Chapter 3 #2
"This is insane." Semyon checks his weapon for the third time in as many minutes. "You understand that, right? Walking into a room full of people who think you're dead—who might have wanted you dead—is categorically insane.
"Noted." I adjust my tie in the mirror of the safe house bathroom. The suit Semyon acquired fits perfectly—expensive, tailored, the kind of thing the old Maksim would have worn without thinking. Now it feels like a costume. "Your objection is registered."
I didn’t want to wear the suit, but Semyon reminded me the goal was to blend in as much as possible. I wasn’t sure how that was going to work. People were going to notice a dead man walking.
"Registered and ignored, apparently." He leans against the doorframe. "There's nothing stopping someone from shooting you the moment you walk through that door. Roman's security will be everywhere. One word from him and you're a corpse. A real one this time."
"Won't be the first time I've been killed." I meet his eyes in the mirror. "I got better."
"That's not funny."
"Wasn't meant to be." I turn from the mirror, checking the knife concealed in my jacket. Old habits. "But I'm doing this regardless. Everyone needs to know I'm back."
"Why?" Semyon's frustration bleeds through. "Why announce yourself like this? Why not stay dead, gather intelligence, strike when you have the advantage?"
"Because I want to see their faces." The truth comes out harsh. Raw. "Roman's face when he realizes I survived. Kira's face when she sees the man she had killed standing across the ballroom. I want them to know that hell gave me back."
“You want to read their reactions.”
“Yes.”
“Roman was pretty torn up when you were killed,” Semyon reminds me. “He comforted your father.”
“Sounds like my funeral was pretty entertaining,” I reply dryly. “But someone set me up. I want to look every one of them in the eyes. I want to know who killed me.”
Semyon runs a hand through his hair. "And if that person is in the room and decides to kill you?”
"Then I die knowing I looked them in the eyes first." I check my watch. "The party started an hour ago. They'll be past the formal introductions, into the dancing and drinking. Perfect time to make an entrance."
"Perfect time to get murdered."
"Always the optimist." I clap him on the shoulder. "Stay near the exits. If this goes sideways, I want you out clean."
"If this goes sideways, I'm dragging your stupid ass out with me." He pulls on his own jacket. "Someone has to keep you alive long enough to realize you're being an idiot."
We take separate cars to the venue. It’s a luxury hotel in the heart of Moscow that caters to the kind of events where everyone is armed, and nobody calls the police. The kind of place where the Bratva conducts its public business.
I wait in the car for ten minutes after arriving, watching the entrance. Security is tight—Semyon was right about that. At least a dozen visible guards, probably twice that many inside. All of them Roman's people.
I don’t recognize any of the faces. Semyon said my father’s people were replaced. That’s not really a smoking gun. A new pakhan would want his own loyal people.
But it’s a little fact I’m keeping in the back of my mind.
Right now, I trust no one. Everyone is a potential enemy. Semyon is the only one I truly believe is on my side.
My phone buzzes. Semyon: In position. North entrance is your best bet. Fewer guards.
I type back: Going through the front.
I can hear the frustration in his response: Of course you are. Idiot.
I smile despite myself and exit the car.
The night air is cold enough to see my breath. February in Moscow is beautiful and brutal. I walk toward the entrance like I own the place—shoulders back, head high, the golden prince returned from the dead.
The guards notice me immediately. Hands drift toward weapons. One of them speaks into his radio.
"Name?" The largest one steps forward, blocking my path.
"Maksim Barinov." I let the words hang in the air.
His face goes pale. "That's not—you're supposed to be—"
"Dead?" I smile, and I know it doesn't reach my eyes. "Clearly rumors of my demise were exaggerated. Now, am I on the guest list or do we have a problem?"
He stammers into his radio while his colleagues stare at me like I'm a ghost. Which, to be fair, I am.
A response crackles back. I can't hear the words, but I see the guard's expression shift from shock to confusion to something like fear.
"You can...go in," he says finally. "Sir."
The honorific is telling. Either they've confirmed my identity or Roman wants to see what I'm about to do.
Probably both.
I walk through the entrance into opulence that would make czars jealous. Crystal. Gold. Marble.
Everything designed to display wealth and power.
The ballroom opens before me like a scene from another life.
Hundreds of people in evening wear, drinking champagne that costs more than a car.
Caviar and other appetizers on trays are carried through the room by waitstaff.
The music is classical—strings and piano, elegant and completely at odds with the violence that permeates every conversation in this room.
I stay near the wall, scanning faces. Looking for threats. Looking for allies.
Looking for her.
And then I see her.
Kira stands near the center of the room, Roman's hand possessive on her waist. She's wearing midnight blue—a color that makes her pale skin luminous. She's smiling at something someone said. The smile is perfect. Practiced.
And completely false.
Even from across the room, I can see it. The way she holds herself—too rigid, too controlled. The Ice Queen, they call her, and watching her now, I understand why. She's beautiful in the way glaciers are beautiful. Cold, untouchable and capable of crushing anything in her path.
