Chapter 9 Rafa
Rafa
"A little to the left, Mr. Rosso. And perhaps you could place your hand on Ms. Petrov's waist?"
The photographer—some renowned artist Vito hired at an obscene rate—gestures impatiently as I adjust my position.
Kira stands beside me, perfectly composed in a midnight blue dress that makes her skin glow like moonlight.
We're positioned against the Manhattan skyline, the city lights creating a bokeh effect that makes everything seem softer than the reality.
Nothing about this moment is real.
"Perfect," the photographer purrs, snapping rapidly. "Now look at each other—like you're sharing a secret."
I turn toward Kira, who meets my gaze with remarkable precision. Her gray eyes reveal nothing, but there's a slight tension in her jaw that tells me she's as uncomfortable with this performance as I am.
"Smile like you mean it, Kyrilla Minela," I murmur, just loud enough for her to hear.
Her eyes flash. "Don't call me that."
"Your full name? Would you prefer a pet name? Darling? Sweetheart? Future Mrs. Rosso?"
"I'd prefer professional courtesy," she responds, her smile never faltering for the camera. "My name is Kira."
"Professional courtesy," I repeat, sliding my hand from her waist to her lower back, feeling her stiffen slightly at the contact. "Is that what we're calling this arrangement?"
"We're not calling it anything. We're enduring it."
The photographer circles us, capturing every angle of our fraudulent intimacy. "Beautiful chemistry," he comments, completely misreading the tension between us. "You can feel the heat."
If only he knew what kind of heat it was. The type that precedes an explosion, not passion.
"One more set," he announces, "and then we'll move to the family groupings."
Kira exhales slowly. "Two more hours of this charade," she mutters.
"Counting the minutes?"
"Counting the seconds."
Despite everything, I find myself fighting a smile. Her sharp edges and refusal to play nice are refreshing after years of people telling me what they think I want to hear.
"You know," I say conversationally as the photographer adjusts his equipment, "for someone who sent me a cooperation protocol, you're treating me more like an adversary than a potential ally."
Her eyes snap to mine, suddenly alert. "Not here," she whispers, her gaze darting to the various staff members buzzing around us.
"Here is exactly where no one would suspect us of having a real conversation," I counter. "Everyone sees what they expect to see—the reluctant fiancés performing their roles."
She considers this, then inclines her head slightly in acknowledgment. "Smart."
"I have my moments."
The photoshoot finally concludes, and we're ushered toward the main event—a formal dinner at Eleven Madison Park, which has been closed to the public for the evening.
The restaurant has been transformed into a neutral territory where the Petrov and Rosso families can display their alliance without either side feeling at a disadvantage.
As we enter, I catalog the key players. Vito stands near the bar with his consigliere, Marco, a veteran whose calm demeanor masks a calculating mind.
Dante, Vito’s enforcer, is sweeping the room with his eyes, ready for anything.
A few of the capos are spread throughout, keeping close eyes on the women of our family.
Particularly Rina, our Donna. Nearby, Luca sips champagne while charming a group of legitimate business associates, his easy smile never revealing the fact that he's armed with at least two concealed weapons.
On the Petrov side, Vadim holds court near the windows, flanked by Alexei, his right hand, and Kira’s older brother, whose massive frame makes even the custom suit look constrained. Her second-oldest brother, Nicolai, stands slightly apart, observing everything with analytical detachment.
"Your brothers are quite the contrast," I comment to Kira as we accept flutes of champagne from a passing server.
"You have no idea," she replies. "Alexei solves problems with his fists. Nicolai solves them with his mind. Both are equally lethal in their own way."
"And where do you fall on that spectrum?"
She gives me a sidelong glance. "I create problems no one else can solve."
I can't help but laugh, drawing attention from nearby guests. "I believe that."
"Kira!" A female voice cuts through the ambient chatter. A striking young woman with copper-red hair approaches, dressed in black leather pants and a sheer top that defies the formal dress code. "You're glowing with newfound domesticity. It's disturbing."
