Chapter 12
TWELVE
ANYA
The car slows beneath a canopy of gold light and cameras.
I sit between Papa and Mikhail in the back seat, Dmitri in front, the city reflecting in the tinted glass like something distant and unreal. The building ahead glows with curated elegance, all marble steps and red carpet and quiet wealth pretending it is benevolent.
Papa adjusts his cufflinks once, deliberate. Mikhail checks his watch. Dmitri scans the entrance before the car even fully stops.
No one says anything.
My phone vibrates in my purse. The timing makes my pulse jump. I pull it out and glance down.
Riot: You look beautiful.
The air in my lungs shifts. He hasn’t even seen me yet. I haven’t stepped out of the car. My fingers tighten slightly around the phone. I type before I can overthink it.
Me: You haven’t even seen me.
Riot: I don’t need to.
My chest tightens and my stomach flutters. This is not the time to think of him, but I can’t deny that he has been taking up more space in my mind than anyone ever has.
The driver opens the door and the night air is cool when I step out, fabric sliding over my legs as I rise. The black dress falls exactly the way it should. Clean lines. No apology. Diamond earrings catching the flash of cameras.
Papa steps out beside me, composed and unreadable. Dmitri and Mikhail flank us instinctively. The lights are blinding for a moment. Microphones are extended and our names are called. Cameras flash as pictures are taken.
The ballroom doors are open ahead, spilling light and music into the foyer.
I step inside, posture straight, expression neutral, scanning without appearing to.
I do not look for Konstantin. I look for him in the sea of people.
I finally spot him near the far side of the room, standing in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo.
The air leaves my lungs. He was beautiful before.
In denim, leather, and biker boots. But seeing him like this is something else entirely.
The tuxedo fits him like it was designed for his body.
Broad shoulders contained by sharp lines.
White shirt crisp against his skin. Dark hair pushed back, clean-shaven jaw carved in candlelight and crystal.
He looks less like a biker and more like something deliberate and devastating.
He does not look out of place, he looks inevitable, as if this room rearranged itself around him.
His gaze finds me immediately, direct and unwavering, and the noise of the ballroom dulls to a distant hum.
For a fraction of a second, I forget why we are here.
He doesn’t smile. He simply looks at me as though he is verifying something, as if he needs to see with his own eyes that I am steady.
I am. My phone vibrates again in my hand.
Riot: You’re staring.
I don’t realize I am until my cheeks warm. I type back without looking away.
Me: So are you.
He finally allows himself the faintest curve of his mouth and the sight of it does something reckless to my pulse.
Mikhail shifts closer to me subtly. “Is he going to keep looking at you like that all night?”
“Yes,” I say without thinking.
Mikhail exhales slowly. “Good.”
Across the room, Konstantin stands near a cluster of investors and politicians, immaculate in his own tuxedo, posture regal, expression smooth. He sees me. His smile is perfect yet it does not reach his eyes. He’s a snake dressed in an expensive suit.
Riot shifts slightly, adjusting his cuff as if bored, but I can see the coiled tension in him even from here. He belongs in a fight, not belong in a ballroom. Yet somehow, tonight, he looks more dangerous in a tux than he ever did in his cut.
My phone vibrates once more.
Riot: I don’t like the way he’s looking at you.
My pulse steadies.
Me: I don’t care
Across the room, Riot’s gaze darkens.
The ballroom is louder than it should be. Crystal and silk and expensive perfume trying to disguise the fact that half the people in this room are measuring territory instead of tasting champagne.
The Iron Reapers are here. Not just Riot.
Mason stands near the bar in a tux that looks almost offensive on him, broad shoulders straining against clean lines that were never meant to contain men like that.
Blade is near one of the pillars, expression unreadable, scanning exits out of habit.
Rev lingers near a cluster of guests, smiling like he belongs, eyes sharp as glass beneath the charm.
Even Dagger is here, posture relaxed, gaze anything but.
They look wrong in tuxedos. They also look dangerous in a way that does not require weapons.
Papa and Mason agreed this was the best move. Visible alignment. No ambiguity. No room for Konstantin to pretend this is isolated or emotional. I am not entirely convinced flooding a ballroom with armed bikers is subtle. But that decision is above my pay grade tonight. I have enough to manage.