But I remember when she was warm. When her smiles reached her eyes, and her laugh could light up a room.
I remember loving her so much it felt like drowning.
The rage that surges through me is familiar. Comforting. I hold onto it like a lifeline because the alternative—acknowledging that I still love her is unthinkable.
She betrayed me. Had me killed. Everything she's become, she built on my grave.
I have to remember that. Have to hold onto it.
Roman leans in to whisper something in her ear, and she nods. Playing the dutiful fiancée. I watch his hand trail down her spine—possessive, claiming—and I want to break every finger.
Then she glances toward the entrance, her eyes scanning the crowd with the practiced assessment of someone always looking for threats.
Her gaze passes over me. Continues on. Then snaps back.
Even from this distance, I see the moment recognition hits. Her face goes white. The champagne glass in her hand trembles.
Roman notices immediately, following her gaze. When he sees me, his expression cycles through shock, fear, and something darker before settling into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
I know his guards told him I was here. He is the only one that could have given the okay for me to enter his party.
Why didn’t he greet me, I wonder. Maybe he didn’t believe it.
He says something to Kira. She nods mechanically, her eyes never leaving mine.
She’s scared.
Good. Let her be afraid. Let her wonder what I'm about to do.
I stay against the wall, watching. Waiting. Security is moving now—I can see them repositioning, creating subtle barriers between me and the major players.
Is Roman afraid of me?
Why would he be? He’s supposed to be my grieving family.
I wait and continue to watch, cataloging every detail. It doesn’t appear anyone else has recognized me. Why would they? I’m not the same young man that disappeared all those years ago.
Semyon appears at my elbow. "It’s quiet.”
"That was the idea." I accept a champagne flute from a passing server, more for the prop than any desire to drink it. "What's the mood?"
"Confused. Terrified. Excited." He scans the crowd. "Roman's made no move to have you removed. That's either very good or very bad."
"Interesting." I take a sip of champagne I don't taste.
Kira has disappeared from view, lost in the crowd. I track her general direction—toward the terrace doors. Escaping.
"I need to move," I tell Semyon.
"Don't do anything stupid."
"Too late for that." I hand him my untouched champagne. "I'm going to have a conversation with my former fiancée."
"Maksim—"
But I'm already moving, cutting through the crowd like a predator tracking prey. People notice me—of course they do—and conversations die in my wake. Whispers follow me across the ballroom.
I’m officially noticed.
Is that really him?
I thought he was dead.
What's he doing here?
I ignore them all, focused on one target.
She's slipped out onto the terrace. I watch through the glass as she moves further into the gardens beyond. Away from witnesses. Away from safety.
I follow, keeping to the shadows. The garden is elaborately landscaped. Someone has taken the time and effort to remove every trace of snow, as if the cold isn’t allowed to touch this area. The sounds of the party fade behind us as she walks deeper into the darkness.
She's wearing heels—impractical for escape—and the midnight blue dress catches moonlight like water. I watch her and hate that she's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Hate that six years of torture didn't kill what I felt for her.
Hate that even now, planning her destruction, part of me wants to pull her close and pretend none of this happened.
She reaches a stone wall at the edge of the garden property and stops; her hand braced against it like she needs the support. Her shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths.
This is my moment.
I move silently—lessons learned in captivity, how to approach without being heard—and close the distance between us in seconds.
She starts to turn, some instinct warning her, but I'm faster. My hand grabs her shoulder and I spin her around, pressing her back against the stone wall. Hard enough to trap her, not hard enough to hurt.
Yet.
She opens her mouth to scream, and my hand covers it, cutting off the sound. We're face to face now, close enough that I can see her pupils dilate in shock and recognition.
"Hello, Kira," I say softly. "Miss me?"
Her eyes are huge above my hand, filled with something I can't quite read. Fear, yes. Shock, definitely. But something else. Something that looks almost like...
No. I won't let myself see hope or relief or love. Those are lies. Manipulations.
She tries to speak against my palm, and I shake my head.
"Not yet. I'm going to move my hand, and you're not going to scream. Because if you do, if you bring security running, you won't get answers to the thousand questions I can see in your eyes." I lean closer. "Understand?"
She nods, jerky and uncertain.
I lower my hand slowly, ready to cover her mouth again if she makes a sound.
She doesn't scream. Doesn't call for help.
Instead, her hand comes up and connects with my face in a slap that rocks my head to the side.
The shock of it—the sheer audacity—almost makes me smile.
"You bastard," she hisses, her voice low and furious. "You absolute bastard. Six years. Six years I thought you were dead, and you—"
She tries to slap me again, but this time I catch her wrist.
"Careful," I warn. "You don't get to play the grieving lover. Not with me."
"Play?" Her laugh is sharp enough to cut. "I mourned you.”
She stops, her free hand coming up to cover her mouth. I can see tears gathering in her eyes, and something in my chest cracks.
No. I won't let her manipulate me with tears.
She’s an actress. I will never believe her words or tears.
Never again.