Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Artyom
Boris Petrov looks exactly how I remember him—too big for his suit, too loud for the room, a man built to fill space and ruin the air around him.
He walks like he still owns every street he ever stepped on; the fabric strains over his shoulders like it’s trying to escape.
The smell of smoke and expensive aftershave hits me as he approaches, and my stomach turns on itself.
Every step he takes grates on me. I can already hear the arrogance in his voice before he even opens his mouth.
When he finally reaches me, he grabs my hand in a grip that’s meant to hurt.
It’s a petty move, the kind of thing he does to remind people of his power.
I don’t flinch, and I know it annoys him because his knuckles tighten for a beat before he lets go.
The smile that follows is too wide, his teeth flashing gold when he grins, and all I can think about is how much I’d like to knock one out.
He looks pleased with himself, proud of the little performance, like he’s checking whether the old intimidation still works. All it does is remind me why I could never marry into his family.
“Artyom Morozov,” he says, voice carrying across the marble floor. “Didn’t think you’d have the balls to show your face here after the stunt you pulled.”
I let the words sit between us before replying. “Good to see you too, Boris.”
His eyes flick toward Kira. And just like that, the temperature shifts.
She’s standing half a step behind me, trying to hold herself straight under the weight of his stare. Her hands are at her sides, nails pressing into her palms. I can feel her pulse even without touching her—it’s in the way her chest rises, the way her throat moves when she swallows.
Boris doesn’t bother hiding the sneer that follows. “So, this is her? The nurse from Brooklyn?” He laughs under his breath, a sound too low to be friendly. “You replaced my daughter with… this?”
Something hot flickers up my spine, sharp and fast, before I can kill it. I’ve dealt with worse insults, bigger threats, but something about this feels different. Maybe it’s the way Kira freezes, or maybe it’s the satisfaction on his face when he sees it. Either way, it makes my hands itch.
Irina doesn’t say a word. She just stands beside her father like a statue, chin high, the smile gone from her mouth but still ghosting behind her eyes.
I shift just enough to block part of his view of Kira. My voice comes out low, steady, nothing like the anger crawling through my chest. “Watch your mouth, Petrov.”
He arches an eyebrow, mock amusement stretching across his face. “Touchy.” His gaze drags over Kira again, slower this time, like he’s inspecting something he already owns. “Don’t worry, girl, I’m not the one you need to impress. But I doubt he’ll be half as interested once the novelty wears off.”
The words hit harder than they should. Not because they matter, but because I see what they do to her. Kira’s jaw tightens; she looks down, then forces her eyes back up again, pretending she isn’t affected. It’s a small thing, that defiance, but it makes something in my chest pull tight.
I step closer, close enough that the scent of his aftershave burns my nose. “You’re out of line.”
“Out of line?” he repeats, laughing now. “You break off an alliance between two of the most powerful families in New York, and you call me out of line?”
His voice is rising, drawing attention. The lobby goes quieter, the sound of heels and conversations thinning into a low hum. Heads start to turn. I can feel Irina’s eyes on me, cool and sharp, and I know exactly what she’s thinking—don’t humiliate me more than you already have.
Kira stands just behind my shoulder, tense and still, her hand brushing against the side of my arm like she isn’t sure whether to hold on or move away.
I can feel the tremor in her breath every time Boris’s voice cuts through the air.
She’s trying to look composed, but I can see the faint color rising in her neck, the way she’s fighting to stay calm while being viciously attacked on all fronts. It makes me hate him even more.
I keep my tone level. “I never promised anything to you.”
He takes a step forward, close enough that I catch the sour trace of alcohol on his breath, and for a second I think he might actually try to swing. “Your father thought otherwise.”
“My father is not me.”
The silence that follows is the kind that hums in your bones. I can see the reflection of the chandelier light in the glass doors behind him, the faint tremor in his jaw as he decides whether to push this further.
Then, inevitably, he looks back at Kira. “She doesn’t look like much.”
Her chin lifts before I can stop it. I can almost feel the burn of her pride through the air between us.
