Chapter 4
Kira
New York in autumn smells like money and decay—the perfect metaphor for my family business.
I step out of the town car into the crisp October air, staring up at the gleaming glass tower that houses my brother's Manhattan penthouse.
Forty-seven floors above the city, Nicolai has built himself a fortress of bulletproof windows and digital surveillance that rivals most government installations.
The doorman recognizes me instantly—no doubt from Nicolai's meticulous security briefings—and ushers me toward a private elevator that requires both retinal scan and fingerprint authentication. Pure Nicolai. Paranoid and precise .
"Welcome back to New York, Ms. Petrov," the elevator's AI system greets me in a smooth, emotionless voice.
"Thank you, Anya," I reply, knowing Nicolai has programmed his security system to respond to personalization. My brother understands that true power lies in making machines feel human while ensuring humans behave like machines.
The elevator opens directly into the penthouse foyer, where Nicolai stands waiting.
At thirty-one, he looks more like our mother than any of us—elegant features, wire-rimmed glasses, and a stance that suggests he's perpetually analyzing everyone around him.
He wears a charcoal suit with no tie, the perfect picture of calculated casualness.
"You're late," he says by way of greeting, but his eyes warm slightly as he takes my luggage. "The flight from Moscow landed ninety-three minutes ago."
"Traffic," I lie, knowing he's already tracked my phone and knows exactly where I stopped on the way from JFK.
His lip twitches. "The bakery on 9th. Still addicted to those ridiculous croissants."
I roll my eyes and follow him into the main living area, a minimalist expanse of white furniture and black accents that overlooks the Manhattan skyline. Floor-to-ceiling windows display the city like a living chessboard, which is exactly how Nicolai sees it.
"Tell me about Father's meeting with you," he says, pouring me a glass of water with precisely three ice cubes—he remembers how I take everything. "Was it as dramatic as your text suggested?"
I take the glass, dropping onto his pristine white sofa and kicking off my heels in a deliberate attempt to disrupt his perfect order. "He threatened to disown me and implied I'd be sold into sexual slavery if I refused the marriage."
“Our father wouldn’t. You know you’re his favorite.” I roll my eyes.
“Whatever.”
Nicolai doesn't flinch. "Did he at least show you the portfolio on Rafa Rosso?"
“Yes. But there wasn’t much there.”
He sits beside me, his movements precise and economical. "Rafa Antonio Rosso. Thirty years old. IQ estimated over 155. Graduated summa cum laude from MIT at twenty with dual degrees in computer science and physics."
The tablet displays photos, documents, data points—a life reduced to intelligence briefings. The file my father gave me didn’t have any of what Nicolai is sharing with me.
"He's also BitVenom," I say, watching Nicolai's face for reaction.
His eyebrow lifts a fraction of a millimeter—the Petrov equivalent of a gasp. "You're certain?"
“I am now. Everything makes sense. I've traced similar markers in our joint financial systems. Only someone high up the food chain would be so precise. The Italians would use him to handle anything digital, just like Father uses me.”
Nicolai's eyes narrow behind his glasses. "You think he's the one stealing from the accounts?"
I hesitate. My instincts tell me Rafa isn't behind the thefts—the pattern doesn't match what I know of BitVenom's work. But voicing this to Nicolai might reveal too much about my own plans. Even if he wants to help me he would never betray the Petrov name.
"I'm still gathering evidence," I say carefully. "If the Italians are behind the theft this arranged marriage could be useful. I'll have direct access to his systems, his work, his life to determine if they are."
"And if he isn't?"
I shrug. "Then he's another asset. Either way, the Rossos are powerful allies or dangerous enemies. Better to keep them close."
Nicolai studies me with the same intensity he applies to market fluctuations or enemy movements. Of all my siblings, he's the only one who can see through my mask .
"You're planning something," he says finally.
I take a slow sip of water. "I'm always planning something."
"Something specific. Something dangerous."
I set down my glass and meet his gaze directly. "What if I told you I want out? Not just from this marriage. From all of it."
The silence that follows is thick with implication. Leaving the Bratva isn't like quitting a job. It's a matter of life and death. It's more akin to trying to remove your own organs while they're still functioning. I am the Bratva Heiress. I don’t just get to walk away.
"I would say that such thoughts should never be spoken aloud in any location that hasn't been swept for surveillance within the last hour, even mine." Nicolai responds carefully.
He stands and walks to a panel on the wall, activating what I recognize as a signal jammer. Then he moves to the bar, pouring himself two fingers of Scotch —the only time Nicolai ever drinks is when we're discussing family mutiny.
"Now," he continues, returning to sit across from me, "I would ask if you've calculated the probability of success for such a hypothetical endeavor."
"Thirty-seven percent," I answer without hesitation.