I feel Konstantin before I see him. The shift in energy is immediate. Conversations subtly slow. Heads angle just enough to observe without appearing to. He begins moving toward us, but he does not reach me first. His parents do.
Mrs. Orlovsky arrives in a gown that cost more than most houses, posture immaculate, diamonds resting at her throat like proof of lineage.
Mr. Orlovsky walks beside her, expression pleasant and carefully neutral.
“Anastasiya,” his mother says warmly, as if we are greeting at a holiday dinner instead of standing on a fracture line. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you,” I reply evenly. “So do you.”
Her gaze lingers just a second too long, searching for cracks. Mr. Orlovsky inclines his head toward Papa. “It has been too long.”
“Too long,” Papa agrees smoothly. There is history in that exchange. Decades of calculated cooperation. Shared enemies. Shared profits. Shared expectations.
Mrs. Orlovsky reaches for my hands lightly, the gesture maternal and performative at once. “We were so relieved when we heard you were safe.”
Safe. I hold her gaze. “I was fortunate,” I say.
Her fingers tighten slightly before releasing me.
“We are grateful to everyone who assisted in your recovery,” Mr. Orlovsky adds, eyes flicking briefly toward the Reapers across the room. The message is subtle but unmistakable. We see them, we acknowledge their presence, and we do not approve.
“This evening should calm unnecessary speculation,” Mrs. Orlovsky says gently.
“Should it?” I ask.
Her smile does not falter. “Of course. Stability reassures investors.”
Konstantin finally steps into place beside them. He looks impeccable. Controlled. Unbothered.
Only I notice the tightness at the corners of his eyes. “Anastasiya,” he says smoothly.
“Konstantin.”
His gaze flickers once, almost imperceptibly, toward Riot across the room before returning to me. “You look radiant,” he says.
“I feel clear,” I reply.
His jaw tightens by a fraction. Mrs. Orlovsky’s hand settles lightly at her son’s arm. “We are all very proud of how composed you’ve handled recent events,” she says to me.
I meet her eyes. “Composure,” I say softly, “is learned.”
Konstantin steps slightly closer, enough that cameras will catch it, not enough to touch me. “We will speak later,” he murmurs under his breath.
“In public,” I reply just as quietly. His expression flickers, just for a second.
I can feel Riot watching from across the room, but I don’t look at him, not yet. Tonight is a chessboard, and everyone is finally in position.
The host’s voice carries over the orchestra, polished and smooth, inviting everyone to take their seats. Applause follows, measured and controlled, and servers begin guiding guests toward their assigned places.
Papa offers me his arm, and we move together toward our table.
I am seated between Konstantin and my father.
Konstantin to my left, immaculate in his tuxedo, posture composed, expression effortless for the cameras.
Papa to my right, solid and unreadable. Across from us sit Mr. and Mrs. Orlovsky, their smiles curated and calm.
Dmitri and Mikhail complete the table, positioned close enough to observe everything without appearing defensive.
Across the ballroom, the Reapers occupy their own table.
Their wives sit beside them, elegant and alert, eyes taking in more than they reveal.
Mason leans toward his wife as if sharing something private, but his gaze scans the room in steady sweeps.
Blade’s wife appears relaxed, though nothing in her posture is unguarded.
Rev’s woman smiles at something he murmurs, yet her attention never fully leaves the perimeter.
The separation is strategic. We are aligned without being merged. Present without being dependent.
Konstantin leans slightly toward me as wine is poured. “This is appropriate,” he murmurs.
“For whom?” I ask quietly.
“For optics.” I lift my glass but do not drink.
Across the room, Riot sits angled in his chair, tuxedo sharp, posture deceptively loose.
One arm rests along the back of his seat, but his gaze is fixed and aware.
He has positioned himself with a clear line of sight to me, to Konstantin, and to every exit.
For a brief second, our eyes meet. I wish I was sitting beside him, his arm stretched across the back of my chair, our thighs touching.
I can imagine him leaning in to tell me something just between us.
Instead I’m next to my “fiancé” who probably had me kidnapped and beaten to teach me a lesson.
We sit, and the performance begins. Dinner is served in quiet, synchronized precision.
White-gloved servers move in smooth lines, placing plates as if choreography matters as much as cuisine.
The first course is something delicate and artfully arranged, a sculpture disguised as food. No one is actually here for the food.