13. Via
VIA
"If I have to wear one more corset that requires a structural engineer to fasten, I am officially retiring from public life to live in a cave," I say, spinning around in front of the mirror as Ekaterina fumbles with the silk ties of the emerald gown.
Ekaterina giggles, her small fingers deft as she pulls the fabric taut. "Oh, hush. You look like a movie star. If I were you, I’d be showing off this dress at every single event in the city. I’d be at the opera, the galas, the theater, I’d make sure everyone knew who I was."
I catch her eye in the mirror, watching the way her expression drops, just a little bit of longing. She’s staring at the diamond studs on the vanity, her own reflection looking a little wistful.
"And why don't you?" I ask, turning slightly. "You have the wardrobe. You have the class. Why are you stuck in the house?"
She sighs, letting her hands drop. "Ilya. He thinks the city is a snake pit. He barely lets me go to the market with a security detail. He’s...
overprotective. He sees a threat in every shadow, especially when it comes to us.
He thinks if he keeps me in here, I’m safe.
But sometimes, I think he just likes having a bird in a gilded cage. "
I reach out, resting a hand on her shoulder. He’s a control freak, that’s what he is. But I can’t tell her that. "Maybe he’s just worried. This life, it’s not exactly designed for safety."
"I know," she says, forcing a bright, brittle smile back onto her face. "But look at you. You’re going to be the belle of the ball. Just be careful, okay? The Mafia wives are meaner than they look, and they’ve been trying to get into Ilya’s good graces for years."
I stand up, smoothing the skirts of the emerald silk. "Let them try. I’ve dealt with worse than a few bored socialites."
The ride to the gala is quiet, or as quiet as it gets when you’re sitting next to a man who radiates silent, lethal energy.
Ilya is driving himself tonight, his hands tight on the leather of the steering wheel.
He’d spent the last hour meticulously inspecting the seams of my dress, checking for bugs, trackers, hidden needles, until I wanted to scream.
"You’re going to be bored," he says without looking over at me. "The Russo family will be there. Stay near me when we’re with them."
"I’m never bored at these things, Ilya," I say, checking my reflection in the mirror of the visor. "I actually enjoy watching people lie to each other. It’s like a sport."
He finally glances at me, his eyes dark. "Just remember that you’re representing my name tonight. Don't play any games that might get you hurt."
"I’m not a child," I snap, feeling irritated. "I know how to be the perfect bride."
When we step out into the lights of the museum entrance, I put on the mask.
It’s second nature now. I keep my head high, my posture relaxed, and my smile wide enough to reach my ears.
Inside, the ballroom is exactly what I expected, marble, champagne, and the suffocating scent of too much expensive perfume.
Ilya leaves me at the edge of the floor, his eyes instantly tracking the room, and I head straight for the women, one I know all too well, standing near the buffet.
"Via, darling, you look simply divine," Svetlana says, her voice as smooth as velvet over broken glass. She’s surrounded by the wives of the northern coalition, all of them looking at me with that specific brand of predatory curiosity.
"Svetlana, you look wonderful as well," I say, leaning in to air-kiss her cheek. "I heard your husband was looking into the shipping routes near the coast. Are you going to be joining him on the next trip? It must be lonely waiting for those cargo reports."
I know Svetlana. The few encounters I’ve had with her, I’ve never walked out unscathed. She has the foulest mouth I know, but one thing I’ve learned is you`1 have to beat her at her game before she even starts.
Svetlana’s face twitches. "Oh, he prefers to keep business separate from his personal life."
"How traditional," I say, keeping my smile firmly in place. "I think Ilya’s approach is so much more efficient. He tells me everything. I actually helped him look over the logistics for the western docks this morning."
I watch the way they exchange glances. Hook, line, and sinker. If they think I’m an insider, they’ll start whispering.
"Is that so?" Elena pipes up, her eyes wide. "We heard the western docks were having... issues with labor unions."
Elena I know from the comprehensive list Yara made for me about all I need to know about the Mafia wives.
"Oh, it was nothing." I wave a hand dismissively, laughing. "Just a few people who didn't understand who they were working for. It’s been resolved."
I spend the next hour weaving through the room, dropping small, curated pieces of information, listening to them complain about their husbands, their homes, their boredom.
It’s exhausting, but I can see the gears turning in their heads.
They’re sizing me up, deciding whether I’m just a pretty face or someone they need to worry about.
I’m reaching for another glass of champagne when I feel him.
My father.
My father finds me near the edge of the dance floor.
