Chapter 18
Kira
The Petrov estate looms against the gray Moscow sky like a monument to old sins. I haven’t been back since the engagement announcement, and the familiar weight of surveillance and expectation settles over me the moment I pass through the iron gates.
I find him bench-pressing what appears to be his body weight plus another fifty pounds, sweat darkening his gray tank top as he powers through his set. The scars that map his arms and shoulders tell the story of a life lived on the violent edge of our family business.
“Sister,” he grunts, completing his rep and sitting up to grab a towel. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“We need to talk,” I say, closing the door behind me and engaging the privacy lock. “About Yegor Durov.”
The towel freezes against his neck for just a fraction of a second before he continues his movement. To anyone else, it would be unnoticeable. But I’ve been reading Alexei’s tells since childhood.
“Who?” he asks, feigning confusion as he moves to rack his weights.
“Don’t.” My voice carries the authority I’ve learned to project in boardrooms full of men underestimating me. “Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you don’t know the name.”
He turns to face me fully, and for a moment, I see past the careful mask he wears to the brother who used to sneak me extra sweets when my father wasn’t looking. But the expression is gone so quickly, I almost think I imagined it.
“You’re being paranoid, Kira,” he says, his tone gentle but condescending. “Durov was eliminated years ago. You know this.”
“The shell companies, Alexei. Meridian Holdings, Castellan Industries, and Blackwater Dynamics are all registered in your name. All receiving funds from the joint accounts.”
“I register dozens of corporations every year. It’s part of managing our legitimate interests.” He picks up a water bottle and takes a long drink, as if this conversation is merely a mild inconvenience. “You’re seeing patterns where none exist.”
“Fifteen million dollars, routed through companies you personally established. That’s not pattern recognition—that’s evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” His voice hardens slightly. “What exactly are you accusing me of, sister?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m asking for the truth.”
“The truth?” He sets down the water bottle with deliberate calm. “The truth is that you’re letting your engagement to the Italian cloud your judgment. You’re so desperate to prove the Rossos innocent that you’re willing to suspect your own family.”
The accusation stings because it carries just enough possibility to plant doubt. Am I protecting Rafa at the expense of family loyalty? Have my feelings for him compromised my ability to see clearly?
“This isn’t about Rafa,” I insist, though I’m not entirely certain it’s true even as I say it.
“Isn’t it?” Alexei steps closer, using his considerable height advantage to loom over me—an intimidation tactic he’s never used on me before.
“You disappear to New York, spend days working with their tech specialist, and suddenly you’re convinced one of us is betraying the family. The timing is... interesting.”
“The timing is irrelevant to the facts.”
“Facts can be manipulated. Especially digital ones.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe your Italian boyfriend is better at this game than you realize.”
The suggestion that Rafa has somehow manufactured evidence against Alexei sends a cold spike of uncertainty through me. Could he have planted the shell company registrations? Created false trails to implicate my family while protecting his own?
No. The accusation doesn’t align with what I know of Rafa’s methods or motivations. But the seed of doubt is planted, and Alexei knows it.
“I want to speak with Father,” I say, changing tactics.
“Father is busy with more important matters.”
“More important than preventing a war between our families?”
“More important than entertaining the paranoid fantasies of a daughter who’s forgotten where her loyalties should lie.”
The dismissal is final, absolute. I’ve been shut out, categorized as a problem to be managed rather than a resource to be utilized.
“Alexei,” I try one more time, letting genuine concern bleed into my voice. “If you’re in trouble… if Durov has some kind of leverage over you—I can help. We can find a way out of this that doesn’t destroy everything.”
For just a moment, his mask slips. I see fear in his eyes, not for himself, but for me. Then the walls slam back into place.
“There’s nothing to get out of,” he says firmly. “And you need to stop digging before you uncover something you won’t like.”
The warning is clear, though I can’t tell whether it’s a threat or a genuine concern for my safety.
I leave the training facility and make my way through the estate’s labyrinthine corridors, looking for my father. I find him in his study, but he dismisses my concerns with the same patronizing efficiency Alexei displayed.
“You’re seeing conspiracies where none exist,” he tells me, not even looking up from the financial reports spread across his mahogany desk. “Focus on your upcoming marriage and leave the family business to those qualified to handle it.”
The casual sexism isn’t new, but it stings differently now that I’ve experienced what it’s like to be taken seriously as an equal. Rafa might question my loyalties, but he’s never dismissed my capabilities.
I’m heading toward the exit, frustrated and no closer to answers, when a hand catches my arm in one of the side corridors.
“Sestrenka,” Misha whispers, glancing around to ensure we’re alone. “Walk with me.”
My youngest brother guides me toward the conservatory—a glass-walled room filled with our mother’s roses. Due to its transparent walls, this is the only place in the estate where surveillance is considered unnecessary.
“You asked Alexei about Durov,” he says without preamble.
