Chapter 13 Rafa
Rafa
I pace my apartment like a caged animal, unable to settle despite the late hour. Every surface reminds me of work I should be doing, code I should be writing, escape plans I should be perfecting. But my mind keeps circling back to one thing.
Kira.
The way she’d looked when she admitted there was someone from the Bratva’s past still alive—still dangerous.
That flash of vulnerability beneath her perfect control.
The concern in her voice when she said knowing his name puts you in danger, as if my safety mattered to her.
The memory of her body pressed against mine during our kiss, the way she’d melted into me for those few electric seconds before reality reasserted itself.
I stop pacing and stare out at the city lights, trying to rationalize what I’m about to do.
We need to work together to uncover this ghost’s network, because I doubt he is working alone. We need to identify his accomplices before our families destroy each other over manufactured evidence. These are logical, strategic reasons to seek her out.
But deep down, I know it’s not why I’m reaching for my jacket.
The truth I don’t want to acknowledge is simpler and more dangerous: I need to be near her. Need to breathe in that intoxicating scent of blackberry and vanilla that seems to rewire my brain. Need to feel the electric current that sparks whenever we’re in the same space.
The need to understand what’s happening to me.
I’ve never been driven by physical desire like this. Never felt the pull of another person so acutely that it overrides logic and caution. But Kira has gotten under my skin in a way I can’t ignore or compartmentalize.
The smart thing would be to stay home. To wait until morning, when daylight and professional distance can create safe boundaries between us. Instead, I grab my keys and head for the door.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside her building, staring at the lit windows. She’s awake. Working, probably, just as restless as I am.
The Tribeca building’s security system is impressive, featuring biometric scanners, motion sensors, and encrypted access protocols. For most people, it would be impenetrable.
I’m not most people.
It takes me exactly seventeen minutes to bypass the digital locks and camera feeds.
The doorman is distracted by his late-night Netflix binge, oblivious to the ghost moving through the supposedly perfectly secure building.
Even the elevator’s fingerprint scanner yields to a simple override device Gio designed for situations exactly like this.
As the elevator rises silently to the loft, I question my own judgment. What am I doing here? We could have continued our conversation in daylight tomorrow through proper channels.
The elevator opens directly into her loft foyer. Soft lighting casts everything in warm shadows. The space is minimal yet elegant in a way only serious wealth can achieve.
I take three steps into the main living area before I hear the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked.
“Turn around slowly,” Kira’s voice cuts through the darkness, perfectly steady despite the late hour. “Hands where I can see them.”
I comply, finding her positioned behind her kitchen island, a Glock 19 trained on my center mass with professional precision. She’s traded her summit attire for black leggings and an oversized T-shirt, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Even holding me at gunpoint, she’s beautiful.
“Petrov, before you pull that trigger,” I say, keeping my voice calm, “you should know I’m here to work together. Just like we discussed.”
Her eyes narrow, weapon never wavering. “You could have called.”
“Could have. Didn’t want to risk the lines being monitored.
” I gesture vaguely at her building’s high-tech features.
“Also, your security is embarrassingly easy to breach. You might want to upgrade before word gets out that NyxBinary and the Bratva Princess can be reached through basic social engineering.”
A flicker of irritation crosses her face. “My security is—”
“Adequate for civilians,” I interrupt. “Barely a speed bump for professionals. The doorman’s watching Stranger Things season four, the cameras are on a predictable thirty-seven-second loop, and your elevator scanner accepts any valid thumbprint when preceded by the right frequency pulse.”
She lowers the gun slightly, more annoyed than threatened now. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”
“I’m concerned about your safety,” I correct, and realize I mean it. “If I can get in this easily, so can whoever we’re dealing with.”
That sobers her immediately. She clicks the safety back on and sets the weapon on the counter, running a hand through her hair in frustration.
“Fine,” she says with a huff. “You’re here. We might as well work.”
She leads me toward the corner where her workstation dominates the space. Three curved monitors, a custom keyboard, and server towers humming softly behind smoked glass panels make the setup impressive even by my standards.
“Nice gear,” I comment, noting the specialized hardware.
“Nicolai has expensive taste.” She settles into her chair, immediately transforming into a digital predator like I would. “What did you find after the summit?”
I pull up a second chair, positioning myself to see her screens clearly. The proximity puts me in direct contact with her scent—that distinctive blend of blackberry and vanilla that seems to short-circuit my usual professional detachment.
“I expanded the shadow echo system,” I explain, forcing myself to focus on the data as she pulls up the financial tracking interface. “Traced the diversions back to their authorization points.”
She leans forward to examine the code, her shoulder brushing against my arm. The contact is electric, but she gives no indication that she notices. She maintains a professional distance, even while sitting close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
“These authentication signatures,” she murmurs, highlighting sections of the data stream. “They’re using administrative override protocols.”
“Someone with high-level access,” I agree, trying to ignore how her hair falls across her face as she concentrates. “Board level or family level.”
She sits back, creating deliberate space between us. “That narrows it down to maybe six people in the organization.”
“Including your father.”
“Including my father,” she confirms quietly.
I study her profile as she processes this.
The careful control, the slight tension in her jaw, and the way she’s not looking at me deliberately.
Everything about her body language screams indifference, but I’m learning to read the tells beneath her perfect composure.
She isn’t as careful as she believes herself to be.
“You don’t think it’s him,” I observe.
“I think my father is many things—ruthless, calculating, paranoid. But stupid isn’t one of them.” She turns back to the screen, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Stealing from a partnership this profitable? It’s not his style.”
“Unless he’s planning to eliminate the partnership entirely.”
She pauses, considering this. “Possible. But then, why arrange our marriage? Why go through the elaborate integration process?”
