Chapter 3 Opening Night Disaster
Chapter three
Opening Night Disaster
Sonya
The burgundy silk dress was a mistake.
I realize this the moment I slip it on at five o'clock, three hours before the gallery opening. It flows like a stage costume, moves like I'm about to perform instead of smile politely at collectors who want to discuss provenance and investment value.
But I wear it anyway. Because if Anton is watching—and he's definitely watching—I want him to know that I'm not hiding. Not anymore.
The dress is armor disguised as elegance. The silk covers the scars on my ankle, the heels are low enough that I won't limp, and the deep red makes me look alive, defiant, instead of haunted.
Mostly.
I check my reflection one more time in the full-length mirror. Dark hair pulled back in a sleek bun, minimal makeup, the pendant my mother gave me before she died—a small Orthodox cross on a delicate chain. I look like what I am: a successful gallery owner preparing for a major exhibition.
The intercom buzzes. Maya, my assistant, confirms the catering is set up, the champagne is chilling, and the security team I hired this morning is in position.
Extra security. For a gallery opening. Because I'm definitely not paranoid about my psychotic ex-partner showing up to finish what he started five years ago.
I take the private stairs down from my apartment to the gallery, my heels clicking against the hardwood. The space looks perfect—track lighting highlighting the exhibition pieces, servers in black and white positioned strategically, champagne flutes catching the light like tiny promises.
"Lost Romanov Treasures" reads the banner above the main display. Three Fabergé eggs. Imperial porcelain. Jeweled icons. The kind of Russian art that makes wealthy people feel cultured and connected to history they had nothing to do with.
The kind of art that moves through Bratva channels when people need to convert dirty money into something clean and beautiful.
Not that I ask questions about where my consignment pieces come from. That would be bad for business.
Maya appears at my elbow, tablet in hand, looking effortlessly chic in all black. She's twenty-six, whip-smart. Which is exactly why I hired her.
"Final checklist," she says, scrolling through her screen. "Catering confirmed, champagne temperature optimal, security positioned at all entrances, press list approved, collector RSVPs at eighty-three percent—"
"The security team," I interrupt her. "They understand they're here for the valuable pieces, and not for... anything else?"
She looks up, her expression carefully neutral. "I told them exactly what you said. High-value exhibition, insurance requirement, standard protocol."
"Good." I smooth my dress, even though it doesn't need smoothing. "And if anyone asks why we have armed guards at an art opening—"
"Insurance requirement. Worth repeating." Maya touches my arm briefly. "Sonya, are you okay? You've been off all week."
All week. Since Tuesday night when the Fabergé egg arrived at midnight. Since I realized Anton is in New York and I have no idea what he's planning.
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just nervous about the opening. This is our biggest exhibition yet."
She doesn't believe me. But she's too professional to push. "Doors open at seven. Collectors start arriving at seven-fifteen, usually. Press is scheduled for seven-thirty. You'll do great."
She squeezes my arm and moves off to check on the servers, leaving me alone in the center of my gallery surrounded by priceless Russian art and the weight of everything I'm not saying.
The Fabergé eggs gleam under the lights. The two from my collection—one decorated with miniature portraits of the Romanov family, the other with intricate enamel work in deep blues and golds. Both worth more than most people make in a lifetime.
The third egg, the loaner from London, is the centerpiece. Slightly larger, covered in diamonds and pearls, with a surprise mechanism inside that reveals a tiny golden carriage. It's the kind of piece museums fight over, the kind of art that makes collectors salivate.
It's also not the egg Anton sent me.
His egg—the one currently locked in my office safe—is something else entirely. Older, rarer, probably worth twice what this piece is worth. And he just gave it to me, along with a threat.
I'm so busy staring at the eggs and spiraling into panic that I almost miss the moment when the energy in the room shifts.
It's seven forty-five. The gallery is full—collectors in expensive suits, art critics with their notebooks, a few society types who attend every opening whether they care about art or not. Champagne flows, conversations buzz, Maya moves through the crowd with practiced ease.
And then the door opens, and everyone stops talking.
