Chapter 5 Alexi
ALEXI
Ihate these things.
Charity galas. Fundraisers. Whatever bullshit excuse Nikolai comes up with to parade the Ivanov name around Boston’s elite. Tonight, it’s something about children’s hospitals—a worthy cause, terrible timing.
My phone burns in my pocket. The Phantom’s been quiet for thirty-six hours. Too quiet. They’re planning something, I can feel it in the spaces between lines of code. I should be home, monitoring systems, waiting for their next move.
Instead, I’m trapped in a penguin suit at the Four Seasons, nursing overpriced champagne and making small talk with people who think cryptocurrency is cutting-edge.
“You look miserable.” Dmitri materializes beside me, Tash on his arm, looking far too amused.
“Observant.”
“Miserable doesn’t cover it,” I say. “This is torture. Actual psychological warfare. I’d rather be waterboarded.”
“Dramatic.” Tash sips her champagne, eyes scanning the ballroom. “Though I suppose standing still must be agony for you. What’s it been, thirty seconds without checking your phone?”
I pull out my phone on instinct, then catch her knowing smirk. “Fuck off.”
“Language,” Dmitri warns, but there’s amusement in his voice. “We’re representing the family tonight.”
“Yeah? Where’s our fearless leader?” I scan the crowd, spotting Nikolai by the bar with Sofia tucked against his side. “Oh, right, being disgustingly devoted. Erik’s probably making Katarina blush somewhere. And here I am, third wheeling it with you two lovebirds.”
“You could mingle,” Tash suggests. “There’s a lovely tech heiress by the—”
“Not interested.”
“You didn’t even look.”
“Don’t need to.” I check my phone again. Nothing. The silence from Phantom grates against my nerves like nails on a server rack. “I’ve got more important things to focus on.”
“The mysterious hacker?” Dmitri’s tone sharpens. “Any progress?”
“They’ve been quiet since their last breach. Radio silence for thirty-six hours.”
“That concerns you.”
“Everything about this concerns me.” I scroll through my monitoring feeds with one hand, champagne forgotten in the other. “They’re too good. Too patient. Most hackers can’t resist showing off, but Phantom just—”
My phone vibrates. Alert from the financial system.
Then another.
Three more in quick succession.
“Shit.” My fingers fly across the screen, pulling up live feeds. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“What?” Dmitri moves closer, blocking the view of nearby guests.
“They’re hitting us. Right now. Multiple entry points I thought I’d—” I watch in real-time as elegant code slips through my defenses like water through a net. “How did they know about the backup servers in Frankfurt?”
“Alexi—”
“I have to go.” I’m already moving toward the exit, pulling up remote access protocols. “Tell Nikolai the Phantom just declared war.”
“The gala isn’t over—”
“Neither is my patience.” I don’t look back, too focused on the catastrophe unfolding across my screens.
“Nikolai says you need to stay at least an hour.”
“Nikolai can—”
The words die in my throat.
She walks through the entrance like she owns the room, and maybe she does, because suddenly I can’t remember what I was saying.
Platinum blonde hair swept into an elegant updo.
A black dress that’s more armor than fabric, sleek and dangerous.
But it’s her eyes that catch me—ice blue, scanning the crowd with the kind of calculated awareness that doesn’t belong at charity events.
“Earth to Alexei.” Dmitri waves a hand in front of my face.
I barely register it. She moves through clusters of conversation with practiced ease, accepting champagne from a waiter without breaking stride. There’s something off about her presence here. Too self-contained. Too aware.
“Who is that?”
Tash follows my gaze. “No idea. Haven’t seen her before.”
I don’t wait for more analysis. My feet carry me across the ballroom floor before my brain catches up with the decision. The Phantom evaporates from my thoughts. The code, the breach, the hunt—all of it dissolves into background noise.
She’s examining a painting on the far wall when I reach her. Abstract piece, probably worth more than most people’s houses. She doesn’t turn, but her spine straightens slightly. Aware of my approach.
“Rothko.” I stop beside her, close enough to catch her scent—a clean scent like ozone and expensive soap. “Most people find him boring.”
“Most people don’t understand minimalism.” Her voice is smooth, controlled. She still doesn’t look at me. “They need their art to be obvious.”
“And you don’t?”
Now she turns, and the full force of those blue eyes hits me like a system crash. Sharp. Intelligent. Dangerous.
“I prefer things that make me work for it.”
My pulse kicks up in a way that has nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with the challenge in her tone.
“Alexei Ivanov.” I extend my hand, watching for recognition. Everyone in Boston knows the name.
