Ruthless Dynasty (The Empire of Vows #3)

Chapter 1 Sasha

Sasha

The Fabergé egg in front of me is a fake. And I’m about to ruin someone’s very expensive night.

I adjust the jeweler’s loupe and lean closer over the Imperial Winter Egg. The craftsmanship is exquisite. Whoever made this forgery knew what they were doing.

But the gold alloy is wrong, and the microscopic maker’s marks don’t match Carl Fabergé’s workshop standards. Close, but not close enough to fool someone who spent two years authenticating pieces at Christie’s London.

“Ms. Kozlov?” Artur Andrin, the gallery owner, hovers at my elbow like a nervous bird. “What do you think?”

“Give me another minute.”

I tried booking a plane ticket back to London three times in the past two weeks.

Every time, I stare at the booking page, picture Knightsbridge and Christie’s, and almost press confirm.

Then I hit “cancel” and unpack again.

Leaving Moscow felt wrong after watching my brother Alexei marry Mila at the estate. My brothers have spent years keeping me safe from the uglier parts of our family business.

They never asked me to come home and help shoulder the weight they carry. Maybe that’s why I stay—to prove I’m more than the baby sister they have to shield from reality.

“Well?” Andrin’s voice climbs an octave. “Is it authentic?”

I straighten and remove the loupe. “Unfortunately, no. It’s a superb forgery, probably created within the past decade using period-appropriate materials. But it’s not genuine.”

The blood drains from Andrin’s face. “That’s impossible. I have provenance going back to—”

“Then it’s forged, too.” I nod toward the guests. “You haven’t announced the acquisition yet, right?”

“The unveiling is in twenty minutes.”

“Cancel it.” I pull out my phone to photograph the piece for my records. “Unless you want to explain to your collectors why you’re selling them a fake.”

Andrin makes a strangled sound and rushes off to do damage control. I snap a few more photos of the egg’s base, where the inconsistencies are most obvious. Christie’s taught me to document everything, especially the fakes.

Someone clears their throat behind me.

“That’s quite the eye you have.”

I turn and find myself face-to-face with Tony Haugh, the American journalist who asked entirely too many questions at Alexei’s wedding reception.

The same man my eldest brother, Dmitri, pulled me aside to warn me about with that look—the one that says this is an order, not a suggestion, especially when it comes to older men who sniff around his baby sister.

When the family Pakhan tells you to stay away from someone, you obey.

Even if that someone has crystal blue eyes that tracked me all night like I was the only person in the room. Even if his slow, easy smile made my stomach flip when he introduced himself at the bar.

And now that he’s standing this close, something I didn’t fully clock at the wedding snaps into focus.

Tony Haugh is big.

Not bodybuilder—just solid. Broad through the shoulders, thick in the chest, the kind of size that makes a crowded room feel smaller.

He’s taller than I remembered, too. Close enough that I have to tilt my chin to meet his eyes, and I hate that my body registers it as safety and danger at the same time.

He’s in a charcoal suit that fits him well, just not quite as perfectly as my brothers’ bespoke tailoring.

His hair is shorter since the wedding, cleaner at the sides, and a little longer on top.

The new style sharpens his jawline and draws attention to the thin scar bisecting his left eyebrow…

and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes that say he’s got a few years on me.

He watches me with the same focused stare he had while grilling me about my family’s “legitimate business expansion strategies” over caviar and vodka, and I hate how much my body likes being on the receiving end of it.

I slide my phone into my clutch and reply, “I didn’t realize you were interested in Russian Imperial art, Mr. Haugh.” My tone makes it clear I don’t mean the egg.

“I’m interested in a lot of things.” He steps closer, and I catch other details I missed at the wedding. The silver chain at his throat flashes under the light. His hands are strong, rough with old calluses that don’t fit a white-collar job.

The way he holds himself is balanced and coiled, always aware. It reminds me more of Dmitri’s security team than any journalist. “Especially stories about provenance fraud in the Moscow art market. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“That depends on whether you’re planning to quote me.”

