Semyon runs a hand through his hair. "And if that person is in the room and decides to kill you?”
"Then I die knowing I looked them in the eyes first." I check my watch. "The party started an hour ago. They'll be past the formal introductions, into the dancing and drinking. Perfect time to make an entrance."
"Perfect time to get murdered."
"Always the optimist." I clap him on the shoulder. "Stay near the exits. If this goes sideways, I want you out clean."
"If this goes sideways, I'm dragging your stupid ass out with me." He pulls on his own jacket. "Someone has to keep you alive long enough to realize you're being an idiot."
We take separate cars to the venue. It’s a luxury hotel in the heart of Moscow that caters to the kind of events where everyone is armed, and nobody calls the police. The kind of place where the Bratva conducts its public business.
I wait in the car for ten minutes after arriving, watching the entrance. Security is tight—Semyon was right about that. At least a dozen visible guards, probably twice that many inside. All of them Roman's people.
I don’t recognize any of the faces. Semyon said my father’s people were replaced. That’s not really a smoking gun. A new pakhan would want his own loyal people.
But it’s a little fact I’m keeping in the back of my mind.
Right now, I trust no one. Everyone is a potential enemy. Semyon is the only one I truly believe is on my side.
My phone buzzes. Semyon:In position. North entrance is your best bet. Fewer guards.
I type back:
Going through the front.
I can hear the frustration in his response:Of course you are. Idiot.
I smile despite myself and exit the car.
The night air is cold enough to see my breath. February in Moscow is beautiful and brutal. I walk toward the entrance like I own the place—shoulders back, head high, the golden prince returned from the dead.
The guards notice me immediately. Hands drift toward weapons. One of them speaks into his radio.
"Name?" The largest one steps forward, blocking my path.
"Maksim Barinov." I let the words hang in the air.
His face goes pale. "That's not—you're supposed to be—"
"Dead?" I smile, and I know it doesn't reach my eyes. "Clearly rumors of my demise were exaggerated. Now, am I on the guest list or do we have a problem?"
He stammers into his radio while his colleagues stare at me like I'm a ghost. Which, to be fair, I am.
A response crackles back. I can't hear the words, but I see the guard's expression shift from shock to confusion to something like fear.
"You can...go in," he says finally. "Sir."
The honorific is telling. Either they've confirmed my identity or Roman wants to see what I'm about to do.
Probably both.
I walk through the entrance into opulence that would make czars jealous. Crystal. Gold. Marble.
Everything designed to display wealth and power.
The ballroom opens before me like a scene from another life. Hundreds of people in evening wear, drinking champagne that costs more than a car. Caviar and other appetizers on trays arecarried through the room by waitstaff. The music is classical—strings and piano, elegant and completely at odds with the violence that permeates every conversation in this room.
I stay near the wall, scanning faces. Looking for threats. Looking for allies.