"Zoya," Kira acknowledges with what appears to be genuine warmth. "Rafa, this is my youngest sister."
Zoya looks me up and down with blatant appraisal. "So you're the hacker who's supposed to tame our Kira. Good luck with that."
"Taming isn't on my agenda," I reply.
"Smart man." She smirks. "Though sad for you. Kira needs someone who can match her... appetites."
"Zoya," Kira warns.
"What? I'm being supportive of your arranged marriage to a stranger." She rolls her eyes dramatically. "Totally normal, healthy family dynamics here."
Before Kira can respond, a young man appears at Zoya's side, slinging an arm around her shoulders. He has tousled blonde hair and a smile that suggests perpetual amusement at a joke no one else gets.
"You must be the sacrificial lamb," he says to me, extending his free hand. "Misha Petrov. The disappointment of the family."
"He's not a disappointment," Kira corrects automatically. "He's just selectively competent."
"I choose when to care," Misha agrees cheerfully. "Keeps people guessing."
I shake his hand, noting the surprising strength in his grip despite his casual demeanor. "Rafa Rosso."
"BitVenom," he replies, lowering his voice. "I know. I've studied your work—that Indonesian bank hack last year? Pure artistry."
I keep my expression neutral. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Of course not," he winks. "Just like my sister has no idea what NyxBinary means."
Kira's fingers tighten around her champagne flute. "Misha."
"What? We're family now, aren't we?" He gestures between us. "No secrets among family. Isn't that what Father always says before he starts lying?"
The casual way he references Vadim's duplicity surprises me. The Petrov siblings appear to be far less reverent of their patriarch than their appearances would suggest.
"Dinner is about to be served," Nicolai announces, appearing beside us with silent efficiency. "Father expects you both at the head table."
As we follow him, I lean close to Kira. "Your siblings are... unexpected."
"Disappointed?" she asks.
"Intrigued," I correct. "They seem to share your enthusiasm for family loyalty."
A ghost of a smile crosses her lips. "We Petrovs are united in our disunity."
"Something we have in common, then."
She glances at me sharply. "You and your brother seem close."
"Proximity isn't closeness," I reply. "Vito sees me as an asset, not a brother. A useful tool in his organization."
"Like my father sees me," she murmurs, so quietly I almost miss it.
This moment of vulnerability, small as it is, shifts something between us—a recognition of shared circumstance, of parallel cages.
We take our seats at the center of the long table, positioned as the symbolic bridge between our families. Vadim sits to Kira's right, Vito to my left. The message is clear: we are the connecting point, the human treaty.
Throughout dinner, I watch Kira navigate the complex social dynamics with effortless precision.
She speaks fluent Italian with my family's associates, discusses Byzantine art with Marco's wife, and debates economic policy with a banking executive who launders money for both our organizations.
All while maintaining the perfect amount of distance from me—close enough to appear coordinated, far enough to make it clear this isn't a love match.
"Tell me," I say during a rare moment when no one is actively listening to us, "what does your name actually mean? Kyrilla Minela."
She stiffens slightly. "Why do you care?"
"Professional courtesy," I echo her earlier words.
She studies me for a moment before answering. "Kyrilla is masterful. Minela is from my mother's family—it means determined protector in an old dialect."
"Masterful and determined protector," I translate. "Fitting."
"And Rafael Antonio?"
"A healing force," I reply. "Less fitting."
"I don't know," she says, her voice softening slightly. "You seem determined to fix things. To heal what's broken in your own way."
The observation is unexpected, too perceptive for comfort. "By breaking other things?"
"Sometimes that's the only way."
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, the clamor of the restaurant fades. Here is someone who understands the destructive path to creation and recognizes that sometimes systems must be dismantled before they can be rebuilt.
"By the way," I say, lowering my voice, "amateur hour? Really?"
She almost smiles. "Was your ego bruised?"
"My ego is intact. My curiosity, however, is piqued. You knew I was probing your systems."
"I set the honeypot specifically for you."
"And I knew it was a honeypot," I counter. "I was testing your response, not actually trying to breach your security."
