Chapter 16
LEAH
“So, you’re telling me that all this—” I wave my hand at the grand ballroom spread out before us “—all the money raised here tonight is going to—”
I cut my sentence off, afraid someone might hear, even though we’re on a raised indoor balcony looking down at everyone.
“No.” Viktor leans on the railing, hands clasped, blue eyes on the milling crowd dressed in their black-tie best below us, the hum of conversation and music like a soundtrack.
“All the money here tonight is going to the charity. The charity does good work in the boroughs, particularly in the inner cities. But I use the charity to—” he pauses, searching for the most subtle wording “—ensure our money comes from a legitimate source.”
In a bizarre twist of fate, not a week after someone tried to kill me on a Brooklyn sidewalk, and I was moved suddenly and without choice to Viktor’s enormous Upper East Side mansion, I’m at the fundraising gala with him like it’s a normal thing to do.
Even up here, where I take refuge from the press of the crowd, the overpowering scent of expensive perfume and an undercurrent of things less palatable—secrets, power, money, and judgment—I feel uncomfortable.
I smooth the silk of my gown, a deep forest green, and feel the subtle swell of my belly beneath it.
The seamstress gathered the fabric in a way that hides it, but of course, I’m hyperaware of my secret.
I feel like everyone can see it.
Heads had turned as we’d entered fashionably late in what I’m sure was a calculated move on Viktor’s part.
The attention was not just for him, but for us. For me. I was the woman on his arm, someone new, someone entirely outside of this well-heeled, blue-blooded circle. I can still feel their eyes on me, dissecting, judging, wondering just who the hell I am to arrive on Viktor Antonov’s arm.
He’s wearing what I’ve come to learn is the Antonov crest, just like the night I saw him at the charity gala for animals—the simple pin makes a not-so-simple statement, just as it is a statement when Viktor’s hand settles on the small of my back, a possessive warmth that both comforts and cages.
He’s a fortress, a solid wall of tailored black suit, and an aura that demands deference.
I’ve seen it all night, the way even people I recognize from the society pages, the billionaires and upper-crust royalty and tabloid darlings of the Upper East Side, bow and scrape to Viktor.
This isn’t just any charity dinner. This is the charity dinner.
The one for the “Children’s Future Foundation,” a name so saccharine, it almost chokes me.
Viktor is a trustee, a benevolent patron.
He’s smiling, nodding, a picture of philanthropic grace as he leads me back downstairs, my respite over.
For some reason, perhaps because he’s trying to get me to trust him, or because he’s opening his world up to me, making me feel more a part of it, Viktor told me the shadow reason for this charity gala.
He told me of discrepancies, of the way money flows in and out of shell corporations, of neatly laundered money through the guise of good deeds.
It’s an elegant, insidious dance. Crime and charity, hand in hand, the knowledge of which is a cold, hard knot in my stomach.
Viktor helps people, yes, but he also uses them. The duality of him, the brutal tenderness, the dangerous charm, it’s all here in the man helping me down the last step to the ballroom floor, his hand gentle but firm around mine.
“Are you comfortable?” Viktor murmurs in my ear as he replaces his hand on my back, his voice a silken rumble next to my ear.
I nod, forcing a smile. “As comfortable as one can be in a room full of sharks in designer clothing.”
He chuckles, a deep, resonant sound. “And you are with the biggest shark of all.” His grip tightens almost imperceptibly, a silent warning, a promise.
We navigate the room, a slow, deliberate procession.
Viktor continues our dance from earlier, introducing me to a dizzying array of faces: politicians with too-white smiles, businessmen with too-sharp eyes, and a few, like Viktor, who carry an unspoken weight, a dangerous stillness.
Each introduction is brief, polite, and carries an undercurrent of something more.
They assess me, these people, trying to decipher my place in Viktor’s world. In their world.
A man approaches, his build as formidable as Viktor’s, his eyes a startling shade of ice blue.
He’s young and has a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, giving him a perpetually stern expression.
He wears his suit with an air of casual menace, like a predator momentarily appeased, but always looking out for its next meal.
“Dmitri,” Viktor says, his voice devoid of its usual warmth, taking on a harder edge. “Allow me to introduce Leah, my partner.”
The words hang in the air: partner. Not girlfriend, not mother of my child. Partner. In Viktor’s world, I suppose, that word carries weight. It signifies trust, involvement, a shared destiny. It’s a declaration.
Dmitri’s gaze sweeps over me, slow and assessing, lingering. A flicker of something I can’t quite decipher crosses his face. He nods, a curt, almost imperceptible movement.
“Leah,” he says, his voice gravelly, his Russian accent thick, “a pleasure.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I reply, my voice surprisingly steady.
Dmitri and Viktor exchange a few words in rapid Russian, their voices low, their expressions unreadable. I don’t understand a word, but I enjoy listening to the lilt, the rounded edges, the clipped consonants. It’s actually sexy.
The flow of Russian stops when a voice, sharp and cutting, slices through the hum of conversations in the ballroom. “Well, well, if it isn’t the little gold digger.”
My breath catches. The blood drains from my face, leaving me cold. I don’t need to turn to know who it is: Clarissa. Her voice, a perfectly modulated instrument of disdain, is unmistakable.
Viktor’s body stiffens beside me, the pressure of his hand on my back increasing. He doesn’t acknowledge her directly, but his shoulders tighten underneath his immaculate suit.
I can see her out of the corner of my eye, like a specter haunting a bad dream.
Clarissa stands a few feet away, a vision in crimson, her red dress a stark, aggressive statement against the muted elegance of the room.
Her blonde hair is pulled back into a severe, perfect chignon, and her eyes, usually cold, are alight with a furious, venomous fire.
She looks like a predator, poised to strike. At me.
