Chapter 4 First Blood
Chapter four
First Blood
Maksim
I can't stop watching her.
Even while the police take statements and her assistant coordinates with insurance, my eyes keep finding Sonya Morozova. She's standing near the shattered windows in that burgundy dress, her arms wrapped around herself, face too pale.
But she's not falling apart.
She's moving through ballet positions without realizing it. Fourth position while talking to the police—one foot slightly forward, weight distributed perfectly. When she shifts to explain the stolen photographs, she moves to fifth position, her body finding classical form like muscle memory.
It's mesmerizing.
Sergei appears at my elbow, voice low. "NYPD is treating it as vandalism. Three men, early twenties to mid-thirties. Professional movement—former military or private security. Total time inside: eighty-four seconds."
"Weapons?"
"Not visible, but the way they moved suggests they were armed. This was surgical, Pakhan. They knew exactly what they were taking and where to find it."
I finally look at him. "Which means someone cased the gallery beforehand."
"Security system was accessed remotely four days ago. Tuesday night. Video loop inserted, alarms disabled for the delivery entrance. Professional work."
Four days ago. Tuesday night.
Someone was already in the building. Already planning everything for tonight.
My hand moves without thinking, tracing Elena’s name on my palm. The pattern is automatic, soothing.
Except halfway through, I add an S.
E-L-E-N-A-S.
I stare at my hand, at the invisible letters, and something cold settles in my chest. This is how it starts—obsession disguised as protection.
I won't do that again.
But even as I think it, I'm watching Sonya, and my body remembers the weight of her against my chest. The silk of her dress, the scent of her perfume, the way she fit perfectly in my arms.
Remembers how hard I got, pinning her to the floor while glass fell.
By 9:30, most guests are gone. Sonya stands alone near the Fabergé display, staring at the eggs like they might have answers.
I should leave. Go back to Philadelphia, let Alexei handle this.
Instead, I walk over to her.
"Your security system was compromised four days ago," I say. "Someone looped the cameras, disabled alarms. They've been in your building."
She turns, those dark eyes meeting mine. "Tuesday night."
"Yes."
"The same night he sent the egg." She laughs without humor. "He probably watched me receive it. Watched me panic."
"He's escalating. The egg was introduction. Tonight was demonstration. Whatever comes next—"
"...Will be worse." She wraps her arms around herself. "I know how he works. Everything is performance. He's building to something."
"Then you need protection."
"I have security—"
"You need better security."
"I need—" She stops, winces. I see the cuts on her arms from glass shards.
"You're bleeding. Sit." I point to the nearest chair.
"I'm fine—"
"Sit, Sonya."
She obeys.
Sergei materializes with a first aid kit. I crouch in front of her, examining the cuts. Superficial, nothing serious. But touching her feels necessary.
"You don't have to do this," she says quietly, watching my hands.
"I know."
"You don't even like me. You came here because of my connection with Alexei."
"Yes. That was the plan."
"Was?"
I look up, meet her eyes. This close, I can see gold flecks in the dark brown. See her pupils dilate when I touch her wrist.
"Someone is hunting you," I say. "Someone who's been planning this for days. You need help."
"I can handle—"
"Can you? You received that egg four days ago. Did you tell anyone? Call Alexei? Increase security?" Her silence answers. "You did nothing except lock it away and pretend."
"I built this gallery from nothing. I survived having my career destroyed in front of two thousand people. I learned to walk again. I don't need—"
"Then give me a name." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Because those men tonight weren't random. This is personal."
She's quiet for a long moment, her hands trembling slightly in mine, until she finally whispers. "Anton Kozlov. My former partner."
I knew it..
"Tell me about him."
She takes a shaky breath. "We danced together for two years at the Mariinsky.
He was obsessed. Called me his 'little ballerina.
' Said I was his muse, his inspiration, his—" She stops.
"I tried to end the partnership. Told management he was too possessive, too controlling. They said I was being dramatic."
"What happened?"
"Opening night of Giselle. Right before the lift that ended my career, he warned me that if he couldn't have me, no one else would.
Then he dropped me in front of two thousand people.
" Her voice cracks. "Afterward, when the paramedics were loading me into the ambulance, he said I was his greatest work.