“Cover for the thefts?”
“Or cover for something else entirely.” She adds under her breath.
We work silently for the next hour, our chairs gradually migrating closer as we share screens and pass data back and forth.
Every accidental touch—her hand brushing mine as she reaches for the mouse, her leg pressing against mine when she shifts position, sending electricity through my nervous system.
She’s trying to maintain professional distance, but I catch her stealing glances when she thinks I’m not looking. The way her breath catches slightly when I lean close to point out something on her screen. The flush that spreads across her neck when our shoulders touch.
Whatever’s happening between us, she feels it too.
“Here,” she says suddenly, highlighting a section of code. “This is interesting.”
I lean in to examine her discovery, close enough that my breath stirs the hair at her temple. She freezes for a fraction of a second before continuing.
“The authorization signature isn’t just administrative,” she explains, voice carefully steady. “It’s dual-authenticated. Requires two separate approvals for any transaction over a certain threshold.”
“How high a threshold?”
“Five million.”
I whistle low. “Someone’s been planning this for a while. You don’t set up dual authentication overnight.”
“And you don’t get two board-level approvals without serious coordination.” She turns to face me, and suddenly we’re inches apart, her gray eyes wide and focused. “Rafa, I think we’re dealing with a conspiracy, not just one person.”
The revelation should be shocking, but I can only think about how close she is to me. How her lips are slightly parted, how the soft light makes her skin glow, how badly I want to close the distance between us and—
She turns back to the screen abruptly, breaking the moment. “We need to identify the second signatory.”
Right. The investigation. The reason I’m supposedly here.
Except I’m beginning to suspect that’s not the real reason.
I came here tonight ostensibly to collaborate on our shared problem.
Still, as I watch Kira work, taking note of the elegant efficiency of her movements, the brilliant leaps her mind makes through complex data, and the unconscious grace with which she navigates the digital landscape, I realize something unsettling. I came here because I needed her.
Not for strategic reasons or investigative purposes, but because something fundamental shifted during our conversation at the summit. The moment she admitted she was trying to protect me, even as she struggled with the decision to trust me.
I’ve spent years maintaining careful emotional distance from everyone around me.
It’s a survival instinct in families like ours.
Attachment is vulnerability, and vulnerability is perceived as death.
But Kira has somehow slipped past every defense I’ve constructed. My walls aren’t as thick as I thought.
“The second signature,” she continues, oblivious to my internal revelation, “has to be someone with equivalent access to my father. That’s basically just—”
“Alexei,” I finish, observing her face.
She nods reluctantly. “Alexei.”
“The brother who warned you to stop investigating.”
“The brother who’s been acting strangely whenever this subject comes up.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, staring at the screen without really seeing it. “Alexei isn’t malicious,” she says finally. “Whatever he’s involved in, there’s a reason. Probably one he thinks is protecting the family.”
“Or protecting you.”
She looks at me sharply. “What do you mean?”
“You said he gets into people’s heads. Manipulates. What if he’s manipulating Alexei? Using him to access the accounts while making it look like your family is betraying mine?”
“To what end?”
“War,” I say simply. “Nothing would benefit our enemy more than watching our families destroy each other.”
The possibility settles between us, and it is heavy with implications. If he is playing both sides—using Alexei to steal while framing me for the thefts—then every move we make could be precisely what he wants.
“We need more information about this man’s history with my family. About what kind of leverage he might have over Alexei.” Kira says, finally.
“That means confronting your brother directly.”
“That means risking his life if our enemy realizes we’re onto him.”
I study her face, noting the genuine concern for her brother’s welfare despite her suspicions about his involvement. Family loyalty, even in the face of betrayal. It’s something I understand, even if I don’t always put it into practice.
“We could try a different approach,” I suggest. “Instead of confronting Alexei, we draw out the man pulling his strings.”
Her eyes sharpen with interest. “What kind of trap?”
“The kind that uses his own methods against him.” I lean closer, close enough to catch that intoxicating scent again. “You said he gets into people’s heads? What if we get into his?”
“Explain.”
“We feed him information through Alexei, the accounts, and whatever channel he monitors. Make him think we’re closer to exposing him than we actually are. Force him to make a move that reveals his true position.”
A slow smile spreads across her face, the first genuinely pleased expression I’ve seen from her all night. “Psychological warfare through digital channels. I like it.”
“Thought you might.”
We’re close again, drawn together by shared purpose and something darker, more primal. This time, she doesn’t pull away immediately. Her eyes drop to my mouth for just a moment before meeting my gaze again.
“It’s late,” she says softly. “We should probably—”
“Yeah,” I agree, not moving. “Probably.”
Neither of us stands. The air between us is charged, electric, with possibilities and dangers.
I could kiss her again. I should kiss her again, given how she’s looking at me.
But something holds me back. Maybe the knowledge that once I cross that line, there’s no pretending this is just about our investigation.
Finally, she breaks the moment by standing and moving toward the kitchen. “Coffee?” she asks, voice carefully neutral. “If we’re going to plan his downfall, we might as well do it properly.”
“Sure,” I manage, watching the graceful line of her body as she moves. “Coffee sounds good.”
As she busies herself with the machine, I remain at her workstation, ostensibly reviewing our findings but actually processing what happened. The easy collaboration, the growing tension, this is dangerous territory—more dangerous than anything I’ve encountered in my carefully controlled life.
But as I watch Kira Petrov prepare coffee at 2 AM in her kitchen, wearing civilian clothes and no makeup, her guard finally lowered enough to reveal glimpses of the woman beneath the ice princess facade, I realize something that should terrify me.
I don’t want to be anywhere else.