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Afterward, he gathers me into his arms, cradling me against his chest as if I'm something infinitely precious. His fingers trace idle patterns on my skin, following the path of fading vodka trails and blossoming bruises—evidence of his passion that I'll wear proudly tomorrow.
"This changes everything," he says quietly, his voice rumbling through his chest beneath my ear.
"I know." The magnitude of what we've admitted hangs between us, heavy with implications. In our world, love isn'tjust vulnerable—it's dangerous. A weakness enemies will exploit without mercy.
Mikhail lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. Those ice-blue eyes, usually so guarded, now lay bare his soul to me. "We'll have to be smarter. More careful. The meeting with the Italians next week?—"
I press my fingers to his lips. "Not now. Just... hold me. The world can wait a little longer."
His expression softens, and he pulls me closer, wrapping his strong arms around me. For this moment, we're just a man and a woman in love, not pawns in a dangerous game of power and vengeance. Tomorrow, we'll return to the harsh realities of our lives. But tonight—tonight belongs to us alone.
Chapter 14
Mikhail
Two weeks later
The crystal chandelier above us casts fractured light across faces I've learned to read since childhood, and tonight, every shadow whispers betrayal.
The Russian American Children’s Welfare charity gala unfolds around us in waves of champagne and false laughter, the kind of glittering performance where millions change hands through silent auctions. At the same time, blood debts are settled with handshakes. Kira moves beside me in midnight blue silk, her small hand resting on my forearm with a touch so light I barely feel it.
"You're tense," she murmurs, her voice barely audible above the string quartet. Those striking blue eyes sweep the crowd with an intelligence that both thrills and concerns me. She sees too much and understands the undercurrents in this room better than I'd hoped.
"I always am at these things." The endearment makes her pulse quicken at her throat. Two weeks of this careful dance between us, and still, she affects me like aged vodka—a smooth fire that burns long after it goes down.
Anton hovers nearby, his billionaire smile never quite reaching his eyes as he works the room. My father holds courtby the bar, his presence commanding even among wolves. But it's the figure emerging from the shadows near the auction tables that turns my blood to ice water.
Vladimir Petrov. Once one of my closest friends, now something far more dangerous—a man who knows exactly where to place the knife for maximum damage.
The Novikovs trail behind him like carrion birds, their very presence here a calculated insult. Kazimir's scarred face splits into a grin when our eyes meet across the marble floor, and I feel Kira stiffen beside me as she follows my gaze.
"Misha." Vladimir's voice carries the same warmth it always did, which makes it infinitely more threatening than any growl. He approaches with arms spread wide, the picture of old friendship, but his dark eyes hold promises of pain. "Look at you, playing the devoted husband. How... domestic."
The scent of his expensive cologne mingles with something darker—gunpowder, perhaps, or simply the metallic tang of fresh betrayal. Kira's grip tightens almost imperceptibly on my arm, and I cover her hand with mine, a gesture that appears protective but serves to keep her close should I need to move fast.
"Vladimir." I keep my voice steady, a quiet storm beneath the surface. The gala swirls around us, a masquerade of elegance. Still, I can feel the oppressive weight of predatory gazes, the subtle recalibration as other bratva leaders maneuver like pieces on a deadly chessboard. "Interesting choice of guests."
His laughter erupts, deep and genuine, a sound that reverberates with the confidence of a man who holds every card in his hand. "The Novikovs? They've proven to be quite... enlightening. It's astonishing what secrets people divulge when they’re pushed hard enough."
Kira’s breath quickens, each inhale sharp and shallow, and I catch the chilling scent of her fear—not of me, but of theimpending storm brewing around us. She's perceptive, keen enough to sense the undercurrents of treachery.
"Mikhail Dmitrievich," Kazimir Novikov's gravelly voice cuts through the tension like a rusty blade. "Congratulations on your marriage. Such a beautiful bride." His eyes rake over Kira with undisguised hunger, and it takes every ounce of control not to paint the marble floor with his blood.
Instead, I step slightly forward, angling my body to shield her from his gaze. “I would be careful if I were you. I’ve heard rumors that the depths of the East River are calling your name.
Vladimir's smile widens, and he leans closer, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper that only we can hear. "She'll never be safe, you know. Not while she carries your name. There are too many of us who remember how many innocent men you killed after Alina, and there are too many debts left unpaid." His eyes flick to Kira, then back to mine. "This one is softer, more breakable. It will be... educational."
The words nearly knock the air from my lungs, but I force my expression to remain stone. Around us, the gala continues its elegant charade—clinking glasses, polite laughter, the whisper of silk against marble—but my world has narrowed as my mind quickly analyzes his threat.
"Educational," I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper, each syllable carved from ice. "You always did have a gift for choosing the wrong words, Vlad."
His use of Alina's name is a violation, a desecration of something sacred, and the careful control I've maintained these past weeks begins to fracture. The memory of her broken body flashes through my mind, and I feel that familiar darkness rising like a tide.
Kira's fingers press against my forearm, a subtle anchor. She can't hear our whispered exchange, but she reads the violence radiating from my body like heat from a forge. Her touchsteadies me, reminds me that this is neither the time nor the place—not with her so close, so vulnerable.
"The past has a way of repeating itself," Vladimir continues, his smile never wavering as he nods to a passing senator's wife. "Especially when we fail to learn from our mistakes. Your father thinks this alliance and injection of money will protect you, but protection is an illusion when it comes from the wrong source."
The string quartet shifts into a waltz, the melody hauntingly beautiful against the backdrop of barely contained violence. Other guests drift past us, their conversations a meaningless hum, oblivious to the predators circling around them.