“How did you—”
“Because I’ve been watching. Listening.” His usually carefree expression is serious, and he is older than his twenty-four years. “Whatever you think you know about what’s happening, it’s worse than you realize.”
“What do you mean?”
Misha stops beside a climbing rose that’s somehow blooming despite the late season. “Durov isn’t just stealing money, Kira. He’s building something. A network, a power base. And whatever he’s building—it’s not just about money. He wants back in.”
“Back into what?”
“To the family. To his old position. To...” Misha’s voice drops even lower. “To you.”
The words hit me like ice water. “That’s impossible. Our father gave the order to kill him and—”
“Death isn’t real until there’s a body,” Misha interrupts, his voice cold. “And Durov... he always had a thing for chasing what he could never claim.
“Are you saying Father knows? Is Alexei working with him willingly?”
“I’m saying conversations that don’t include either of us are happening. Decisions being made that we’re not privy to.” He touches the rose gently, and I notice his hands shake slightly. “Be careful, sestrenka. Durov has always been dangerous, but desperation makes him unpredictable.”
Before I can ask more questions, he’s gone, slipping away through the conservatory’s back entrance with the same casual grace he’s always possessed.
Twenty-four hours later, Rafa’s workspace
“They’re hiding something,” I tell Rafa as soon as I return to his secure facility. The flight from Moscow was turbulent, matching my internal state perfectly.
He looks up from the monitors where he’s been working, and I see the question in his eyes before he voices it.
“Did you confront Alexei?”
“Yes, and my father. Both of them dismissed me, told me I was being paranoid.” I sink into the chair beside him, exhaustion from the confrontations settling into my bones. “But Misha warned me that Durov is building something bigger than just financial theft.”
Rafa’s expression darkens. “Building what?”
“A way back into the family. A path to...” I hesitate, then force myself to say it. “To me.”
The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. Rafa’s hands still on the keyboard, his jaw tightening with what looks like barely controlled anger.
“Over my dead body,” he says quietly.
The protective instinct in his voice sends an unexpected warmth through me, though I quickly push it aside. “The point is, we’re dealing with more than just stolen money. This is personal for Durov, which makes him exponentially more dangerous.”
“Then we need to move faster.” Rafa turns back to his screens, pulling up new data streams. “I’ve been analyzing communication patterns while you were gone. There’s a cluster of calls between Alexei’s phone and an untraceable number, originating from the same cell tower in Brooklyn.”
He shows me the data, and I lean closer to examine the patterns. “Industrial district?”
“Warehouse row. Perfect place to hide a private operation.” He highlights the specific location. “If we can get close enough to tap into the cellular signal, we can intercept those calls in real time.”
“Physical surveillance,” I say, understanding immediately. “You want to go there.”
“I want to set up monitoring equipment. Get audio, maybe visual if we’re lucky.” He turns to look at me. “But this is field work. Dangerous field work. You should stay here where it’s safe.”
The patronizing tone—different from Rafa’s usual respect for my capabilities—triggers immediate defensiveness.
“Absolutely not,” I say firmly. “I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not.” His voice takes on the same authoritative edge I hear from my father and Alexei. “This isn’t a boardroom or a computer lab. If something goes wrong—”
“If something goes wrong, you’ll need backup,” I interrupt. “Someone who knows Durov’s methods and psychology. Someone who can adapt if the plan falls apart.”
“Someone who could get killed if we’re discovered.”
“Someone who’s been dealing with dangerous men her entire life.” I stand, placing my hands on the desk and leaning toward him. “I’m not some helpless princess who needs protection, Rosso. I’m your partner in this, which means I get a say in operational decisions.”
“Partnership doesn’t mean we both have to take unnecessary risks.”
“And it doesn’t mean you get to make unilateral decisions about my safety.” The argument is becoming heated, echoing the professional disagreements I’ve had with male colleagues who assume gender equals incompetence. “Either we do this together, or I do it alone.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
We stare at each other across the workspace, wills clashing with the same intensity that marked our last confrontation. But this time, there’s something different underneath—a current of protectiveness and concern that runs both ways.
Finally, Rafa’s shoulders drop slightly in defeat. “If we do this—if I agree to let you come—you follow my lead. No improvisation, no heroics. We get in, set up the tap, and get out.”
“Agreed,” I say, though we both know that plans rarely survive contact with reality.
“And if I tell you to run, you run. No arguments, no looking back.”
“Fine.”
“I mean it, Petrov. If something happens to you because I let you come along...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the implication hangs heavy between us.
“Nothing will happen to me,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “We’re both too smart to let Durov get the better of us.”
“Famous last words,” he mutters, but he’s already pulling up building schematics and satellite imagery of our target location.
As we begin planning our reconnaissance mission, I try to ignore the voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Misha: Be careful, sestrenka. Desperation makes him unpredictable.
And I try not to think about the fact that we’re about to walk directly into the web of the most dangerous man I’ve ever encountered—a man who’s spent five years planning his revenge against my family.