Her expression doesn’t flicker. She takes my hand—cool skin, firm grip, gone too quickly.
“Iris Mitchell.”
The name means nothing to me, which is rare in Boston circles. Everyone here is connected—old money, new money, criminal money. But Iris Mitchell? Blank.
That should bother me. Instead, it intrigues me.
“First time at one of these?” I gesture to the ballroom, the clusters of Boston’s elite pretending they care about sick children instead of tax deductions.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’re not networking.” I lean against the wall beside her, adopting the casual posture that usually makes women lean in. “Everyone else here is working the room. You’re studying it.”
“Maybe I’m just antisocial.”
“Or maybe you’re smart enough to know these people aren’t worth the effort.” I flash the grin that’s gotten me out of more trouble than I can count. “Present company excluded, naturally.”
Her lips curve slightly. Not quite a smile. “Naturally.”
“So, what brings you here? If it is not the sparkling conversation and overpriced champagne.”
“Curiosity.” She shifts, creating more distance between us. Deliberate. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”
“The Ivanov charity circuit?” I move closer, closing the gap she created. “It’s mostly performance art. My brother insists we maintain appearances.”
“How exhausting for you.”
There’s something in her tone—amusement, maybe mockery. Like she knows something I don’t.
“I manage.” I study her profile as she turns back to the Rothko. Sharp jawline. No jewelry except small diamond studs. Everything about her screams minimalist. “What do you do, Iris Mitchell? Besides crash charity galas and critique abstract expressionism.”
“Cybersecurity consulting.”
My interest sharpens. “Yeah? For whom?”
“Various clients. No one you’d know.” She sips her champagne, still not looking at me. “Mostly financial institutions. Boring corporate work.”
“I doubt anything you do is boring.”
Now she looks at me fully, and there’s something calculating in her gaze. Like she’s running algorithms behind those blue eyes.
“You’d be surprised. It’s mostly preventative measures. Stopping people from doing stupid things with their data.”
“Sounds tedious.”
“It pays well.” She pauses. “Though I imagine you wouldn’t know much about tedious work, would you? Being an Ivanov must open doors.”
The comment lands wrong. Not quite an insult, but close enough to sting.
“The name opens doors,” I admit. “What I do with those opportunities is all me.”
“And what do you do?”
“Systems architecture. Security protocols. Digital infrastructure.” I watch for recognition, for the moment where people usually realize I’m not just some spoiled bratva prince playing with computers.
Her expression doesn’t change. “Impressive.”
But she doesn’t sound impressed. She sounds... amused.
My phone buzzes again. Three alerts this time.
I silence it without looking. “Do I bore you, Mr. Ivanov?”
“Not even a little.” I pocket the phone and give her my full attention. “Though I’m starting to think you’re immune to my charm.”
“Your charm?” She tilts her head, studying me. “Is that what this is?”
“Usually works.”
“On whom? The socialites who giggle at everything you say?” She gestures toward a group of women across the room who’ve been shooting glances our way. “They’re not exactly a high bar.”
I laugh—can’t help it. “Ouch.”
“Truth hurts.”
“So does your complete indifference to my sparkling personality.” I lean closer, dropping my voice. “Most women find me irresistible.”
“Most women have low standards.”
“Christ.” I press a hand to my chest in mock pain. “You’re brutal.”
“I’m honest.” She finishes her champagne, setting the empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray with fluid grace. “There’s a difference.”
“Honesty wrapped in daggers is still brutal.”
“Would you prefer I pretend to be impressed?” Her eyes meet mine, direct and unflinching. “Bat my eyelashes and ask about your car?”
“I drive a Tesla.”
“How very predictable.”
“It’s practical—”
“It’s what every tech bro in Boston drives.” She smooths an invisible wrinkle from her dress. “Let me guess. Black. Upgraded autopilot. Custom sound system.”
She’s not wrong. Heat crawls up my neck.
“The sound system came with it.”
“Sure it did.” That almost-smile appears again. “What else? You probably have one of those ridiculous gaming chairs in your office. RGB lighting everywhere. Three monitors minimum.”
“Six monitors.”
“Of course.” She shakes her head. “Do you also have a mini fridge stocked with energy drinks and a concerning lack of real food?”
“Red Bull is a vitamin.”
“Red Bull is liquid regret.”
I grin despite myself. She’s sharp. Quick.
“You’ve known me ten minutes and already have my entire setup mapped out.”
“You’re not as complicated as you think.” She steps back, creating distance again. “None of you are.”