"Of course you were," she says with perfect condescension.
"You're infuriating, you know that?"
This time, she does smile, briefly but genuinely. "So I've been told."
The dinner progresses through multiple courses, each more elaborate than the last. Speeches are made—Vito eloquent about family legacies, Vadim stern about united strength.
Toasts are raised to our future, to prosperity, to partnership.
All while Kira and I maintain our careful performance of resigned acceptance.
As dessert is served, I notice Luca at the bar, deep in conversation with Zoya. Her body language has shifted from rebellious to attentive, leaning slightly toward him as he speaks—dangerous territory.
"Your sister should be careful," I murmur to Kira.
She follows my gaze. "Zoya or Luca?"
"Both, probably."
She shrugs. "Zoya collects dangerous experiences like some people collect art. She'll be fine."
"And Luca?"
"He might need medical attention when she's done with him."
I laugh despite myself, drawing Vito's attention. He raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised to see genuine amusement rather than forced politeness.
As the evening draws to a close, we're directed to the terrace for "candid" photographs with the New York skyline as backdrop. The press has been carefully curated—friendly outlets that won't ask difficult questions about why two powerful business families are suddenly uniting through marriage.
Kira’s now wrapped in a beautiful fur coat and her and I stand side by side, answering softball questions about wedding plans and future business ventures. She's masterful at saying nothing with many words, weaving vague responses that sound substantial but reveal nothing.
"One more photo for the society page! Perhaps the happy couple could show some affection?" Calls a photographer.
I feel Kira tense beside me.
"Kiss! Kiss!" someone calls, and others join in, the chant spreading through the assembled guests.
Kira turns to me, her expression carefully neutral, but her eyes communicating a clear warning. I place my hand gently on her waist, giving her time to pull away if she chooses.
She doesn't.
Instead, she tilts her face up to mine, her lips slightly parted. "Make it convincing," she whispers.
I lean down, intending a brief, chaste kiss enough to satisfy the audience without crossing boundaries. But the moment our lips touch, something unexpected happens.
Kira melts against me.
Her mouth moves against mine with sudden hunger, her body pressing closer as her hand slides up to the back of my neck. The kiss deepens without conscious decision, heat flaring between us like a backdraft when oxygen hits smoldering embers.
I taste champagne and something darker, spicier, something uniquely her. My hand tightens instinctively at her waist, pulling her closer as everything else falls away. This isn't a performance. This is combustion.
And then, as suddenly as it began, she pulls back. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, a flush spreading across her cheeks. For one unguarded moment, I see genuine shock in her expression as if she's surprised herself as much as she's surprised me.
Then the mask descends again. She steps back, smoothing her dress with practiced nonchalance. "That should give them something to print," she says, voice perfectly steady despite the rapid pulse I can see at her throat.
The crowd around us applauds, completely misreading what just happened. They see a passionate, engaged couple. I see a woman fighting for control against me, against herself, against whatever just passed between us.
"Kira," I begin, not sure what I'm going to say.
"Don't," she cuts me off. "It was for the cameras."
But her eyes betray her. Whatever that kiss was, it wasn't just a performance. It was a revelation.
As the evening finally concludes and we prepare to leave, I catch her arm gently.
"Our meeting," I murmur. "Tomorrow. Midnight."
She hesitates, then nods once, sharply. "I'll be there."
"We should talk about what just happened."
"Nothing happened," she insists, but her eyes drop to my mouth briefly before she catches herself. "It was theater."
"Liar," I say softly.
Her eyes flash. "We're all liars here, Rosso. Some of us are just better at it than others."
She pulls away and walks toward the waiting car, where Nicolai stands, watching our exchange with analytical interest.
I remain on the terrace, the phantom pressure of her lips still burning against mine. The kiss replays in my mind—the unexpected heat, the momentary surrender, the abrupt withdrawal.
Kira Petrov just showed me a crack in her perfect armor. A glimpse of the woman beneath the calculation and control. God help me, I want to see more.