“Off the record. For now.” He flashes me a smirk and a quick wink, and God help me, my heart skips. The reaction Dmitri would lose his mind over.

“What brings an American journalist to a gallery opening? This seems outside your usual beat.”

“My usual beat is wherever the story takes me. And right now, I’m following a lead about a recent acquisition that may have connections to—”

The front entrance explodes inward before he can finish.

Four men in black masks and tactical gear pour through the shattered doors, automatic weapons raised. Guests scream and scatter, champagne flutes shattering as they run. One of the masked men fires a burst into the ceiling, and plaster rains down on the fleeing crowd.

Tony grabs my arm and yanks me behind a marble column as bullets rip through the display cases I was standing beside seconds ago.

Glass explodes in glittering showers, and a Kandinsky original drops from the wall with a hole through its center.

“Stay down,” Tony commands, but I’m already moving.

My brothers didn’t raise a helpless princess.

I crouch low and scan for exits, counting attackers and working out angles the way Boris drilled into me during those summers at the estate, back when Dmitri thought I was learning ballet.

He was a police captain before he became Dmitri’s security chief. Taught me to assess threats, find cover, and never assume the first exit is the safest one.

Two break left toward the main gallery. One stays on the entrance. The last one makes straight for the vault…

This isn’t random violence. They know exactly what they want.

Tony moves before I can blink.

He doesn’t rush—he times it, sliding out from behind the column the second the nearest attacker’s attention flicks to the crowd. His fist drives into the man’s throat.

The man drops, gagging. Tony catches the falling rifle by the sling, yanks it close, and uses the stock like a hammer against the second man’s face. Blood sprays. The attacker folds to the floor.

No journalist moves like that.

The third man swings his weapon toward Tony, but he’s already there, inside his guard. He takes a glancing hit—metal scraping his forearm. He doesn’t even flinch, just wrenches the rifle free with brutal efficiency that makes my breath catch.

Three seconds.

That’s how long it takes him to disable three armed men.

The fourth attacker—the one heading for the vault—pivots and opens fire.

Tony slams into me, and we hit the floor hard behind an overturned display pedestal.

His body covers mine, every inch of solid muscle pressed against me as bullets punch through wood and shred the carpet inches from my head.

His heartbeat thuds against my spine, steady and controlled, like he’s done this before.

“Don’t move,” he says into my ear.

Like I could move even if I wanted to. Solid muscle and heat pin me in place, his body a shield between me and every bullet.

But then, the shooting stops just as suddenly as it started, followed by the unmistakable sound of an empty magazine. He’s out of ammo.

Tony shoves up hard and moves. He draws a handgun from under his jacket—fast, practiced, not dramatic. The grip is scuffed and familiar. He moves forward in short, efficient steps, using the wreckage for angles instead of charging straight at his target.

The last one runs.

Smart.

Whatever they came for, they didn’t get it.

Sirens wail in the distance, growing closer. The three disabled men don’t move. One is unconscious, and two are groaning and clutching injuries. Tony crouches beside the nearest one and pats him down.

I push myself up to sit with shaking hands. Not from fear; from adrenaline. “What the hell was that?”

Tony doesn’t look at me as he searches the attackers. “Pretty bold, huh? Hitting a gallery during an opening.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I stand and brush plaster dust from my dress. My heart hammers as I clarify, “You just dropped three armed men in less than five seconds.”

He finally looks up with a prideful smile and asks, “You okay?”

“You’re not a journalist,” I accuse, shaking my head.

“Sure I am.” He stands and slides the weapon back into his jacket. Now that I’m looking, the holster outline at his side is impossible to miss. “I just have varied life experiences.”

“Life experiences.” I let out a laugh that sounds a little too high. “Is that what we’re calling advanced combat training?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but Andrin stumbles out from his hiding spot, white-faced and babbling in rapid Russian about calling the police.

More sirens join the first. This place will be swarming with law enforcement in minutes, and the last thing I need is my family name tied to another crime scene.

