Chapter 3 Opening Night Disaster #2
I can feel every inch of him. The hard planes of his chest, the muscles in his arms, the way his hand is played across my ribcage just beneath my breast. The erection that he has to know I can feel, that he's making no attempt to hide or apologize for.
This is insane.
Someone just attacked my gallery, and I'm lying on top of a Bratva boss I met three minutes ago, hyperaware of his body and his scent and the way his thumb is unconsciously stroking my ribs through the silk dress.
"Clear!" One of his men calls out.
Petrov releases me slowly, like he's reluctant to let go. Or maybe I'm imagining that, projecting my own confusion onto a stranger who just saved my life.
He sits up, helps me to a sitting position, his hands steady on my arms. "You're sure you're not hurt?"
I look down at myself. The burgundy dress is dusty but intact. My knees are scraped from hitting the floor, but nothing serious. No blood except—
No. Wait. There's blood on my dress. But it's not mine.
"You're bleeding." I reach for his arm, where a shard of glass must have caught him during the tackle. His sleeve is torn, and red is seeping through the expensive fabric.
"It's nothing." He pulls away, standing in one fluid movement and offering me his hand.
I take it. Let him pull me to my feet. The gallery is chaos—broken glass everywhere, collectors huddled in corners, security guards at the shattered windows, Maya on her phone probably calling the police.
The Fabergé eggs are untouched. The imperial porcelain is fine. Everything valuable is exactly where it should be.
So why did someone attack my gallery?
Petrov is still holding my hand. Still watching me with those ice-blue eyes that see too much.
"This wasn't random. Someone sent you a message," he says quietly.
"I know." I pull my hand free, wrapping my arms around myself because I'm starting to shake and I refuse to fall apart in front of this man.
The police arrive within minutes—NYPD, asking questions, taking statements, photographing the damage. I answer on autopilot, my mind spinning through possibilities.
Anton. It has to be Anton. The timing is too perfect. This is his calling card.
But why the windows? Why not something more personal, more targeted?
Unless...
I look at the shattered glass, at the specific windows that broke. The front display. The ones visible from the street. The ones anyone walking past would see clearly.
He wanted an audience.
He wanted witnesses.
Just like at the Mariinsky. Just like opening night of Giselle when he dropped me in front of two thousand people and called it an accident.
Anton doesn't do anything privately. Everything is performance, everything is staged.
This is his opening act.
By the time the police finish their preliminary investigation, it's almost nine o'clock. Most of the collectors have fled. Maya is coordinating with insurance. The security team I hired is giving statements.
And Maksim Petrov is still here.
Still watching me from across the room while talking to his enforcer—the one who called "clear" earlier. Still taking up space in my gallery like he has a right to be here, like he didn't just arrive uninvited and then tackle me to the ground and press his erection against my hip.
He ends his conversation and walks back over to me, moving through broken glass like it's nothing.
"The attack was professional," he says without preamble. "Three men, coordinated entry, specific target pattern. They knew what they were doing."
"How do you—" I stop. Because of course he knows. Because he's Bratva, and this is what they do. "What did they take?"
His expression shifts. "You don't know?"
"Know what?"
He pulls out his phone, shows me security footage.
His security footage, because apparently his team documented everything.
The timestamp shows the attack happening—three men in dark clothing entering through the shattered windows, moving with military precision, grabbing something from the walls, and evacuating.
I watch it twice before I understand what I'm seeing.
They didn't take the Fabergé eggs. Didn't take the imperial porcelain or the jeweled icons or any of the pieces worth actual money.
They took photographs.
Specifically, they took the three framed photographs I have hanging in the back corner—personal pieces, not part of the exhibition. Performance photos from my time at the Mariinsky. Me as Odette in Swan Lake. Me as Giselle. Me as Kitri in Don Quixote.
My Mariinsky photos.
The only pieces in the entire gallery that have no monetary value.
The only pieces that matter to just one person.
I can't speak past the terror that's closing my throat. Because this was about me.
This was Anton saying I remember you on those stages. I remember when you were mine. I remember before I broke you.
This was Act II beginning with a promise of worse to come.
"Ms. Morozova." Petrov's voice cuts through my panic. "Do you know who did this?"
I should lie. Should protect myself, handle this privately, not involve the Bratva boss who opposes everything my cousin stands for.
But I'm so tired of being alone with this.
So tired of carrying Anton's obsession by myself.
So I tell him the truth.
"Yes," I whisper. "I know exactly who did this."