Chapter 10 Kira
Kira
The city glows beneath me, a circuit board of light and shadow. From forty-seven floors up, the humans below are reduced to data points—predictable, mappable, controllable.
Unlike the chaos in my mind.
I press my fingertips to my lips, still feeling the ghost of Rafa’s mouth against mine. Hours later, the sensation refuses to fade, the unexpected heat, the way my body responded without permission from my brain. The glitch in my carefully constructed programming.
“Focus,” I mutter to myself, turning back to the screens that dominate my living space.
Red string connects printouts and digital displays, creating a physical manifestation of the connections my mind is tracking. Old school meets new tech, a technique Nicolai taught me years ago, when complex problems require engaging both hemispheres of the brain.
The numbers don’t lie, but they refuse to tell their full truth.
$37.4 million. Gone from the joint Petrov-Rosso accounts over eleven months. Not all at once. That would trigger immediate alarms, but in a precise pattern designed to mimic natural financial fluctuations.
I’ve traced what I can, following digital breadcrumbs through shell companies and ghost accounts. But the trail goes cold in unexpected places, as if someone deliberately created dead ends that shouldn’t exist.
Someone who knows how both families operate. Someone from inside the Bratva’s buried past.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, searching for patterns in the microtransactions.
Each withdrawal is fractionally different—$247,893 here, $315,624 there amounts specific enough to avoid triggering automated fraud detection but small enough to be explained away as legitimate business expenses if questioned.
Smart. Almost admirable, if it weren’t aimed at destroying my family.
I pull up the specific transaction dates and arrange them in chronological order.
Something catches my eye—a pattern in the timing.
Every third Tuesday, like clockwork. Except for February, when it was the fourth Tuesday.
Why the deviation? I cross-reference information from news articles, business records, and other relevant sources to help explain the anomaly. What happened then?
My thoughts are interrupted by the security system’s alert. The elevator is ascending to my floor—unauthorized.
I quickly minimize my screens and reach for the gun hidden beneath my desk.
Only three people have access to override my security: Nicolai, my father, and Alexei.
The elevator doors slide open to reveal my father, his imposing figure filling the doorway.
Alexei looms behind him, expression unreadable beneath his thick beard.
“Father,” I say, carefully setting the gun aside but within reach. “This is unexpected.”
“A father doesn’t need an invitation to see his daughter,” he replies in Russian, striding into my space as if he owns it, which, technically, he does.
I remain seated, a small act of defiance. “It’s late.”
“And yet you’re working,” he observes, gesturing to my screens with a knowing look. “Always working, моя умная дочь.”
My smart daughter. A compliment that always precedes a test.
“The money concerns me,” I say carefully, watching his reaction. “The patterns are... unusual.”
“Patterns?” He picks up one of my printouts, studying it with feigned interest. “What have you found?”
A test indeed. Does he already know what I’ve discovered? Is he checking my loyalty or my competence?
I decide on a partial truth. “The thefts aren’t coming from the Rossos.”
Alexei shifts his weight, a subtle cue that I automatically catalog. He’s uncomfortable with this conversation.
My father’s expression hardens. “Nonsense. Of course it’s the Italians. Who else would have access to our joint systems?”
“Someone internal,” I reply, holding his gaze steadily. “The code structure contains Russian markers. Someone is trying to make it look like the Rossos, specifically Rafa, but it’s not him.”
“You sound very certain. Very... defensive of your fiancé.” My father says softly.
The implied accusation hangs in the air between us.
“I’m defensive of the truth,” I counter. “The evidence points to someone on our side. Someone who knows our systems intimately.”
“Evidence can be manipulated,” Alexei interjects, speaking for the first time. “Especially digital evidence.”
I turn to my brother, noting the tension in his jaw, the way he won’t quite meet my eyes. “Then, who do you suggest is manipulating it, brother?”
“Perhaps the very person you’re defending,” my father answers for him. “Rafa Rosso is not just any hacker, Kira. He’s one of the best. Certainly capable of planting false evidence.”
“To what end?” I challenge. “If he wanted to steal from us, why not do it cleanly? Why leave evidence that points back to himself and then make it look fake?”
“To create exactly this situation,” my father says, his voice dangerously soft. “To drive a wedge between us. To make you question your family’s judgment.”
