Chapter Two
The city below is a grid of indifference, millions of people moving through their lives oblivious to the wars fought in the glass towers above.
I stand at the floor-to-ceiling window of my office, a tumbler of vodka in one hand, watching the traffic crawl along the West Side Highway.
It’s quiet up here. Quiet is rare in my line of work.
“Sir,” Yuri says from the doorway. He doesn’t knock.
I don’t turn. Instead, I just watch the reflection of the oversized man in the glass. Yuri has been with the Gromov family since before I could hold a gun. He’s loyal, brutal, and lacks the creativity to be truly dangerous on his own. He’s a blade, not the hand that wields it.
“Talk,” I say.
“The article is spreading,” Yuri reports.
His voice is flat, like he’s reading a grocery list instead of a potential security breach.
“It’s been picked up by three major financial blogs and two watchdog nonprofits.
They’re calling it an investigation into ‘organized money laundering in Manhattan real estate.’”
I take a sip of the vodka. It burns, clean and sharp. “Legal?”
“Our lawyers say there’s nothing actionable. It’s all circumstantial. Shell companies and tax havens, property transfers that look irregular on paper but have valid explanations if you dig deep enough. They’re sniffing around the edges, but they haven’t found the body yet.”
“But they’re sniffing,” I say, turning finally to face him. “Attention is noise. I don’t like noise.”
“No, sir. But… the source is the problem.”
I walk over to the mahogany desk and set the glass down. “Give me a name.”
“Freya Smith.”
The name doesn’t ring a bell. I signal for Yuri to continue.
He pulls a tablet from his jacket pocket and slides it across the desk. I unlock it and stare at the screen.
It’s not a mugshot. It’s a headshot from a lifestyle magazine.
The woman is… striking. It’s not just the curves—which are considerable, filling out a red dress that looks like it was painted on—it’s the way she holds herself.
Shoulders back, chin up, green eyes that look directly into the camera lens without a hint of hesitation.
“She’s a lifestyle influencer,” Yuri reads from his notes. “Event manager. Has about two million followers across several platforms. She’s not a journalist, just a socialite.”
I scroll through her feed. It’s polished. Curated. There are pictures of galas, charity auctions, street fashion. Except there’s a sharpness to the captions. A wit. She’s not just a pretty face; there’s a brain operating the machinery.
“She wrote the piece herself?” I ask.
“Yes, and she did the digging. Traced the shell companies back to a holding account in Cyprus. That’s not easy for an amateur.”
I zoom in on her face. High cheekbones and soft jaw, a mouth that looks like it’s used to smiling but knows how to snarl.
“Why do this?” I ask. “She lives in this world. She’s burning bridges she’ll need to cross later.”
“That’s where it gets interesting,” Yuri says, leaning against the doorframe. “We ran a background check. She has a brother, Ayaan Smith.”
The name hits me like a punch to the chest, but I don’t let it show. Not even a twitch of an eyelid. I keep my breathing steady, my pulse even.
“Ayaan,” I repeat, keeping my voice bored. “Should I know him?”
“He disappeared two years ago. A missing person report was filed, then went unsolved. He had some trouble with debts. Gambling.”
“Gambling,” I say. “Bad habit.”
“Yes, sir. He ran with some crowds that eventually brought him to our attention. Not as a threat, but as a liability. He owed money to people who don’t offer payment plans.”
I scroll away from her face, looking at a photo of her and a taller man with dark skin and a hesitant smile. Ayaan. He looks softer than her. Less guarded.
“It makes sense,” I say, tapping the screen. “She thinks we killed him.”
“She thinks we buried him,” Yuri corrects. “The article implies that the money laundering isn’t just for profit, but for cleaning up messes. She’s trying to flush you out.”
I stare at the photo of Freya. So, the little socialite has claws. She’s not reckless. Freya didn’t run to the police with wild theories; she built a paper trail, constructed a narrative that forces the public to ask questions. She’s using her influence as a weapon.
