Chapter 2
Kira Petrov
Everyone remembers the photos, but no one remembers the codes I’ve written to end whoever threatens the family or our business.
When I was nineteen, I took modeling jobs to build my own capital.
It was important to me to separate from my father’s blood money.
I didn’t want to be under his thumb. Lingerie, swimwear, editorial—I did what was necessary to establish independence.
But the aftermath was more damaging than expected.
Men use those images as ammunition to undermine me, as if beauty and intelligence can’t possibly coexist.
They think I’m just a pretty face. A body they’ve seen in magazines, dripping in lace or gold-threaded bikini bottoms, airbrushed to perfection and posed just right to sell the illusion. They don’t see the blade I keep tucked beneath the silk. That would ruin their fantasy of someone like me.
In this world—my world—men like their women one of two ways: bloodthirsty or fuckable. And God forbid you ever try to be both.
Every deal I close, every gun I load, every brutal move I make behind closed doors—it’s all done with their laughter echoing in the back of my head. The whispers: She’s just the Bratva’s doll. A little girl playing tough. This world isn’t for the little princess with the perfect manicure.
They forget that I bleed Petrov. My father taught me how to shoot a gun before I was old enough to drive. I’m just Kira. The heiress. The pretty distraction. The girl with legs for days and no brains behind her Botox-free forehead.
Let them underestimate me. Let them sneer. Let them remember the posters and the perfume campaigns. Because when I come for their throats, they’ll realize too late—
I’m never just a model.
I’m the warning they ignore.
And I’ve had enough of playing nice.
As I sit at the end of a long mahogany table, surrounded by men who control enough firepower to level Moscow twice over, I watch them fumble through basic financial concepts like children playing with loaded guns.
Yet my father believes these men are the best in their field.
The whole thing is comical. This meeting is an insult to my intelligence.
My degree from Harvard flushed down the drain.
“It’s simple,” grunts Kozlov, a gray-haired brigadier with hands like hammers. “Money flows in, money flows out. If there’s a leak, we find the pipe and crush it.”
The other six men nod approvingly. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from rolling my eyes.
These men—these killers and enforcers—still think in terms of physical things they can touch, break, or bury.
And some things are—gold bars, real estate, and art.
But the real currency, the future, is cryptocurrency.
Something they can’t seem to wrap their mind around.
“With respect, Brigadier, the problem isn’t that simple,” I say, my voice deliberately soft, forcing them to lean in.
Kozlov’s small eyes narrow. “For someone who spent years posing in underwear, you seem very confident about financial matters.”
There it is. They never let me forget. I have to work twice as hard, despite being better and smarter than all the men sitting around this table combined.
Unfortunately, my father does nothing to help my case.
He is too busy being a traditional Russian man, father, and mob boss in no particular order.
I’m too pretty to know what I’m talking about.
I smile, all ice. “For someone who spent years breaking kneecaps, you seem very confident about international banking.”
A dangerous silence falls. Then, from the head of the table, my father chuckles. Not because he finds it amusing—Vadim Petrov rarely finds anything amusing—but because he recognizes a tactical victory when he sees one. I am, after all, my father’s daughter.
“My daughter,” he says, his accent thickening with false pride, “has a certain… directness I admire.” He nods to me. “Continue, Kira.”
I pull up the holographic display that hovers above the center of the table. One of the many tools I use to bring these men into the 21st century. It’s also helpful with men like them, who only believe what they can see.
“A micro what?” One of the men asks.
“The money isn’t simply leaking,” I explain, manipulating the glowing data streams with slight movements of my fingertips. “It’s being systematically extracted through a series of microtransactions across our global accounts.” I fight the urge to call them dumb ass.
“They are small transactions. Each transaction is disguised as a legitimate financial fluctuation, such as currency exchange rates, management fees, or transfer costs. But when mapped collectively—” I pinch my fingers together, and the display consolidates, forming a perfect funnel. “We lose about a million every month.”
Silence. Heavy, respectful silence at last. I’ve got their attention. Any thoughts of me being just a pretty face are gone.
“How long has this been happening?” My father’s voice is dangerously soft. I also have his full attention.
“Eleven months,” I reply. “It begins shortly after we integrated systems with the Rosso accounts.”
My father’s eyebrow twitches—the equivalent of another man’s scream.
“The Italians?” he asks.
I hesitate. “The breach carries certain… signatures that suggest American involvement. But I need more time to be certain.”
“Time is a luxury we don’t have.” My father stands abruptly. “Kira, Alexei—with me. The rest of you, get out.”
The brigadiers file out wordlessly, Kozlov tossing me a final glare before the heavy doors close as if it would intimidate me.
He forgets I have three brothers and a father who can discipline me with one look.
. My brother, Alexei, remains seated across from me, his massive frame dwarfing his chair, his face unreadable beneath his thick beard.
