Chapter 6
Rafa
The code is beautiful. Perfect. A digital masterpiece that would take the average hacker years to crack.
Three monitors surround me in the dim light of my apartment, each displaying a different aspect of the security algorithm I've been refining for the past seventeen hours straight.
This is my real engagement—with encryption, not with some Bratva princess I've never met.
With this code, I will uncover who is using my code and stealing money.
My phone buzzes for the ninth time in twenty minutes. I glance at the screen: Vito.
I ignore it and return to my work. Five more minutes and I'll have the backdoor secured, leaving no trace that—
The phone rings again. This time, the specialized ringtone I've programmed for emergencies cuts through my concentration. With a growl of frustration, I snatch it up.
"What?"
"Where the fuck are you?" Vito's voice is deadly calm. The kind of calm that precedes someone being buried in New Jersey swampland.
I glance at the clock on my computer: 8:47 PM.
Shit.
The engagement gala started at 8:00.
"I'm working," I say, already calculating how long it will take to shower and get to The Pierre. "Lost track of time."
"You lost track—" Vito cuts himself off, and I can practically hear him counting to ten in Italian, something our mother taught him for controlling his temper.
"Rafa, there are two senators and a federal judge waiting to meet my brother, the man who's marrying the Petrov Heiress.
The Petrovs themselves are here, including your future wife. "
"I'll be there in thirty minutes," I say, already shutting down my systems.
"Make it twenty." He hangs up.
I stand, stretching muscles cramped from hours of immobility, and stare at the tuxedo hanging on my closet door.
The formal costume for tonight's charade.
Rina, my sister-in-law, had it delivered yesterday.
A slow, rebellious idea forms. If I'm going to be forced into this sham marriage, I might as well make my position clear from the start.
The shower is quick and perfunctory. I don't bother shaving the stubble that's accumulated over the past two days of coding marathon. My hair remains untamed, still damp as I pull on the tuxedo shirt and pants.
The bow tie I leave deliberately askew. The jacket I shrug on without bothering to button it properly.
In the mirror, I look exactly like what I am: a man who'd rather be anywhere else, doing anything else. Perfect.
If Vito wants to parade me around like a show pony, he can deal with one that refuses to perform.
The drive to The Pierre takes eighteen minutes in Manhattan traffic. I toss my keys to the valet with a generous tip that makes him ignore my disheveled appearance. The hotel lobby is old-world opulence—crystal chandeliers, marble floors, the quiet hum of money being spent.
I bypass the public areas, heading straight for the private elevator that will take me to the Grand Ballroom. Two more security teams—Russian and Italian—give me a look of thinly disguised disapproval as I approach. The Italian guards straighten when they recognize me.
"Mr. Rosso," one murmurs, pressing the button to summon the elevator. "They're waiting for you, sir."
"I bet they are," I mutter, stepping inside.
The elevator rises smoothly. I use the brief moment of privacy to run my fingers through my hair, intentionally messing it further. If I'm going to make a statement, it might as well be unmistakable.
The doors open, and I step out to face the ornate double doors of the Grand Ballroom. Without waiting for an announcement, I push them open and stroll inside.
The effect is immediate. Conversations halt mid-sentence as heads turn toward me.
The string quartet falters briefly before continuing their bland rendition of Vivaldi.
I scan the room with deliberate casualness, taking in the assembled power players of New York's elite—politicians, judges, business leaders, all pretending not to know they're drinking champagne with two of the most dangerous crime families on the East Coast.
Then I see Vito cutting through the crowd toward me, his smile fixed but his eyes promising retribution.
"You're late," he hisses, grabbing my arm with bruising force and steering me toward a less-populated corner.
"Traffic," I lie, allowing myself to be moved.
"And what the fuck is this?" He gestures at my appearance with barely contained fury. "You look like you spent the night in a holding cell."
"I was working."
"This isn't work, Rafa. This is your future. Your engagement party. Our alliance with the Petrovs." He reaches up to straighten my bow tie with aggressive precision. "The entire Russian contingent has been here for hours, including your fiancée."
I permit the adjustment, watching my brother with detached amusement. "And how is the lovely Kira Petrov?"
