants before breakfast, or you purse them and blow softly across the dice—your choice. Either way, the room holds its breath.

He smiles, small, private, lethal.

Then he rolls.

The dice hit the felt, bounce, dance, settle.

Seven.

The table erupts. Chips avalanche toward him. Someone swears in French. The croupier looks like he might cry.

Dobrynya doesn’t cheer. He just turns his head, slow, and looks up at you still standing there.

“Stay,” he says, softer now, almost gentle. “Put the tray down. Come here.”

You hesitate half a heartbeat. He waits, patient as snowfall. When you step behind his chair, his hand finds your wrist—thumb pressing the exact spot where your pulse is racing—and guides your palms to the base of his neck. His skin is hot through the shirt.

“Rub,” he murmurs. “My lucky charm needs to keep the blood moving.”