Page 5

Mikhail

C old cases never die—they only hibernate, waiting for the first thaw of spring to rise again.

I stand at the window of my office, watching New York spread beneath me like a crime scene map, lights flickering in patterns only I can decipher.

My wedding is three days away. A marriage arranged like furniture in a room no one will ever visit for pleasure.

Yet I find myself thinking of Kira's eyes—how they flash defiance even as her small body tenses with fear.

The door opens behind me without a knock. Only one person dares.

"Misha," Vanya's voice carries the weight of Los Angeles sunshine and blood money. My cousin has always been the handsome one—charm where I have menace, smiles where I have scars.

"You're early," I say, not turning from the window. The crystal tumbler in my hand catches the light, amber liquid gleaming like trapped fire.

"Some things can't wait." He crosses the room, his reflection appearing beside mine in the glass. Ten years in California have lightened his hair but not his eyes. Those remain Zhukov's eyes —calculating, cold when necessary. "Not even for your wedding day."

I turn now, studying him. We grew up together, fought together, and buried his brother Artem together after the Novikovs tore him to pieces and sent him to us in a box. That was fourteen years ago. The memory still tastes like metal in my mouth.

"Speak," I command, my accent thickening as it always does when family business arises.

Vanya reaches inside his jacket—a sleek Italian cut, too light for New York in February—and produces a folded piece of paper. "Your bride has more enemies than you know."

"Anton's enemies are my concern now," I reply, taking the paper. The list of names makes my jaw tighten. Three are crossed out. Two are circled in red.

"These are not just Anton's enemies." Vanya's voice drops. "Someone is watching her movements. Following her to her art classes, the boutique, and even that little café she visits. My men spotted them and recognized them as professionals."

The glass in my hand threatens to shatter under my grip. "How close?"

"Close enough that I wouldn't wait until after the honeymoon to address it." His eyes meet mine, and I see the ghost of Alexei between us. "This isn't just business, Misha. The chatter suggests they want her before the wedding. Before she becomes untouchable as a Zhukov."

I drain my whiskey, feeling it burn a path to where my heart used to be. The part of me that died with Alina stirs unexpectedly. I had promised myself never to feel that kind of fear again, yet here it is, crawling up my spine.

"You've tripled security?" I ask though I know Vanya would have already done so.

" Da . But these are not amateurs we're dealing with." He takes the paper back, folding it precisely. "The bride you're getting for political alliance may become a corpse before she's even a wife if we don't move now."

Something primal rises in me at his words. The thought of Kira—defiant, beautiful Kira with her books and paintings and quiet strength—becoming another body I must bury makes my blood turn to ice.

"Tell me everything," I say, moving to my desk. "And then call Dmitri. My father should know that his new daughter-in-law's dowry might cost more than he bargained for."

Vanya's expression darkens. "And the bride? What will you tell her?"

I think of Kira's face yesterday evening, how she looked at me across the dinner table—like I was a puzzle she couldn't quite solve. As if she were searching for something human beneath my carefully constructed exterior.

"Nothing," I decide, the word heavy on my tongue. "Kira will never know how close death came to her door. That is the first gift of many I will give her as my wife."

Vanya moves to the bar cart without invitation, pouring himself three fingers of vodka. The bottleneck clinks against crystal—a sound that reminds me of church bells and funeral dirges.

"The Novikov family sends their regards," he says, downing the drink in one fluid motion. The words hang in the air like smoke from a gun barrel.

My blood turns to permafrost. "Repeat that."

"You heard me." Vanya sets the glass down with deliberate care. "Kazimir Novikov was spotted at JFK yesterday. Flying in from Prague with a clean passport, but my contacts recognized him. The same Kazimir who ordered his men to kill Alina."

The room tilts slightly, reality reshaping itself around this new information. I've spent fourteen years waiting for Kazimir to surface again, like a hunter tracking wounded prey through endless winter. Now he’s returned, drawn by the scent of my impending happiness.

"They think striking at Kira will cripple both families," I murmur, pieces clicking into place. "Anton loses his daughter, I lose my bride, and the alliance crumbles."

"Clever bastards." Vanya's accent thickens with old rage. "They've been patient, waiting for the perfect moment when you had something to lose again."

I walk to my safe, fingers working the combination from muscle memory. Inside, nestled between stacks of cash and legal documents, lies my Makarov—the same gun I used to kill my first man at seventeen. Its weight feels like absolution in my palm.

"How many men did Kazimir bring?"

"At least six that we've identified. Professional killers, not street thugs." Vanya watches me check the weapon's chamber. "They're staying in a warehouse in Sheepshead Bay, near the docks––Novikov territory. I suspect the families have joined together."

The irony tastes bitter. Sheepshead Bay, where Alina used to buy flowers from a little Russian grandmother who spoke no English. Where I first learned that love could be weaponized against you.

"Kira doesn't leave the penthouse until after the ceremony," I decide, holstering the gun beneath my jacket. "Double the security detail. I want men on every floor, every exit, every goddamn window."

"And if she objects to being caged?"

I think of her auburn hair catching lamplight, the way she argues with me like I'm just a man instead of a monster. Three days. I need to keep her alive for three more days, and then she'll have the Zhukov name as armor.

"She'll object," I say quietly. "But she'll be breathing to do it."