A reckless person would have screamed in the street. A stupid person would have threatened me directly.
Freya Smith is calculating. If she were just another reporter looking for a byline, I’d have Yuri handle it. A scare tactic. A brake failure on a dangerous road, maybe, or a warning delivered in the middle of the night. But she’s Ayaan’s sister, and she’s smart.
I feel a strange pull in my chest, something that feels dangerously like anticipation.
“She’ll be at the Winter Gala tonight,” Yuri says, checking his watch. “Her RSVP was confirmed yesterday. Before the article dropped.”
I nod slowly. “Of course she will. She wants to see the fallout. She wants to stand in the room and watch the whispers start.”
“Do you want me to stop her at the door?”
“No,” I say, picking up my vodka again and swirling the liquid. “Let her in.”
“Sir?”
“If she wants a war, give her a battlefield. We play by my rules.” I set the glass down and adjust the cuffs of my shirt. “If she wants to be part of the story, I’ll give her a starring role.”
“Sir?”
I look at Yuri. “Cancel the denials. Don’t issue a press release countering her claims. Let the rumors marinate for a few hours.”
“Then?”
“Then, I’ll rewrite the ending.”
***
Hours later, the gala is in full swing. The venue is a study in excess: white flowers, ice sculptures, more diamonds than the stock market. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and desperation.
I move through the crowd like a shark in shallow water. I see the way people look at me. The whispers are already circulating. I catch snippets of conversation as I pass.
“Did you see the article?”
“Money laundering? I thought he was tech.”
“Stay away from him tonight, just in case.”
Good. Let them wonder. Let them fear. Uncertainty is a weapon too.
Then I see her.
Freya’s standing near the orchestra, a glass of champagne in her hand, looking like she’s ready to commit murder.
She’s wearing green—a deep, shimmering emerald that clings to her body like a second skin.
The dress hugs her waist, flaring over her hips, highlighting an ass that makes my mouth go dry.
She’s magnificent.
I watch her for a moment. She’s scanning the room, her eyes sharp, missing nothing. She’s not checking her phone.
She’s looking for me.
I straighten my jacket. It’s leather, softer than the tuxedos everyone else is wearing, a subtle statement that I don’t follow their rules. I start moving toward her, cutting a path through the crowd. People part instinctively.
She’s talking to a group of tech investors. I recognize the face of the one in the center—Marcus, a weasel of a man who’d sell his own grandmother for a favorable IPO.
I step up behind her, close enough that I can smell her perfume. Something floral and sweet, vanilla mixed with jasmine.
“My apologies for interrupting,” I say, pitching my voice just right.
She stiffens just a fraction. Her shoulder blades lock together beneath the silk of her dress. She knows who I am. She’d know my voice anywhere.
She turns.
Up close, she’s even more devastating. Her skin is pale, dusted with glitter that catches the light.
Her eyes are wide. They’re a vivid, startling green that reminds me of the forests outside St. Petersburg.
They’re filled with hate. It’s a pure, undiluted loathing that should make me want to kill her.
Instead, it makes me hard.
I see the calculation in her gaze. She expected to find me cornered. She expected to find me defensive. She didn’t expect me to walk right up to her and smile.
“Nikita,” she says. Her voice is steady, but I see the pulse hammering in her throat. “I didn’t think you’d show your face after the exposé.”
She’s trying to provoke me. She’s trying to get me to lash out, to deny it, to give the room the reaction they’re expecting.
I don’t bite.
I take her hand. It’s soft, warm, trembling just slightly.
“And miss the opportunity to celebrate?” I say, projecting my voice to the room.
I feel her confusion. It radiates off her in waves.
“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” I announce, turning us so we face the crowd. “Freya’s recent article… it wasn’t an attack. It was a cry for attention.”
I feel her recoil. She tries to pull her hand back, but I tighten my grip. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her that she’s not in control anymore.