“Clarissa.” Viktor addresses her, his voice a silky purr that screams danger. “What a surprise.”
She laughs, a brittle, humorless sound that draws the attention of those nearby.
“Surprise? I wouldn’t miss your annual money laundering gala for the world.
And it seems I’ve arrived just in time for the main attraction.
” Her gaze rakes over me with a sneer that twists her beautiful features.
“I see your game now. You finally got what you wanted, didn’t you?
After failing with the son, you went straight for the father. ”
The insult stings, a raw wound. My past with Peter, the betrayal, the humiliation, all of it weaponized by the woman who birthed him. My hand instinctively goes to my stomach, a protective gesture, but I force it down. She’s the last person I want to know about the baby.
“My relationship with Peter is ancient history, Clarissa,” I say, trying to keep my voice even, refusing to rise to her bait. “And my relationship with Viktor is none of your concern.”
“Oh, but it is, dear,” she purrs, taking a step closer, her eyes blazing. “You think you’re not Viktor’s flavor of the moment? That he won’t get what he wants from you and discard you, like he did me?”
My gaze flickers to Viktor. He’s silent, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on Clarissa with an intensity that promises violence. But he doesn’t speak. He waits. For what? For me to defend myself? For her to push too far?
“Maybe his taste has grown more discerning over time,” I state, my voice gaining strength.
Clarissa’s eyes widen, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her face before it’s replaced by pure, unadulterated fury. “You’re nothing but a cheap distraction. You know that, don’t you? A momentary amusement for him before he tires of your pathetic attempts to climb the social ladder!”
Her voice rises, attracting more attention. Whispers ripple through the crowd. I can feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up my neck.
“Clarissa, you’re making a scene,” Viktor says, his voice low and cold. “I suggest you stop now, while there are still a few people left in this city who still tolerate you.”
A dangerous glint enters Clarissa’s eyes. She raises her hand, her long, manicured nails poised like claws. I brace myself, my instincts screaming danger.
Before her hand can connect, Viktor moves in a blur of motion, swift and decisive.
His arm sweeps around my waist, pulling me against his side, his body a solid, impenetrable shield.
I’m pressed against his chest; my head tucked under his chin.
His other hand, large and strong, clamps down on Clarissa’s wrist, stopping her midair.
His voice, when it comes, is a low, guttural growl that vibrates through my entire being. It’s not the polite murmur from earlier, nor the hard edge he used with Dmitri. This is something primal, dangerous, raw.
“Clarissa, this is your last warning.”
His grip on her wrist is iron. Clarissa pales, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defiance. She struggles, but he holds her effortlessly.
“Leah,” Viktor continues, his voice rising just enough to be heard by those closest, “is under my protection. Any disrespect shown to her is disrespect shown to me. And disrespect shown to me will not be tolerated. You know that.”
The words are a clear warning. Against me, I feel the solid muscle of his chest, the steady beat of his heart against my cheek, the warmth of his breath on my hair. His presence envelops me, a powerful, undeniable affirmation.
My body responds instinctively, leaning into him, finding solace in his strength.
For the first time since Clarissa’s arrival, I feel truly safe, truly protected.
It’s a strange, intoxicating sensation, this absolute certainty of his defense.
Every inch of my skin feels alive with his proximity, by the sheer force of his will.
Dmitri, who has been observing the scene with an impassive expression, steps forward. His movements are fluid, deceptively casual. He places a hand on Clarissa’s arm, his touch a stark contrast to Viktor’s unyielding grip.
“Clarissa,” Viktor says, his tone with an undeniable authority that brooks no argument. “It’s time for you to leave. Now.”
Clarissa glares at Viktor, then Dmitri, then finally at me, her eyes burning with impotent rage.
She opens her mouth as if to protest, but Dmitri’s grip tightens just enough, a silent reminder of the power Viktor wields.
He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t threaten overtly, but the message is clear: She is outmatched.
With a frustrated sound, Clarissa snatches her arm away from Dmitri, her face contorted with fury. She casts one last, venomous look at me before turning sharply and storming out of the ballroom, her crimson dress a fading blur against the elegant crowd.
Viktor’s arm remains around me, holding me close.
He doesn’t release me, doesn’t loosen his grip.
His hand moves from my waist to cup the back of my head, gently tilting my face up to meet his gaze.
His eyes, usually so guarded, are soft, tender, and filled with an emotion I can’t quite name.
Possessiveness, yes, but also something deeper, something that makes my breath catch in my throat.
He leans down, slowly, deliberately, heedless of who’s watching us.
I can feel the warmth of his breath on my lips, the slight tremor in his hand as it cradles my head.
The world seems to shrink, narrowing to just us, standing in the center of this opulent room.
All the whispers, all the curious glances, all the judgments, fade into a distant hum.
His lips meet mine, soft at first, then deepening, claiming. The kiss is both tender and fiercely possessive, a public declaration that leaves no room for doubt. It’s a kiss that says, She is mine. This is mine. And I will protect what is mine.
My eyes flutter shut, and I lean into the kiss, into him, letting his strength envelop me.
The taste of him, the feel of his lips, the sheer audacity of it all is overwhelming.
I shouldn’t be doing this, not in front of a crowd of New York’s upper crust. Not in a situation like this.
Not when I still don’t know exactly how I fit into Viktor’s life and the role he plays.
But I do, anyway, because I want it.
When Viktor finally pulls back, his eyes are still locked on mine, a silent question, a silent promise.
I’m breathless, my cheeks flushed, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm.
I glance around the room, and yes, all eyes are on us.
Every single one. They watch, some with shock, some with envy, some with grudging admiration.
They have seen the Bratva boss claim his woman, publicly, unequivocally.
And in that moment, for better or worse, I am his.