Not dramatically. But there's a pause, a collective inhale, the kind of shift that happens when someone genuinely important or really dangerous walks into a room full of people pretending to be those things.
I turn toward the entrance.
And see him.
Six-foot-three, maybe more. Silver-streaked dark hair that probably looked distinguished instead of old when he was younger.
Ice-blue eyes that sweep the room like he's cataloging exits and weaknesses.
A three-piece suit that costs more than some cars, fitted perfectly to a body that's clearly more muscle than a forty-something businessman usually have.
He moves through the crowd like he owns it, and people part for him without realizing they're doing it.
I know who he is before anyone says his name.
Maksim "Steel" Petrov. Philadelphia Bratva boss. And Alexei's biggest opponent in the reform movement. The man who's spent fifteen years blocking every attempt at legitimacy, cooperation, progress.
And he's here. In my gallery. In New York City, which is supposed to be neutral territory.
Looking directly at me.
Our eyes meet across the room, and something passes between us—recognition, challenge, something sharper and more complicated than simple acknowledgment. He starts walking toward me, the crowd parting like water, and I have maybe ten seconds to decide how to handle this.
Professional. Polite. Don't let him see that you're rattled.
Don't let him see that you're one wrong word away from a complete breakdown.
He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and dark, cedar and leather and danger.
"Ms. Morozova." His voice is rough, like he doesn't use it much for talking. Like he's more comfortable with silence or violence. "Impressive collection."
"Mr. Petrov." I keep my voice steady, professional. "I wasn't aware you were interested in Russian imperial art."
"I'm interested in many things." His eyes move over my face, studying me like I'm one of the pieces on display. "Especially when they involve my... associates' families."
Associates. Not friends. Not allies.
Because Alexei is trying to reform the Bratva world, and Maksim is standing in his way at every opportunity.
"Alexei is my cousin," I say carefully. "But I run an independent business. The gallery has nothing to do with family politics."
"Everything has to do with family politics, little ballerina." He's still watching me, those ice-blue eyes missing nothing.
The world stops.
Little ballerina.
Anton's name for me. The pet name he used backstage, during rehearsals, whispered against my ear before lifts.
My face must show something—shock, fear, rage—because Petrov's expression shifts slightly. Not quite concerned. More like... interested.
He's watching me the way a predator watches prey, trying to figure out if I'm going to run or fight.
I force myself to breathe. To remember that he's not Anton. That I need to pull myself together before I give away more than I should.
"You're okay? You look—"
The windows explode.
Not all of them. Just the front display windows, the ones facing the street. They shatter inward in a spray of glass and sound and chaos, and suddenly people are screaming, and champagne flutes are hitting the floor, and I'm staring at the empty frames where glass used to be.
Petrov moves before I can process what's happening.
His body is covering mine, one arm around my waist, the other hand on the back of my head, taking me down behind the nearest display case as more glass rains down.
We hit the floor hard. Him on bottom, me sprawled across his chest, his arms locked around me like a cage.
His heart is pounding against my ribs—or maybe that's my heart, I can't tell anymore.
Everything is noise and glass and the solid warmth of a stranger's body between me and whatever just happened.
"Stay down." His voice is in my ear, rough and commanding, the kind of voice you obey without thinking.
I can't move anyway. Can't breathe. His body is pressed against mine, every inch of him hard muscle, and I can feel—
Oh god.
He's hard.
Aroused.
His erection is pressing against my hip through his expensive suit pants, unmistakable and inappropriate and somehow exactly what my brain decides to focus on instead of the fact that someone just attacked my gallery.
The screaming continues. People running, security guards shouting, Maya's voice calling my name from somewhere I can't see.
Petrov doesn't move. Just keeps me protected while glass settles and chaos swirls and his breath is hot against my neck.
"Are you hurt?" His lips brush my ear when he speaks, and my entire body responds in a way that's completely inappropriate for a crisis situation.
"No." My voice sounds shaky. "I don't think so."
He holds me against him while his enforcer—the man who came with him, now moving through the gallery like he's done this a thousand times—checks corners and exits and makes sure whatever happened isn't still happening.