Chapter One - Vivienne
The courtroom smells like old wood, and faintly of mold. I smooth my palms down the sides of my slacks, then step forward with a confidence I don’t feel.
Confidence is performance, nothing more, and I’ve practiced this role enough to make it second nature. My heels strike against the floor as I cross toward the defense table, posture straight, expression cool. Every eye in the room is on me, waiting to see how a girl this young is going to keep a man like Sergei Markov from rotting in a federal prison for the rest of his life.
I don’t let them see me falter.
Sergei sits stiff beside me, thick wrists pressed flat against the table, his tattoos peeking out from under the cuffs of his shirt. He hasn’t said a word to me all morning, only stared at the jury with that faintly menacing grin.
The weight of the Bratva presses on my shoulders, though they wouldn’t say the word out loud in here. Not in this hallowed space where the law supposedly reigns supreme.
The prosecutor drones on about weapons shipments and international contacts. About the danger Sergei represents. He paints him as a monster, and by extension, me as foolish or corrupt for defending him. I watch the jury carefully.
One of them, a middle-aged man with thinning hair, shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Another taps her pen against her notepad. Cracks in their certainty. I know exactly where to strike.
When it’s my turn, I rise slowly, deliberately, holding the silence for just a beat too long. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I begin, letting my voice carry clear and steady, “we are not here to pass judgment on rumor, or whispers of organized crime,or the colorful imagination of law enforcement. We are here for evidence. Evidence, in this case, is sorely lacking.”
I take them through each point, carefully dismantling the state’s witnesses. A supposed informant who couldn’t keep his dates straight. A chain of custody that broke somewhere between an evidence locker and the prosecutor’s office. Phone records that don’t align with the timeline they’re presenting.
Piece by piece, I strip their case down until all that remains is smoke. By the time I circle back to Sergei, I’m not defending him. I’m accusing the state of trying to convict him with sloppiness and prejudice.
My closing statement is short, sharp, and cutting. “If the government can’t respect its own rules, how can we expect them to respect your verdict? Don’t let misconduct become conviction.”
The words hang heavy. I see the jurors exchange glances. Doubt spreads like wildfire.
When the verdict comes back—Not Guilty—the room fractures. Relief from Sergei’s corner. Rage from the prosecution. Murmurs ripple through the gallery. I keep my face composed, expression politely neutral, but inside, my pulse pounds. Another step closer. Another crack in the empire’s walls.
Outside, the courthouse air is cooler, laced with exhaust fumes and the buzz of voices. Cameras flash, reporters shout questions I don’t answer. Sergei disappears into a waiting car with his entourage, but I linger on the steps, savoring the victory. That’s when I feel it—a gaze, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the crowd.
I turn my head and see him.
Alexei Sharov.
He’s taller than I expected, broad-shouldered in a charcoal suit that fits him like it was sewn to his skin. His presence is deliberate, heavy, like gravity itself bends toward him. Storm-gray eyes lock on to mine from across the chaos. He doesn’t move at first, just watches. Assessing. My stomach twists before I force it still, fixing my face into the same mask I wore inside.
He approaches without hurry, without hesitation. The crowd parts around him. When he finally stops in front of me, his cologne drifts between us—clean smoke and leather.
“You argued well,” he says, his voice low, accented, smooth like glass over a blade. “Not many can take apart a case like that. Impressive.”
I incline my head slightly, just enough to acknowledge. “Thank you, Mr. Sharov.”
His lips curve into the faintest smirk, but his eyes stay cold. “We’ll have more work, if you’re interested. Cases that require… finesse. Discretion.”
There it is. The door opening. Exactly what I wanted.
“I’ll consider it,” I say evenly. “I expect full autonomy over how I handle my cases. No interference.”
He studies me for a long moment, long enough that my pulse threatens to betray me. Then he nods once. “Of course. I’ll be in touch.”
He turns away as smoothly as he came, slipping into a waiting black SUV that swallows him whole. The engine purrs, and then he’s gone, leaving me on the courthouse steps with my heart pounding and my nails digging crescents into my palms.
I walk away, slow and measured, until I’m clear of the press, the onlookers, the Bratva shadows. Only when I close my apartment door behind me do I let myself exhale.
The silence here is thick, but it’s mine. I move straight to the desk in the corner, push aside neat stacks of textbooks and legal briefs, and pull out the leather-bound file I keep hidden in the bottom drawer. I flip it open, and there he is—Alexei Sharov—his photo circled in red ink. My pen hovers before I jot down notes from today. His appearance, his words, the way he watched me like he already knew I was playing a part.
The file is thick. Pages of articles, surveillance photos, connections mapped in careful lines across paper. Names, dates, locations. His family. His history. Everything I’ve scraped together over years of obsession. My father’s death still bleeds through every page.
I see him again, in flashes. The night he died. The way the police wrote it off as suicide. The funeral where no one asked the right questions. The FBI contact who finally whispered the truth into my ear: it wasn’t suicide at all. It was murder. Ordered by the Sharov family. By Alexei himself.
