Chapter 23
Kira
Zoya’s apartment in SoHo looks like a rebellion against everything the Petrov family represents.
Exposed brick walls covered in street art, vintage band posters mixed with expensive photographs, designer clothes draped carelessly over thrift store furniture.
It’s organized chaos with an edge that perfectly captures my youngest sister’s approach to life.
“You look like shit,” she announces by way of greeting, not bothering to get up from where she’s sprawled across her velvet couch, painting her nails electric blue while what sounds like underground Russian punk blares from hidden speakers.
“Thank you for the warm welcome,” I reply, settling into the chair across from her. “It’s nice to see you, too.”
“I’m serious.” She pauses in her nail art to study my face with surprising perceptiveness. “When’s the last time you slept? Actually slept, not that thing you do where you close your eyes for three hours and call it rest.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy fucking your fake fiancé or busy pretending you didn’t fuck your fake fiancé?” Her directness would be shocking if I weren’t used to Zoya’s complete inability to filter her thoughts. “Because either way, you’re doing that thing where you overthink yourself into an early grave.”
Heat floods my cheeks despite my best efforts to maintain composure. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please.” She waves her nail brush dismissively. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. Like he’s a puzzle you can’t solve, driving you insane. Also, you’re wearing a turtleneck in seventy-degree weather, which either means you’re having a fashion crisis or someone left marks on your neck.”
I resist the urge to touch the high collar that’s indeed hiding evidence of Rafa’s mouth on my skin. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“But it’s part of why you’re here.” She caps the nail polish and gives me her full attention. “Talk to me, sestrenka. What’s eating you alive?”
The concern beneath her flippant attitude breaks through my defenses. Of all my siblings, Zoya is the only one who’s never expected me to be anything other than what I am. No role to play, no image to maintain—just sisters talking.
“I think Father and Alexei are lying to me,” I admit. “About something big.”
“Duh.” Her response is so casual that it takes me a moment to process it. “They’ve been lying to you for weeks. Months, probably.”
“You knew?”
“I suspected.” She examines her nails critically, blowing on them to speed the drying process. “Father’s been having way too many meetings with people who don’t officially exist. And Alexei’s been acting weird—more brooding than usual, which is saying something.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you wouldn’t have believed me. You still had faith in family loyalty and all that bullshit.” She meets my eyes directly. “Plus, I figured you’d figure it out if it were important. You always do.”
I lean back in the chair, processing this casual confirmation of my worst fears. “The wedding—do you think they’re using it for something other than alliance building?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Zoya’s certainty is matter-of-fact, as if we’re discussing the weather. “The whole thing reeks of ulterior motives. Father doesn’t do anything for just one reason. You better than anyone knows it.”
“This is a problem,” I say, more to myself than to her.
“Why?” She tilts her head, genuine curiosity in her expression. “You never wanted to get married anyway. Especially not some arranged political marriage to a stranger.”
“He’s not a stranger anymore.”
“No,” she agrees, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “He’s the guy who’s been keeping you up at night, making you question everything you thought you knew about yourself. The man who has taken your virginity.” There is a slight humor in her tone.
The accuracy of her observation is uncomfortable. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s only complicated if you make it complicated.” Zoya stands, moving to her kitchen to grab two bottles of expensive vodka from the freezer. “Do you want to marry him or not?”
“It’s not that simple—”
“It’s exactly that simple.” She pours two shots, sliding one across the coffee table to me. “Forget about Father, forget about family obligations, forget about whatever scheme is probably happening behind the scenes. Do you, Kira Petrov, want to marry Rafa Rosso?”
The question hangs in the air like a challenge. I pick up the shot glass, using the motion to buy time while my mind races through possible answers.
“I don’t know,” I finally admit.
“Bullshit.” Zoya downs her vodka in one smooth motion. “You know. You’ve known since the moment you set eyes on him. You’re just scared to admit it because it means everything you’ve planned for your life is about to change.”
“I’ve been planning to escape this life for years—”
“And now you’re thinking about escaping it with someone instead of alone.” She pours herself another shot. “Terrifying concept for someone who’s never trusted another person enough to share a secret, let alone a future.”
Her words cut deeper than I expect. “When did you become so perceptive about relationships?”