He doesn't say a word, just pulls me into a hug that feels like it’s trying to hold me together.
For a few seconds, I forget where we are.
I forget the dress, the cameras, and the monster standing ten feet away.
I just bury my face in the wool of my father’s coat and breathe, his familiar scent, cedar and old paper, the only thing that feels real.
"I’m going to kill him," my father whispers into my hair. His voice is a low, shaking rasp, and I can feel the hard shape of a pistol holstered under his jacket against my ribs. "I have men at every exit. We don't have to leave this room with him alive."
"Don't," I choke out, pulling back to look at his face. He’s white, his eyes burning with a desperate, self-destructive rage. "Papa, look at me. He’s not a man you can just shoot. He’s a monster. If you pull that trigger, you won't leave this building. And he’ll make sure I’m the last thing you see before you die. "
The air pressure in the room shifts. Ilya is there. He moves into my father’s line of sight without a sound.
My father’s hand snaps to his jacket, dragging the pistol out. He levels it directly at Ilya’s forehead, his finger white on the trigger. Ilya doesn't blink. He clears his holster in a blur, his own weapon leveled at my father’s skull.
The ballroom goes dead silent. The music keeps playing, but the world has narrowed down to the three of us and the twin circles of black steel staring each other down.
I don't think. I just move.
I throw myself between them, my hands splayed against Ilya’s chest, my back pressed hard against my father’s gun.
"If you want to kill him, you have to go through me!" I scream, the sound raw and tearing. I look up at Ilya, then back at my father, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Papa, stop! I’m with him because I want to be!"
My father stares at me, his eyes wide. "Via, don't lie for him. He’s holding you hostage."
"He isn't!" I turn to Ilya, grab the lapels of his tuxedo, and pull him down.
I kiss him, hard and desperate, pouring every ounce of the "perfect wife" performance I have into the touch. My heart is screaming in terror, but I keep my eyes open, looking over Ilya’s shoulder at my father, pleading with him to believe the lie.
Ilya doesn't pull away. He leans into it, his hand clamping onto the back of my neck, his gun arm lowering just an inch.
My father’s shoulders slump. The gun in his hand wavers, then slowly lowers toward the floor.
He looks at me, his face a mask of grief and confusion.
"If you think this is a game, Kovalevskii... if you think you can play with her heart like it’s some trophy...
I will come for you. I don't care if I die for it. I will see you in the ground."
Ilya’s gun clicks back into its holster. "I don't play with what is mine, Petr. You have my word."
I let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension in my limbs turning to water. Danger solved. Just get him out of here, and I can survive the night.
But the silence doesn't last.
A rhythmic pop of suppressed gunfire erupts from the lobby. The sound is muffled, but unmistakable. Then, a scream.
My head snaps toward the balcony.
There, standing in the shadows of the velvet curtains, is a man in a charcoal suit. He’s looking down at the ballroom, his gaze shifting from group to group, his movements slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly familiar.
Mikhail.
The air leaves my lungs in a violent rush.
The room begins to tilt, the lights blurring into bright, dizzying streaks.
He’s dead. I saw him die. My hand slips from the stem of my champagne glass.
It hits the marble floor with a sharp, shattering sound.
I’m falling, the world pulling the rug out from under me, the darkness rushing up to swallow me whole.
Then, two hands are there.
They’re solid, massive, and rough, catching me before I can hit the ground. A steel band of an arm wraps around my waist, pulling me hard against a chest that feels like a stone wall.
"Via."
Ilya’s voice is a low, dangerous growl against my ear.
I can’t breathe. I grip the lapels of his tuxedo, my knuckles white, my eyes wide and unseeing. "He... he’s there," I whisper, my voice cracking, my body shaking with a violent, uncontrollable tremor. "Ilya, he’s there!"
Ilya’s grip tightens, his arm crushing me against him. He doesn't look where I’m pointing. He’s looking at me, his fingers digging into my back, his presence a frantic, desperate anchor.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice sharp, vibrating with a tone I’ve never heard before. "Via, look at me! Right now!"
I try to force my head up, but my neck feels like lead. "It’s Mikhail. I saw him. He was standing there..."
"I don't care," he growls. He’s not looking at the balcony, he’s looking at me, his eyes dark with a wild, frantic intensity. He’s terrified. I’ve never seen him terrified, but he is. "Stay close. You do not move. You stay exactly where I can touch you. Do you understand me?"
I blink, the world slowly snapping back into focus. The ringing in my ears is subsiding, replaced by the pounding of my own heart against his chest. I look up at him, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.