Page 2

Kira

T he Hermès bags slip from my fingers as I catch the tremor in my mother's voice, their expensive contents forgotten against the marble floor of our penthouse foyer.

"Kira, darling." Mama's manicured fingers worry at her pearl necklace, a tell I've learned to read like storm clouds on the horizon. "Your father is waiting in his study."

The late afternoon sun slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the pristine white surfaces of our Manhattan sanctuary.

Everything here is curated and controlled—from the fresh orchids that arrive daily to the way the light hits the Monet hanging in the hallway.

But today, something feels different. The air itself seems to hum with an undercurrent I can't quite name.

"Is this about the London arrangements?" I ask, bending to retrieve a silk scarf that's escaped one of the bags.

The fabric is cool against my palm, smooth as water.

I've been looking forward to the move—Aunt Katya's stories of her life in Mayfair, the freedom of distance from Papa's watchful eyes, even the prospect of meeting Lord Charles Pemberton properly instead of through carefully orchestrated social encounters.

Mama's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "He'll explain everything, little dove. You know how he prefers to handle these matters himself."

The endearment sounds hollow in the vast space, echoing off the marble and glass.

I study my mother's face—the same striking bone structure I inherited, though mine lacks the careful mask she's perfected over decades of being Anton Malakhov's wife.

Her blue eyes, so like my own, dart toward the hallway leading to Papa's sanctuary.

"Mama." I step closer, catching the faint scent of her Chanel perfume mixed with something else—anxiety, sharp, and metallic. "What's wrong?"

She reaches out to smooth a strand of my auburn hair, her touch gentle but fleeting. "Nothing's wrong, Kira. Your father simply needs to discuss some changes to the timeline."

Changes. The word settles in my stomach like ice.

I nod, though unease prickles along my spine like static electricity before a storm.

The marble beneath my feet feels suddenly cold, seeping through the thin soles of my Italian leather flats.

I leave the scattered bags where they fell—somehow, they seem trivial now, these tokens of a life built on surfaces and appearances.

The walk to Papa's study feels longer than usual, each step echoing in the cathedral-like silence of our home.

The Persian runner muffles my footsteps as I pass the gallery of family portraits—generations of Malakhovs staring down with eyes that have seen too much, survived too much.

My own face looks back at me from the most recent addition, painted last spring when I still believed my biggest concern was choosing between graduate school in Oxford or Cambridge.

The heavy oak door stands slightly ajar, an unusual sight for Papa, who guards his privacy like a state secret.

"Papa?" I knock softly, pushing the door wider, and find him sitting alone at his desk with a glass of whiskey at his side. My father is not a man who requires liquid courage, so the half-finished decanter fills me with dread.

He looks up as I enter, and I'm startled by how much older he appears—the lines around his eyes deeper, his usually perfect posture slightly curved. The late afternoon light streaming through the windows behind him casts his face in shadow, making his expression unreadable.

"Sit, Kira." His voice carries that familiar authority, but underneath it, I detect something I've rarely heard from my father—uncertainty.

I settle into the leather chair across from his mahogany desk, the exact spot where I've received countless lectures about propriety, responsibility, and the weight of our family name.

"The London arrangements," I begin, hoping to steer this conversation toward familiar territory. "I know Charles is eager to formalize our engagement before the season begins. I've been reading about the proper protocols?—"

"There will be no London." Papa's words cut through my carefully prepared speech like a blade through silk. "And there will be no Charles Pemberton."

The room tilts slightly as if the floor beneath my chair has shifted. "I don't understand."

He reaches for his glass, taking a measured sip before meeting my eyes. "Your marriage has been arranged, but not to the man you expected."

Marriage? The word feels like a death sentence.

I knew this day would come—it's the unspoken reality of being Anton Malakhov's daughter.

But Charles was supposed to be safe and predictable.

A British lord with old money and older manners, someone who would treat our union like the business arrangement it truly was.

"Who?" The question scrapes against my throat like broken glass.

Papa sets down his whiskey with deliberate care, the crystal making a soft clink against the wood that seems to echo in the sudden silence.