"See for yourself." Vito steps aside, providing me a clear sightline across the ballroom.
And there she is.
The photographs didn't do her justice. Not even close.
Kira Petrov stands in the center of the room, a vision in red silk that clings to her body like a second skin.
Her dark hair is swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck and the sharp angle of her jawline.
But it's her posture that captures my attention—perfect, controlled, radiating the kind of power that can't be inherited or bought.
She moves through the crowd with the precision of a predator, her smile calculated and her eyes missing nothing.
For a moment, I forget to breathe.
Then our gazes lock across the room, and everything else fades away.
The connection is instant and electric, like touching a live wire.
I deliberately let my eyes travel the length of her body, taking in every detail of the woman I'm supposed to marry.
When I look back up, there's a flash of something in her expression—irritation? Interest? Both?
"Stop antagonizing her before you've even met," Vito warns, reclaiming my attention. "The Petrovs aren't enemies. We need to be especially careful with everything going on with the Irish."
"And yet you're making me marry the Bratva Heiress," I counter.
"I'm securing our future," he corrects. "Now go introduce yourself to your fiancée properly. And try not to look like you've been dumpster diving on the way."
I extract myself from Vito's grip. "First, I need a drink."
Without waiting for his response, I move toward the bar, feeling Kira's eyes on me as I weave through the crowd. Halfway there, Sofia steps into my path, champagne flute in hand, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. Dante hovers just behind her like a shadow, arms crossed, watching the room with the same quiet vigilance he’s had since he married my sister-in-law.
“Nice of you to show up, little brother,” Sofia says, voice low but teasing.
She reaches up and straightens my already-askew bow tie with the same brisk affection she used to fix my school uniform when we were kids.
“Rina’s been fielding questions about why the groom looks like he just rolled out of a server room.
You’re lucky she’s charming enough to cover for you. ”
Dante smirks, giving me a once-over. “You do realize this is an engagement party, not a hackathon, right? Marco already bet me fifty you’d show up looking like this.”
I snort despite myself. “Tell Marco he owes you the fifty. And tell Elena to stop running background checks on every Petrov in the room—I can feel her digital fingerprints from here.”
Sofia laughs softly. “Too late. She’s already got a dossier on Kira’s last three code commits. Says they’re ‘impressively elegant.’ High praise from her.” She leans in, voice dropping. “Seriously, Rafa. Breathe. We’ve got your back tonight. All of us.”
Before I can answer, Dante claps me on the shoulder—firm, grounding. “Go get your drink. And maybe button the jacket before Vadim Petrov decides you’re disrespecting his daughter.”
They melt back into the crowd as smoothly as they appeared, leaving me with the faint warmth of family at my back. It’s annoying. It’s comforting. It’s exactly why escaping this life is harder than I want to admit.
I order a Scotch, neat, and turn to survey the room while I wait. When I find Kira again, I raise my glass in a mocking toast, deliberately not approaching her.
Let her come to me. Let her work for this interaction.
To my surprise, she doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she turns and heads to the bar at the opposite end of the room, the red silk of her dress flowing like blood in water.
Interesting. Very interesting.
I finish my Scotch in one burning swallow and make my decision. If she won't come to me, I'll go to her—but on my terms.
I cross the room slowly, nodding to important guests without stopping to chat. As I approach, I catch the scent of her perfume—blackberry and vanilla with something darker underneath, like amber or wood smoke. Distinctive. Memorable. Dangerous.
She stands with her back to me, perfectly straight spine exposed by the backless dress. An invitation or a challenge, I'm not sure which.
"You know," I say, stepping up beside her at the bar, "in most cultures, it's customary for engaged couples to at least pretend to know each other before the wedding."
She doesn't startle or turn. "In most cultures," she replies, her voice cool and melodic with just a hint of Russian accent, "it's customary for the groom to arrive on time to his own engagement party."
"I was busy."
"Clearly." Now she turns, those ice-gray eyes assessing me with clinical precision. "Coding for forty-eight hours straight will do that to your appearance."
My interest sharpens. "That's a specific guess."