Page 17

Mikhail

Two weeks later

T he 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 court by 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 the impending 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 touch steadies 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.

"Is there something you gentlemen need to discuss?

" Kira's voice cuts through the tension with deceptive calm, her cultured tones carrying just enough steel to make both men take notice.

She steps forward slightly, her spine straight, blue eyes moving between Vladimir and me with the kind of fearless curiosity that makes my chest tighten with equal parts admiration and terror.

Vladimir's attention shifts to her fully now, and I watch his expression change—surprise flickering across his features before settling into something more calculating. "Ah, the bride speaks. How refreshing." He extends his hand toward her. "Vladimir Petrov. An old friend of your husband's."

The word 'friend' drips with poison, but Kira accepts his handshake with the practiced grace of someone born to navigate treacherous social waters. "Kira Zhukova," she replies, and hearing my surname on her lips in this context sends something primal coursing through my veins.

"Zhukova," Vladimir repeats, holding her hand a moment too long. "Such a lovely ring to it. I do hope you're enjoying married life."

"I'm still adjusting," she answers smoothly, reclaiming her hand and moving closer to my side. The warmth of her body against mine is both comfort and torment. "Marriage requires learning new... languages."

The double meaning isn't lost on any of us. Vladimir's laugh is now genuinely delighted. "Indeed it does. Your husband is fluent in several, aren't you, Misha? Violence, vengeance, grief?—"

"Enough." The word leaves my lips like a gunshot, quiet but final. Around us, conversations pause momentarily before resuming, but the damage is done. Lines have been drawn in blood and champagne.

Vladimir's eyes glitter with satisfaction at having drawn a reaction from me.

He straightens his platinum cufflinks with deliberate care, the gesture as threatening as any weapon.

"Of course. This is a celebration, after all.

" His gaze shifts to Kira once more, lingering on the pulse point at her throat.

"Enjoy the evening, Mrs. Zhukova. I suspect there will be fewer opportunities for such. .. pleasantries in the future."

The warning hangs in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. Kazimir Novikov chuckles, a sound like gravel grinding against bone before they melt back into the crowd with practiced ease. But their presence lingers—a stain on the marble, a shadow across the crystal light.

Kira remains perfectly still beside me, her breathing controlled, but I can feel the tremor running through her small frame. When I look down, her knuckles are white around her clutch.

"We're leaving," I murmur against her ear, my lips brushing the delicate shell. The scent of her perfume—jasmine and something uniquely her—cuts through the metallic taste of adrenaline coating my tongue.

"No." Her voice is steady, resolute. "That's what he wants. To see us run."

The observation surprises me. Kira understands the game better than I gave her credit for and recognizes that retreat now would be blood in the water. But understanding the rules doesn't make her any less fragile, any less of a target.

" Kisa —"

"Dance with me." She turns in my arms before I can protest, her blue eyes fierce with determination. "Show them I'm not afraid."

The string quartet swells, and couples drift toward the center of the ballroom like moths to flame. My father's eyes find mine across the room—a silent question. I give him the barest nod, and he returns to his conversation, but I know he's cataloging every face, every potential threat.

My hand settles at the small of Kira's back, and she steps into my embrace with surprising grace. Her palm finds my shoulder, fingers spread against the wool of my tuxedo, and suddenly, the rest of the room fades to background noise.

"What did he say to you?" she asks as we begin to move, her voice pitched low so only I can hear.

"Nothing that matters."

"Don't lie to me." Her eyes search mine, and I see steel beneath the silk. "I may have been sheltered, but I'm not stupid. That man wants to hurt us. Hurt me."