“Good thing you’re not the one marrying me,” she says softly.
The sound of Mikhail choking on his laugh behind us breaks the tension for half a second, but Boris doesn’t find it funny. His eyes narrow, as he drags them from her to me, disbelief turning to something darker.
“You let her talk like that?” he says. “To me?”
I don’t answer right away. Part of me knows I should de-escalate, be the composed one, the man who doesn’t let pride dictate his moves. The other part, the one that’s been buried under years of silence and control, rises anyway.
“She doesn’t need my permission to speak,” I say.
The words land harder than a slap on his face and I’m loving it. A few people nearby stop pretending not to listen. Someone’s phone camera flickers at the edge of my vision.
Boris laughs again, but it’s not born out of humor. “You’ve gone soft, Morozov. I can see it. All that power, and now you let some girl from the streets talk for you.”
He steps closer until we’re almost chest to chest. I can feel his breath, the heat of it laced with vodka.
Kira moves before I do, just a fraction forward, like she’s going to say something, but I hold a hand slightly back to stop her. My jaw is tight enough to ache. “If you insult her again, you’ll regret it.”
He smirks. “There he is. The Pakhan. I was starting to think you’d left your balls back in Brooklyn.”
Mikhail shifts behind me, half-ready to step in. I raise a hand without looking at him. “Don’t.”
The urge to hit Boris is sharp, too easy to give in to. But I’ve learned what happens when you give in to that first rush. You lose control, and when men like us lose control, people die. Still, my patience is a thread about to snap.
“You’ve made your point,” I manage to say quietly.
“Not yet.” He looks past me again, straight at Kira. “You don’t belong here, girl. This world will eat you alive. You think wearing my daughter’s ring makes you safe? It just paints a bigger target on your back.”
Kira doesn’t move. She’s pale, but her voice is steady. “Then I’ll learn to belong.”
Something flickers in Boris’s eyes—surprise, maybe, or annoyance that she didn’t crumble. “She’s got a mouth,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You should keep it busy doing something else before it gets her killed.”
My vision narrows for a second, everything else fading but the sound of his voice. I don’t think. I just react. My hand is at his collar before I realize it, pulling him forward an inch. The sound of fabric tearing cuts through the quiet.
“Say that again,” I say, low enough that only he can hear.
He grins, even as my grip tightens. “Careful, boy. Cameras.”
He’s right. There are eyes everywhere, phones, whispers, the faint sound of a door closing somewhere behind us. I release him slowly and try to regain my composure. He straightens his jacket, brushing invisible dust from his lapel.
Irina finally steps forward. “Father.” Her voice is smooth but thin, stretched tight. “That’s enough.”
He doesn’t look at her, but he steps back half an inch, enough to acknowledge she exists. Then to me: “You’ll regret making enemies where you had friends, Artyom.”
“We’ve never been friends,” I say.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. There’s no noise, no movement, just the hum of the air conditioner and the faint echo of distant footsteps. I can feel Kira’s hand brush my arm, just the ghost of a touch, and it’s enough to pull me back from the edge.
Boris’s eyes follow the motion. He sees too much. “She’ll be your downfall,” he says quietly. “Mark my words.”
I don’t answer. I just watch him turn and walk away, his daughter following half a step behind. Irina’s eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second, unreadable. Then she’s gone.
The room exhales all at once. Conversations start again, the buzz of voices filling the space like water rushing into a cracked hull. Mikhail mutters something in Russian under his breath that sounds like “hell of a start.”
I don’t move. My pulse is still too high, the heat under my skin refusing to fade.
Kira’s standing beside me, staring at the marble floor like it holds all the answers she needs. Her hand is still hovering near my arm, as if she’s not sure she’s allowed to touch me. She doesn’t realize how much that hand steadies me.
“Are you all right?” I ask quietly.
She looks up, and the flash in her eyes almost stops me. “You didn’t have to defend me like that.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn’t,” she says, and her voice cracks slightly on the last word. “You just made it worse.”