Tony seems to reach the same conclusion. He gently takes my elbow and steers me toward a service exit half-hidden behind a curtain.

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here before the police arrive and start asking questions you probably don’t want to answer, considering who your brothers are.

” He pushes through the door into a narrow service corridor.

“Unless you want to explain to them why Dmitri Kozlov’s little sister was authenticating Imperial eggs at a gallery that just got robbed. ”

We slip into the alley behind the gallery. Cool air hits my overheated skin, and I drag in a breath to steady myself. My dress is ruined—torn at the hem, dust everywhere—and my carefully pinned hair is falling out.

Tony releases my elbow and scans the alley. Even now, in the aftermath, he’s checking for threats.

“Who are you?” I ask, taking a long step backward.

“Just as I told you at your brother’s wedding. Tony Haugh, journalist with—”

I slice a hand through the air, cutting him off. “Stop lying.”

He cocks his head, and there’s that infuriatingly gorgeous smirk again. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

“Journalists don’t carry concealed weapons or clear rooms like Spetsnaz operatives.” I step closer, and he doesn’t retreat. “They don’t move the way you do. Or react the way you do. So, who are you, and what were you doing at my brother’s wedding, asking questions about our business?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Former military. Special operations.” He shrugs. “I got out a few years ago, needed a career change. Journalism seemed like a good fit. Still gets me into interesting places, still lets me ask questions people don’t want to answer.”

It’s still not the whole truth. I can hear the omissions in what he’s not saying. But I suspect it’s the most I’m going to get out of him.

“And the gun?”

“Moscow’s a dangerous city for foreign journalists asking uncomfortable questions. Your brothers know that better than anyone.”

There it is again—that pointed reference to my family. He’s fishing for information, trying to see what I’ll reveal, just like he did at the reception.

“My brothers are legitimate businessmen,” I say automatically, even if neither of us believes it.

Tony laughs. “Sure, they are. And I’m just a humble journalist with no weapons training who got lucky tonight.”

“Why were you at the gallery?”

“I told you. Following a lead about—”

“About what? And don’t give me vague answers. You knew something was going to happen.”

“I had suspicions.” He glances toward the mouth of the alley, where blue lights now flash against the buildings. “There’s been chatter about a crew targeting high-value acquisitions. When I heard Andrin was unveiling something significant tonight, I thought it might be worth checking out.”

“Chatter from where?”

“Sources.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting right now.” He steps in, and suddenly we’re standing too close. “You should go home, Ms. Kozlov. This isn’t something you want to be involved in.”

I lift my chin and square my shoulders. “I’m already involved. They shot at me.”

“They shot at everyone. You’re not special.” But his eyes say otherwise, and I realize he knows who I am and why my presence at that gallery might be significant to certain people.

He steps back then, putting some space between us, and I try to tell myself the distance doesn’t feel like a loss. “Go home, Sasha. Tell your brothers what happened. Let them handle it.”

The way he says my first name so familiarly should annoy me. Instead, it sends a spark through my stomach.

He turns and walks toward the alley entrance, moving with the same grace that set off alarm bells in my head. “Maybe next time you’re authenticating Imperial treasures, do it somewhere with better security.”

“Next time?” I call after him. “You think there’ll be a next time?”

He looks back over his shoulder, and the streetlights catch his face at an angle that makes him look dangerous and handsome all at once. “With your family? Always.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing into the Moscow night like a ghost.

I stand alone in the alley, my heart still pounding, my dress ruined, and my mind racing with questions I can’t answer. Tony Haugh is hiding something. And somehow, whatever he’s investigating involves my family.

This was supposed to be a simple consultation job. Authenticate an egg, collect my fee, and maybe network with some of Moscow’s collectors.

Instead, I got shot at and saved by a man who fights like a mercenary but claims to be a journalist. Who knows too much about my family and not enough about keeping his cover story straight.

My brothers have spent years protecting me from this world. Maybe it’s time I stopped letting them.