“She’s been under so much stress lately,” I continue, pouring on the charm. I look at her, letting the mask slip just enough to show her the predator underneath. “Planning our wedding.”
The reaction is instantaneous. The room gasps. Cameras flash. I see Marcus’s jaw drop and Freya’s eyes widen in shock.
It’s beautiful.
She starts to speak, her lips parting to deny it, to scream the truth to the roof. I squeeze her fingers.
“Just play along,” I murmur, leaning in close so only she can hear. “Unless you want to explain to your friends why you’re lying?”
I feel her defeat. It’s a heavy, sagging weight in her posture. She knows she’s trapped. If she denies it now, she looks unhinged. If she fights me, she ruins her own reputation.
“Nikita,” she says, her voice tight. “You have quite the sense of humor.”
“I know I do.” I raise our hands. “I know the rumors have been flying, but I wanted to set the record straight. Freya and I are engaged. We’ve been keeping it private, but… well, she’s fiery. She likes to keep me on my toes.”
The crowd laughs. They eat it up. Everyone loves a scandal, especially one that ends in romance. The narrative has flipped. The villain is now the doting fiancé. The whistleblower is just a drama queen.
I look at her face. She’s pale, her breathing shallow. She’s fighting a war on two fronts—against me and against the room.
I reach into my pocket, letting my fingers brush against the cold velvet box. Inside is an engagement ring.
I know she’s already clocked the ring that I wear. It’s not an engagement ring. It’s not diamonds and platinum. It’s a heavy, oxidized silver band set with a chunk of black onyx. Although it’s beautiful, it belonged to a man who owed us more than he could pay.
I pull it out, letting the light catch the black stone.
Freya’s about to pull away, about to storm off, and salvage what’s left of her dignity. Then her eyes snap to my hand.
She freezes. The color drains from her face. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Her gaze locks onto the stone, fixated, horrified.
I have her.
“I was going to save this for the private reception,” I say, my voice dropping. “Since my future wife is so eager to share our life with the world…”
I slide the ring onto her finger.
The ring fits perfectly, and I have to wonder just how he knew my exact ring size.
The applause is deafening. I only hear the blood rushing in my veins. I won. I took the weapon she pointed at me and turned it back on her.
I lean in, my lips brushing her ear. She’s trembling, her body rigid against mine.
“You started this, milaya,” I whisper, the Russian word meaning little one rolling off my tongue. “Now I have to finish it.”
I don’t pull back immediately. I stay there, breathing her in, letting her feel the heat of my body. She smells like vanilla and rage. It’s an intoxicating combination.
My hand is still on her waist. I move it slightly, my thumb brushing against the silk of her dress, feeling the curve of her hip beneath. She tenses, a sharp intake of breath that she can’t hide.
It’s not affection. It’s a claim.
I’m marking her in front of everyone. She belongs to me now. Not just in the headlines, but in reality. If she wants to dig into my world, she’s going to find out exactly how deep the rabbit hole goes.
I pull away finally, forcing a smile for the cameras. I raise her hand, showing off the ring. The diamond glints, a dark promise on her finger.
She looks at me, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. Behind that, though, there’s something else.
Curiosity?
She doesn’t understand what just happened. I’ve given her a puzzle she can’t solve, and now she has to stay close to me to find the pieces.
Perfect.
“Smile, Freya,” I murmur, keeping the smile plastered on my face. “You wanted to be the center of attention. Here it is.”
She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then her lips curl into a smile that looks more like a snarl. She lifts her chin, defiance blazing in her eyes.
Oh, she’s going to be fun to break.
“To the happy couple!” someone shouts from the back.
Champagne corks pop. The music swells. The world moves on, already forgetting the scandal, obsessed with the wedding.
I keep my hand on her waist, my fingers digging in possessively. She can’t escape. She’s mine now.
The best part? She walked right into the cage herself.