She’s right, of course. The rational part of me knows that. But there’s something about seeing her standing there, small but hanging on to her pride, her pulse jumping at the base of her throat, that makes rationality useless.
“He insulted you.”
“He insulted everyone,” she says, finally meeting my gaze. “You just took it personally.”
I study her face, the quick rise and fall of her breath, the way she won’t look away even when she should. “You think I shouldn’t?”
“I think you don’t need to prove anything.”
The words hit me harder than I expect. For a moment, I forget we’re in a room full of people pretending not to watch us.
“Next time,” she says, softer now, “don’t make me the target of whatever game this is.”
“It’s not a game.”
She takes a step closer. “Feels like one.”
Her voice is calm, but her eyes aren’t. They’re bright, almost fevered, and I realize she’s shaking slightly. Not from fear, but from anger. From humiliation. From everything that just happened in front of half the lobby.
“You handled yourself fine,” I say.
“Don’t patronize me, Artyom.”
I almost smile at that. “You really have no idea who you just talked back to, do you?”
“I don’t care who he is.”
I lean in, just enough for her to feel it. “You should.”
She doesn’t move. “And you should stop thinking everyone has to be afraid of you.”
For a second, all I can hear is the sound of her breathing. She smells like something clean and familiar, like soap and a trace of fear that somehow makes me want to pull her closer instead of push her away.
“Careful, Kira,” I murmur. “You’re testing limits you don’t understand.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t back down. “Then explain them to me.”
The heat that flares between us is almost tangible. Every instinct in me wants to end this conversation in a way that would make it worse—press her against the nearest wall until she forgets how to talk. But there are still eyes, whispers, cameras. I can feel them all.
I exhale slowly, step back. “We’re done here.”
She crosses her arms. “You mean, we embarrassed you enough for one day.”
I meet her gaze. “No. I mean before I do something I’ll actually regret.”
Her throat tightens and I assume it’s because she doesn’t know if I mean hitting Boris or kissing her. Maybe I don’t either.
“Come on,” I say finally, nodding toward the elevator. “Let’s go to our room.”
We walk side by side through the lobby. Every step feels like dragging gravity itself. Mikhail trails behind, muttering something about needing a drink. People part for us as we move, but I can still feel their eyes, the whisper of conversation snapping back into place as soon as we pass.
Halfway to the elevator, I glance at the reflection in the polished marble wall. Kira’s looking straight ahead, her expression carved in steel, but her hands are trembling. I want to take them, but I don’t.
The elevator doors slide open. We step inside. The metal closes around us with a quiet hiss that sounds too much like relief. For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. The mirrored walls throw our reflections back at us—me, composed but burning inside; her, small but fierce, lips pressed tight.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “Could’ve gone worse.”
I let out a low breath, half a laugh. “Could it?”
She glances up at me. “At least no one died.”
“Yet.”
The corners of her mouth twitch. She’s trying not to smile, and the effort somehow makes it worse.
The elevator stops. The doors open to our floor. I don’t move right away. The quiet stretches, thick with something that feels too close to everything I’ve been trying not to feel since I met her.
“You did well,” I say.
She looks at me for a long time before answering. “So did you. Until you didn’t.”
The doors start to close again, and I catch them with my hand. “Go inside, Kira. I’ll join you later.”
She steps out, brushing past me, the side of her arm grazing my chest. The touch is accidental, but it burns.
I stay in the elevator until the doors shut completely. Only then do I let the tension out of my shoulders. My reflection in the metal looks like someone else—someone younger, less in control. Someone I thought I’d buried years ago.
I can still hear the murmur of voices from earlier, the echo of Boris’s laughter, Irina’s silent disapproval, Kira’s quiet defiance. And suddenly, I realize how ridiculous the whole thing must’ve looked. A public scene, a family drama, all unfolding under chandeliers and crystal.
I press the button for the top floor, watching the numbers climb.
Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, it hits me that we just turned a business alliance into a goddamn soap opera. And for the first time in years, I have no idea how to fix it.