“Us?”
“Men like you. Smart enough to be dangerous, cocky enough to think you’re invincible.” Her gaze sweeps over me, clinical. “I’ve met a dozen versions of you.”
“Bet none of them were this good-looking.”
She laughs. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The ego.” She takes a step back. “Right on schedule.”
“It’s not ego if it’s fact.” I move with her, closing the distance. “And you still haven’t denied it.”
“Denied what?”
“That I’m the best-looking version you’ve met.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You’re relentless.”
“You have no idea.” I reach out, fingertips grazing her bare shoulder. Just a touch, testing.
She flinches. Subtle, but unmistakable. Steps back hard enough that her shoulders hit the wall.
“Don’t.”
The word cracks like a whip. Her entire body has gone rigid; chin lifted in defiance even as her pupils dilate. Fight response, not flight.
Interesting.
“Sorry.” I raise both hands, backing off. “Didn’t mean to—”
“I’m fine.” She straightens, smoothing her dress again. “Just not big on being touched by strangers.”
“We’re not strangers anymore. We’ve been talking for...” I check my watch. “Twelve minutes.”
“Twelve whole minutes.” Her voice drips sarcasm. “Practically childhood friends.”
“Give me twelve more and we’ll be best friends.”
“I doubt that.”
I lean against the wall beside her, careful to keep distance between us now. “You doubt my friendship potential?”
“I doubt your ability to be friends with any woman.” She angles her body slightly away. “You don’t want friendship.”
“What do I want?”
“Conquest.” She says it matter-of-factly, no judgment. “You want to win. I’m just the current challenge.”
“You think pretty highly of yourself.”
“I think realistically about men like you.”
“Alexi.” Dmitri’s voice cuts through our standoff. He appears at my shoulder, face carefully neutral but eyes sharp. “We have a situation.”
“I’m busy—”
“Now.” Not a request. Dmitri’s already moving back toward the exit.
I turn back to Iris, frustrated at the interruption. “Don’t move.”
“Excuse me?”
“Stay right here.” I point at the floor beneath her feet. “We’re not done.”
“We’re very done.”
“Twelve more minutes. You owe me.” I’m already backing away, following Dmitri. “Don’t disappear on me, Iris Mitchell.”
Dmitri’s already out the door before I catch up. “This better be good.”
“It’s not.” He doesn’t slow down, heading for the private conference room off the main ballroom. “The Phantom just dumped our entire Frankfurt server architecture on the dark web.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“Thirty seconds ago. Complete system breakdown. Every backup protocol, every failsafe—all of it public.” He opens the door to reveal Nikolai pacing, phone pressed to his ear.
“How?” I’m already pulling out my laptop, fingers flying across keys before I’m even seated. “I had triple encryption on those servers.”
“Clearly not enough.” Nikolai ends his call, face like granite. “Fix it.”
The code sprawls across my screen—elegant, vicious, perfectly executed. The Phantom didn’t just breach our system. They dissected it, understood every layer, and dismantled it with surgical precision.
“Son of a bitch.” I trace the attack vector, following digital breadcrumbs backward. “They’ve been inside for weeks. This whole time I thought I was chasing them; they were studying us.”
“Can you contain it?” Dmitri leans over my shoulder.
“I can try.” My fingers blur across the keyboard, deploying emergency protocols. “But they planned this. See here? They left backdoors in systems I haven’t even activated yet. They knew exactly where we’d pivot.”
Thirty minutes bleeds into forty-five. I reroute traffic, close vulnerabilities, and rebuild firewalls on the fly. The Phantom’s signature mocks me from every compromised line of code.
“There.” I slam the laptop shut. “Servers are isolated. Damage is done, but they can’t get deeper.”
“Good.” Nikolai straightens his cufflinks. “Now get back out there before anyone notices we’ve all disappeared.”
Right. The gala.
Iris.
I shove my laptop at Dmitri and bolt back to the ballroom, scanning for black dress and platinum hair. The crowd has thinned—it’s past midnight now. Small clusters remain, the diehards who turn every event into an excuse to drink.
No Iris.
I circle the entire room twice. Check the bathrooms. The coat check. The balcony overlooking the city.
Nothing.
She’s gone.
“Looking for someone?” Tash appears at my elbow, a knowing smile firmly in place.
“The woman I was talking to. Black dress, blonde—”
“The blonde?” She sips champagne. “Saw her slip out of the entrance not long after you left, and she didn’t come back.”
Of course she did. You can run, Iris, but I’ll find you, and next time you won’t brush me off.