"Mikhail Zhukov."

The name hits me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs.

For a moment, I wonder if I've misheard, if the blood rushing in my ears has distorted his words.

But the grim set of his mouth and the way his knuckles have gone white where they grip the armrest of his chair confirm my worst nightmare.

"No." The word tears from my throat, raw and desperate. "Papa, no. Not him. I won’t marry him."

Papa's face hardens, transforming into the mask I've seen him wear during business calls—cold, implacable, final. "This is not a negotiation, Kira. The arrangements have been made."

I surge to my feet, the leather chair scraping against the hardwood floor. My hands shake as I brace them against my father's desk, leaning forward like I can somehow force him to take back those poisonous words.

"He's a monster, Papa. Everyone knows what he is—what he's done." My voice climbs higher, hysteria bleeding through my carefully cultivated composure. "They call him the Butcher of Brighton Beach. He killed men with his bare hands. He?—"

"Enough." Papa's voice cracks like a whip, but I'm beyond caring about his authority now.

"I won't do it. I'll run away first. I'll disappear where you'll never find me." The threat spills out before I can stop it, desperate and foolish. "You can't make me marry him."

Something flickers across Papa's face—pain, maybe, or regret—but it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "You have no choice in this matter. Neither of us do."

The admission stops me cold. Papa always has choices. He's Anton Malakhov—he owns politicians, judges, and half of Manhattan's elite. He doesn't bow to anyone.

"What do you mean?" But even as I ask, pieces begin clicking into place. The increased security lately. The way conversations stop when I enter rooms. The tension that's been coiling through our household like smoke.

"The Novikov family has put a price on your head." His words are flat, matter-of-fact as if he's discussing the weather. "Two million dollars to anyone who delivers you to them alive."

Ice floods my veins. The Novikovs—our oldest enemies, the ones who've been circling our territory like vultures for years. "Since when?"

"Three weeks ago. Since their eldest son died in that warehouse fire." Papa's eyes bore into mine. "They blame me for his death. They want to make me suffer by taking what I love most."

The warehouse fire. I remember the news reports and the speculation about gang warfare. I never connected it to us, to me.

"But surely there's another way—security, relocation?—"

"There is no other way." Papa stands, moving to the window overlooking Central Park. "Mikhail Zhukov has the power and men to protect you. His organization has the reach and the connections. And he's willing to take on the Novikov threat in exchange for your hand."

"So you're selling me." The words taste like ashes in my mouth. "Trading me like livestock to save your own skin."

Papa whirls around, his composure finally cracking. "To save YOUR skin, Kira. Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I want to give my daughter to that man?"

But I'm beyond reason or caring about his pain or his impossible position.

Rage burns through me like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.

I grab the crystal paperweight from his desk and hurl it at the window.

It strikes the reinforced glass with a satisfying crash, spider-webbing the surface but not breaking through.

"I hate you!" I scream, sweeping his carefully arranged papers to the floor. "I hate all of this!"

I overturn his chair, sending it clattering into the bookshelf. Leather-bound volumes rain down—Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, all the Russian classics he insisted I read to understand my heritage. Now, they lie scattered like broken promises.

"Kira, stop this at once?—"

But I can't stop. I tear at the curtains and claw at the family photographs lining his desk. My manicured nails leave scratches on the mahogany surface as I rake them across the wood.

"He's a killer, Papa! A butcher! And you want me to share his bed, bear his children?—"

The study door bursts open. Two of Papa's bodyguards fill the doorframe—Luka and Sergey, men who've been part of our household since I was a child. They look uncomfortable but determined as they step into the wreckage of the room.

"Take her to her room," Papa says quietly. "And lock the door. She needs time to accept this."

"No!" I lunge for the desk drawer where I know Papa keeps a gun, but Viktor's massive hands close around my waist, lifting me off the ground like I weigh nothing. "Let me go! I won't marry him! I'll kill myself first!"

Sergey opens the door wider as Luka carries me through it, my legs kicking uselessly in the air. I claw at his arms, but his grip is iron-strong, immovable.