He almost smiles. "That low?"
"It's improved from twenty-three percent last year."
Now he does smile, a rare sight that transforms his face. "Ever the optimist."
This is why I can talk to Nicolai when I’m unable to speak to anyone else.
He understands probability, risk assessment, and the mathematics of survival.
Unlike Alexei with his blind loyalty, or Misha with his wild impulsiveness, or Zoya with her chaotic rebellion, Nicolai sees the world as I do: a system of patterns that can be analyzed, predicted, and manipulated.
"The Rosso alliance complicates things," I admit.
"Or simplifies them." Nicolai leans forward. "Rafa Rosso isn't like his brother. Vito embraces their legacy while Rafa tolerates it. According to my sources, he's been establishing independent revenue streams and identities for the past three years. He might be planning an exit strategy himself."
My pulse quickens. "He's planning his own exit? "
"It appears so."
"Does Father know?"
Nicolai scoffs. "Father sees only what confirms his worldview. To him, the Rossos are either loyal allies or enemies to be eliminated. The concept of a made man wanting out is incomprehensible."
I process this information, recalculating probabilities and scenarios. "If Rafa is planning an escape..."
"Then perhaps your interests align," Nicolai finishes. "Two is statistically safer than one in most extraction scenarios."
"Or twice as likely to fail."
"True." He swirls his Scotch . "You'll need to assess him yourself. The engagement gala is in three days. Vito Rosso has spared no expense—apparently, there will be senators and a state judge in attendance."
"Laundering social capital alongside actual capital," I murmur. "Efficient."
Nicolai's expression turns serious. "Kira, if you truly intend to pursue this... hypothetical scenario, you need to understand the risks. Father won't just disown you. He'll hunt you. Both families will."
"I know."
"And Rafa, regardless of his own plans, is a Rosso first. He's been raised in that world just as we've been raised in ours. Trust is a liability."
"Trust isn't part of my calculations," I say.
Nicolai sets down his glass and takes my hands—a gesture so uncharacteristic that I startle slightly. "I can help you," he says quietly. "Not directly—I have too many eyes on me. But I can provide resources, intelligence, and misdirection when needed."
Hope flares in my chest, bright and dangerous. "Why would you help me leave when you're staying?"
"Because someone should get out," he says simply. "And out of all of us, you have the best chance. Your skills exist beyond our world. Mine don't."
I squeeze his hands, emotion tightening my throat. "I could bring you with me."
He shakes his head. "Two might be safer than one, but five is a target. And I won't leave Misha and Zoya unprotected."
Our younger siblings—brilliant, reckless, and utterly unprepared for the full brutality of our father's world. Nicolai has always shielded them, deflecting our father's attention and rage whenever possible.
"I understand," I say, and I do. In the Bratva, family is both our strongest bond and our heaviest chain.
Nicolai releases my hands and returns to business mode. "The first step is assessing Rafa. Determine if he's an asset or a threat. Learn his plans, his resources, his weaknesses."
"And if he is planning an exit?"
"Then proceed with extreme caution." Nicolai's eyes are hard behind his glasses. "Men like Rafael don't share power easily, especially with women. He'll try to use you, just as you'll try to use him."
"Then it's a good thing I've always been better at this game than most."
Nicolai almost smiles again. "Remember what Father taught us—"
"Never bring a knife to a gunfight," I finish automatically.
"No," Nicolai corrects. "Bring a knife, they don't see coming."
Later, after reviewing security protocols for the engagement gala and analyzing the latest intelligence on the Rosso operations, I retreat to the guest suite Nicolai prepared. Like everything in his world, it's immaculate and sterile, designed for function rather than comfort.
I open my laptop and dive back into the Bratva-Rosso financial systems, searching for any trace of the thief. As I work, I notice something new—a message buried deep in the code, so subtle that anyone else would miss it:
# BitVenom's encrypted message, hidden within the system
def bitvenom_encryption(rsa_public_key):
# BitVenom's cryptic message
message = "I know you’re looking. I'm not your thief. But I might be your way out."
bitvenom_salt = "BitVenom_Salt" # Known only to BitVenom
timestamp = 1642095600
# Speczic moment when the message was created
My heart pounds against my ribs. Rafa Rosso has to be BitVenom. I know that line of coding anywhere. He must have figured out who I really am —NyxBinary.
I close the laptop slowly, mind racing. This changes everything. Either Rafa Rosso is laying an elaborate trap—or he truly is planning his own escape and has recognized a potential ally in me.
Either way, in three days I'll be face to face with the man I'm supposed to marry. A hacker who might be my destruction or my salvation.
I'll need to be the Petrov blade—sharp, invisible, and always aimed at the most vulnerable point.
Because in three days, the wicked game begins.