“When I started having them, instead of just analyzing them like mathematical equations.” She grins, but there’s affection beneath the teasing. “You fuck one Italian underboss and suddenly you think you understand love.”
“I don’t—” I start to deny it, then stop. Because the word she used—love—sends a jolt of recognition through me that I can’t dismiss. “It’s not love.”
“No?” Zoya’s eyebrow arches skeptically. “Then what is it?”
“Attraction. Intellectual compatibility. Mutual benefit. Lust”
“And the fact that you almost started a war to protect him from Father’s suspicions?”
“That’s just good strategy—”
“Kira.” She reaches across the table, her hand covering mine with surprising gentleness. “It’s okay to admit you care about him. It’s okay to want something for yourself instead of just for the family or the organization.”
“Caring about someone makes you vulnerable,” I say quietly. “Makes you weak.”
“Says who? Father?” Zoya’s expression hardens. “Father, who’s probably using your engagement to destroy the very man you’re falling for? That Father?”
The implication hits me like ice water. If Father and Alexei are planning something that involves my marriage, if they’re using my relationship with Rafa for their own ends...
“He could be in danger,” I realize aloud. “Rafa could be walking into a trap if they’re manipulating the situation.”
“Now you’re getting it, “ Zoya says, satisfied. So the question becomes: what are you going to do about it?”
Before I can answer, her phone buzzes with an incoming call. She glances at the screen and her expression immediately shifts to one of anticipation.
“Sorry, Sestrenka. I have to take this.” She answers with a breathless “Hey, beautiful,” which tells me exactly what kind of call it is. After a brief conversation about plans for the evening and what sounds like decidedly adult activities, she hangs up with a satisfied smile.
“I have to go,” she announces, already moving toward her bedroom. “But think about what I said. Life’s too short to let fear make your decisions for you.”
“Zoya—”
“And if you really want to know what Father and Alexei are planning,” she calls from the other room, “stop asking them directly and start watching who they’re meeting with. Surveillance works both ways.”
She emerges fifteen minutes later transformed—leather jacket, knee-high boots, makeup that could start wars, every inch the dangerous beauty that makes smart men do stupid things.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To make some poor bastard forget his own name,” she replies with a wicked grin. “You should try it sometime. Very therapeutic.”
She pauses at the door, her expression becoming momentarily serious. “For what it’s worth, I like him. Your Italian. He looks at you like you’re something precious instead of something useful. That’s rarer than you think in our world.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me alone in her chaotic apartment with my thoughts and the lingering scent of her expensive perfume.
I finish my vodka and try to process everything she’s said. The casual confirmation of my suspicions about Father and Alexei. Her matter-of-fact assumption that I’m falling for Rafa. Her suggestion that I should choose what I want instead of what’s expected of me.
The problem is, I’m not sure I know what I want anymore.
Three months ago, my goals were clear: escape the Bratva, establish independence, live life on my own terms. The engagement was an obstacle to be managed, nothing more.
Now...
Now I think about Rafa’s hands mapping my skin with reverent precision. His voice saying my name like a prayer. The way he threw himself between me and gunfire without hesitation.
The way I felt, for one perfect night, like I belonged somewhere with someone. Rafa made me feel alive —safe.
I check my phone, noting three missed calls from Nicolai and a text from Rafa asking if we can meet tomorrow to discuss “new developments in the Durov situation.”
New developments. Business as usual. Professional collaboration between strategic allies.
Not whatever’s been building between us in the spaces where pretense falls away.
I should be relieved that he’s maintaining distance after my cold dismissal this morning and grateful that he’s not pushing for conversations about feelings, futures, or what any of this means.
Instead, I find myself staring at his contact information, thumb hovering over the call button, wanting to hear his voice say something—anything—that isn’t about our families or their schemes or the dangerous game we’re all playing.
To take back the coldness I gave him. Tell him this growing thing between us isn’t just business.
But I don’t call. Because Zoya is right about one thing: caring about someone does make you vulnerable. And in our world, vulnerability is often fatal. As my father frequently says, love is a weapon our enemies won’t hesitate to use against us. Loving Rafa… no, I can’t open that door. But…
The question is whether some things—some people—might be worth the risk.
I’m starting to suspect the answer is yes.
And that terrifies me more than any threat Durov could pose.