He moves closer, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I’m concerned about your objectivity, Kira. This engagement was strategic, but I wonder if perhaps you’re developing... complications.”
“I know where my loyalties lie,” I say stiffly.
“Do you?” His fingers tighten painfully. “That display tonight suggests otherwise. That kiss wasn’t just for the cameras, was it?”
Heat flushes my face, anger rather than embarrassment. “I was playing my role.”
“Play it too well, and you might forget it’s just a role.” He releases my shoulder. “Remember why you’re marrying him, Kira. Remember who you are.”
“A Petrov,” I recite automatically.
“The Petrov who will give us access to their entire digital infrastructure,” he corrects. “The Petrov who will find proof of their betrayal.”
“And if there is no betrayal to find?”
His eyes harden to flint. “Then you’re not looking hard enough.”
The implications are clear: find what he wants to see, regardless of reality.
“I’ll keep investigating,” I say neutrally.
“See that you do.” He straightens his already immaculate suit. “And remember, loyalty to family comes before all else. Even before the truth.”
As he turns to leave, I catch Alexei’s eye. Something passes between us—a flicker of... what? Concern? Warning? Guilt? It’s gone too quickly to interpret.
“Alexei,” I call as he follows our father to the elevator. “Stay a moment?”
He hesitates, glancing at our father, who nods once in permission.
When the elevator doors close, leaving us alone, Alexei’s massive frame seems to deflate slightly.
“You know something,” I state flatly.
He doesn’t deny it. “Knowledge is dangerous in this family, sestrenka.” He only calls me sister in Russian when he wants me to drop something.
“More dangerous than ignorance?”
His eyes—so like our mother’s—hold genuine concern. “In this case? Yes.”
“Kira.” He steps closer, lowering his voice though we’re alone. “Some questions shouldn’t be asked. Some answers shouldn’t be sought.”
“Alexei—”
“Trust me on this,” he cuts me off, a rare intensity in his voice. “For once in your life, stop digging. For your own safety.”
The elevator arrives again before I can respond. He steps inside, face settling back into its usual stoic mask.
“Father expects results,” he says formally as the doors begin to close. “Don’t disappoint him.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me with more questions than answers.
I turn back to my screens, mind racing. Alexei’s reaction confirms my suspicions—there’s something larger at play here, something my father doesn’t want me to discover.
The memory surfaces unbidden—Alexei and I as children, twelve and four, when he caught me reading our father’s private ledgers. Instead of reporting me, he’d closed the book gently and said, “Some things you’re better off not knowing, sestrenka.”
Later that night, I heard screams from the basement. The next morning, one of our guards was missing, and Alexei had a haunted look in his eyes that took weeks to fade.
Now, nearly twenty years later, I see that same look. Whatever he’s protecting me from, he believes it’s worse than our father’s anger.
But I’ve never heeded warnings about dangerous knowledge. Information is my element, my weapon, my shield.
I pull up my secure messaging system, fingers hovering over the keys. Should I reach out to Rafa? If anyone could help me trace these transactions further, it would be him.
But trust is a luxury I can’t afford, especially not with someone whose lips still burn against mine, whose touch triggered responses I’ve never experienced before.
I close the system without sending anything.
Rafa might not be behind the thefts, but that doesn’t make him an ally.
Not yet. Not until I know exactly what game he’s playing.
I stand and cross to the window wall, pouring myself two fingers of vodka from the crystal decanter.
The city spreads before me, a million lights in the darkness, each representing lives so much simpler than mine.
The vodka burns a clean path down my throat as I contemplate what lies ahead. Tomorrow’s midnight meeting with Rafa. My father’s expectations. Alexei’s warning. The missing millions.
A name I won’t let myself say. Not yet. Not until I’m certain—and not until I understand what it would mean if I’m right.
I’ve never been one to pray, but I find myself whispering to the empty room: “Show me the path.”
The only answer is the hum of my computers and the distant sound of the city that never sleeps.
I’ve always prided myself on controlling variables, on seeing all possible outcomes before I make a move. But for the first time in years, I’m stepping into shadows without a clear map.
“The first rule of hacking is never entering a system you don’t know how to exit,” I murmur to myself.
I wonder if the same applies to whatever is developing between Rafa and me—a system neither of us designed but both seem unable to resist.
Some firewalls aren’t meant to be breached. Some codes aren’t meant to be broken. And some risks are worth taking anyway.