It’s clear he knows why my father dismissed his men before I could finish my presentation.
When we’re alone, my father’s shoulders relax a fraction of a millimeter—the closest he ever comes to letting down his guard.
“Have you confirmed it’s the Rossos?” he asks, pouring himself three fingers of vodka.
I shake my head. “The code is sophisticated. I need access to their servers directly to be sure.”
“And you’ll have it,” my father says, turning to face me with an expression that makes my stomach drop. “Sooner than you think.”
Alexei shifts uncomfortably, the first sign of emotion he’s shown the entire meeting.
“Father,” he rumbles, “perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more private.”
I straighten. “Discuss what?”
My father takes a slow sip of his drink. “The arrangement has been accelerated.”
I know immediately what the arrangement means. Since childhood, I’m aware that my fate was decided decades before my birth—a contract written in blood—an alliance through marriage. Two powerful families joining forces.
“No,” I say softly.
“Yes,” my father counters. “The wedding is in three months. You will marry Vito’s brother.”
The room feels suddenly airless. I always knew this day would come, but I spent years pushing it into a hypothetical future. Three months. Ninety days. That’s not enough time to form an escape plan.
“You expect me to marry someone I’ve never met?” I manage to keep my voice steady.
My father’s lip curls. “I expect you to follow orders obediently without complaint.”
“The Rossos could be stealing from us!” I snap before I could stop myself. My father glares at me.
“Then think of it as corporate espionage. Get close. Find proof. If they’ve betrayed us, your position will be invaluable.” He says coldly.
I turn to Alexei, hoping for support, but his eyes are fixed on the floor. Always loyal to father first. I shake my head in disappointment. His body language suggests that he disagrees with my father, yet he remains silent.
“And if I refuse?” The question is barely a whisper.
My father sets down his glass with dangerous precision. “Then you will no longer be a Petrov. No longer under our protection.” He smiles thinly. “There are many men who remember those modeling photos, Kira. Men who would pay a high price to own more than just the pictures.”
The threat slithers between us, poisonous and clear.
I take a deep breath. There has to be a tactic I can take that will free me from marrying a man who could potentially be stealing money from us.
Everyone without the Petrov name is an enemy.
For God's sake, the Italians could be stealing from us, looking for a way to attack us.
“You want me to spy on my own husband?” I ask, buying time while my mind races ahead, mapping contingencies, escape routes, counter-strategies.
“I want you to remember where your loyalties lie.” He crosses to where I sit and places a heavy hand on my shoulder.
It isn’t as loving as it might appear. “You are brilliant, моя дочь. The most brilliant of all my children.” Then his grip tightens painfully.
“But brilliance without purpose is just noise.” I hate it when he says 'my daughter ' in Russian, as if it’s supposed to lessen the blow.
I manage a stiff nod, and he releases me.
“Go—Pack for New York. You leave tomorrow morning. Nicolai is already setting up your accommodations.”
I want to argue against the idea. How an arrangement made decades ago…
is sexist and pointless. After a few minutes, they leave.
I remain seated, the digital display still hovering above the table.
I wave my hand, and the data streams shift to reveal a line of coding I recognize.
I’ve seen the signature on the dark web: the same elegant efficiency, the same distinctive markers.
The signature of a ghost I tangled with once before—and never forget.
Why would this line of code be embedded here?
Does the hacker work for the Rosso s? But I can’t spend too much time on this.
There are more important things I need to focus on.
If I could hack my way into the Italian’s server and leave a backdoor or Trojan horse, I might find the evidence I need.
I turn on the tablet. There is a folder labeled Rafa Rosso.
Rafa Rosso. My future husband.
I scroll through the surveillance photos on my tablet—the ones Nicolai sent from New York.
There is also a short bio. An MIT graduate.
Handles all cyber work for the Rosso s. It’s implied that he is a hacker.
Could he be…? No, impossible. I would know his name if the line of code were his.
Being an MIT graduate doesn't necessarily mean you're a hacker.
I close the files and make my way through the labyrinthine corridors of the Petrov estate, nodding to the guards who track my every movement. In my private quarters—the only place swept daily for surveillance—I lock the door and sink to the floor.
Three months. Ninety days.
Not enough time to sever the chains that bind me to the Bratva.
Unless…
I open my laptop and begin working, fingers flying across the keys. If Rafa Rosso is indeed behind the… if he’s stealing from the shared accounts…
I can use it. Expose him. Break the engagement.
And if not—if he’s just a pawn like me—maybe we can negotiate a different kind of arrangement. The enemy of my enemy might just be an ally.
The flight to New York is booked. First class. One-way.
In twelve hours, I will meet my middle brother, Nicolai, the strategist . He will help me. Nicolai is the only member of my family who treats me like a person, not some commodity .
In three months, I will be free—one way or another.
I just need to remember the first rule of survival in the Bratva:
Everyone bleeds eventually.