That I was beautiful in my brokenness. That he'd made me into art. "
Something cold crawls down my spine. Those phrases. That pattern.
"Describe his voice," I say slowly. "When he whispered to you."
She looks at me, confused by the question. "Young? Theatrical, with Russian accent but educated, refined. Why?"
My world stops.
She's watching me now, seeing something in my face. "Why? What's wrong?"
"He killed Elena."
The words come out flat, certain, devastating.
"What?"
I stand, needing distance, needing air. "My wife.
Fifteen years ago. Someone murdered her in our bedroom here in Philadelphia while she was seven months pregnant.
She was twenty-six years old. We'd been married less than a year.
" My hands are fists. "The killer called while she bled out.
Young voice. Russian accent. Just like you described. "
Sonya's face has gone white. "Oh my god."
"He said ballerinas are meant to fall. That Elena was art and I'd turned her into possession. That I couldn't collect them all." I turn to look at her. "Those exact words."
"Anton." She's standing now, swaying slightly. "The timeline fits. Elena died in 2010. Anton would have been twenty-three. He was dancing at the Bolshoi then—same company where Elena was prima ballerina before she married you. Already obsessed with ballerinas."
"He must have been obsessed with Elena in Moscow.
When she married me and moved to Philadelphia, he followed her.
Tracked her here. Killed her." My voice is hollow.
"Then fled back to Russia where he continued dancing, continued destroying ballerinas for another fifteen years before you survived him. "
We stare at each other across the wreckage of her gallery, both understanding what this means.
"He's been doing this for fifteen years," she whispers. "How many others?"
"I don't know. But I'm going to find out. And I'm going to end him."
The words hang between us. Fifteen years of searching, and this broken ballerina just gave me the name I needed. Gave me the target for all this rage and grief.
I close the distance between us without thinking. I cup her face in my hands and kiss her.
She freezes for a heartbeat—shock, surprise, uncertainty. Then her hands fist in my shirt, and she's kissing me back.
It's desperate. Messy. Wrong in every way that matters and right in ways I can't name. She tastes like champagne and fear, and I pour fifteen years of rage and need into this kiss.
Her body against mine. Her hands pulling me closer. The small sound she makes in the back of her throat that goes straight through me.
I press her against the nearest wall—careful of the glass, aware we're still in her damaged gallery, but unable to stop. My hands slide into her hair, destroying what's left of her bun. Her leg hooks around my hip, and I can feel every inch of her through that silk dress.
Can feel myself hard against her, wanting her with an intensity that should terrify me.
She breaks the kiss first, both of us breathing hard. Her lipstick is smudged, her hair falling around her shoulders, and she looks beautiful.
"That was—" she starts.
"A mistake," I finish, even though it's a lie.
"Yeah." She touches her lips with trembling fingers. "Definitely a mistake."
But neither of us moves. We stay pressed together against the wall, surrounded by broken glass and priceless art, breathing each other's air.
My phone rings.
The sound cuts through the moment like a knife. I step back, creating distance, trying to get my body under control. Trying to remember why kissing her was the worst idea I've had in fifteen years.
The caller ID shows Alexei Morozov.
I step away further, needing space before I answer. "Alexei."
"Maksim." His voice is tight. "I heard about Sonya's gallery. Is she hurt?"
"Minor cuts. She's fine."
"I'm only asking you because I know she won't tell me the truth. The attack—what happened?"
"Professional strike. They took her personal photographs from the Mariinsky and left everything valuable. This wasn't robbery." I pause. "It was a message."
Silence. Then: "From who?"
"Anton Kozlov. Her former partner."
"Jesus." Alexei's exhale is sharp. "I knew she had an accident at the Mariinsky. I didn't know—"
"I’m going to protect her.” The words hit differently than they should.
"...What?"
"I'm going to protect her. I need her. The man who did this is the same one who murdered my wife. I need her to get to him, and in return I'll stop him from hurting her."
“She's the last of my mother's bloodline. If something happens to her—" He stops. "I know you oppose everything I stand for. I know you think reform makes us weak. But I'm asking you anyway. Protect her."
I look across the gallery at Sonya. At this woman who just gave me the name I've been hunting for fifteen years. Who survived the monster that killed my wife. Whose taste is still on my lips.