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Vladimir Petrov stands too close to my wife, his hand on her bare arm, his mouth curved in what appears to be a pleasant smile. But I can read the tension in Kira's posture even from across the room, seeing the way she's angled her body to maintain distance without creating a scene.
I move without thinking, cutting through the crowd with the focused intent of a predator. Conversations falter as I pass, the instinctive recognition of danger causing people to step back. My father follows at a more measured pace, but I feel his presence behind me like a gathering storm.
Vladimir sees me coming and smiles wider, his fingers still wrapped around Kira's arm. "Ah, the protective husband arrives. We were just discussing your honeymoon plans. Did you know I considered asking for her hand before you? Unfortunately, Anton was not receptive to my proposal.”
Kira's eyes meet mine, a silent warning not to react too strongly, too publicly. She's right, of course—this is precisely what he wants, to provoke me into showing my hand here, surrounded by witnesses who move in both our worlds.
I place my hand over his, where it grips Kira's arm, applying just enough pressure to make him wince. "Remove your hand from my wife, or I will cut it off and shove it up your ass.”
My voice is conversational, almost friendly, but Vladimir knows me well enough to hear the promise beneath. He releases her, raising both palms in mock surrender.
"Just being neighborly," he says, his eyes glittering with malice. "After all, Kira and I will soon get to know one another much better.”
I slide my arm around Kira's waist, drawing her against my side. She comes willingly, her body fitting against mine with a rightness that momentarily distracts me.
"Your memory is selective, Vladimir," I reply evenly. "You seem to have forgotten how things ended the last time someone threatened what's mine."
He leans closer, his voice dropping to ensure only we can hear. "No, Misha. I remember perfectly. That's why I'm going to enjoy watching you suffer the same loss twice. Only this time, you'll know it was coming." His gaze slides to Kira. “We’ll see each other again soon.”
Kira goes rigid against me, but her voice remains steady when she speaks. "Threats against a woman? How cowardly." She tilts her head, studying him with the cool assessment of someone cataloging weaknesses. "I expected more creativity from someone who believes he can take down Mikhail Zhukov.""
Vladimir blinks, clearly not expecting this response. For a brief moment, I see uncertainty flicker across his face before his mask of confidence returns.
"The kitten has claws," he murmurs. "Good. It's always more satisfying when they fight back."
My father steps forward then, his presence commanding immediate respect even from Vladimir. "This conversation is finished," he says with quiet authority. "You've made your position clear, as have we. What follows will be decided elsewhere."
It's a dismissal but also a warning—the real battle will take place away from these glittering lights, in the shadows where we all truly live.
Vladimir inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the shift from words to action. "Always a pleasure, Dmitri Alexandrovich." His eyes return to me, then Kira. "Enjoy the remainder of your evening. The auction items are particularly... revealing this year."
When he’s far enough away to speak freely, Kira turns to me and says, "We should check the auction items. That didn’t sound like an idle threat."
Her intuition continues to surprise me. I nod, scanning the room for Anton. He stands near the bar, deep in conversation with the chief of police, maybe hoping to curry favor for his daughter’s sake.
"Stay with her," I tell my father, then cut through the crowd toward the auction tables. The items are displayed on black velvet—jewelry, vacation packages, rare wines, artwork—each with a minimum bid that would feed a family for years.
I move systematically down the line, looking for anything out of place, anything that might carry Vladimir's promised message. At first, nothing seems amiss. Then I reach the final table, where a leather-bound book sits innocuously among crystal decanters and a vintage Patek Philippe watch.
The auction card reads simply: "Rare first edition, family history of notable Russian-American figures. Opening bid: $50,000."
I flip open the cover, and my blood freezes in my veins. It's not a book at all, but a cleverly disguised portfolio containing photographs—surveillance images of Kira leaving the penthouse, shopping in Manhattan with her mother, and having lunch with her parents, her bodyguards never far behind. Each image is marked with a date and time, some of which are as recent as two days ago.
But it's the final page that makes my hand shake with barely contained rage. A photograph of Alina, taken the day before she was murdered, side by side with one of Kira in the same pose, same angle, taken just yesterday outside our home.
Across both images, someone has written in red ink: "History always repeats itself. Tick tock."
Chapter 15
Kira
"You're holding your breath again,kisa," Mikhail's cousin Vanya says, circling me like a hawk assessing its prey. His accent is thicker than Mikhail's, the vowels rounder, more Russian than Brooklyn. "You must breathe through the shot. Like this."
He demonstrates with his own weapon, inhaling slowly, then releasing half his breath before squeezing the trigger. The crack of the gunshot echoes through the underground firing range beneath the Zhukov estate. The paper target at the end of the lane shudders, a fresh hole appearing precisely where the silhouette's heart would be.
"Now you," he commands, stepping back.
Yuri—my ever-present bodyguard, with shoulders like granite boulders and a face that rarely shifts from a stoic expression—adjusts my stance with clinical detachment. His fingers press against my shoulder blades, forcing them down and back.