The private balcony at the Lyric Opera House overlooks the stage like a throne overlooking a kingdom.
We settle into plush velvet seats arranged in a perfect row. The four of us. Together. The space is intimate despite its grandeur. Exclusive in the way only obscene wealth can buy. Designed for Chicago's elite to see and be seen while maintaining the carefully crafted illusion of privacy.
The red velvet beneath me is soft. Luxurious. The gold railings gleam in the low light. Everything smells like old money and new perfume. Wood polish and champagne.
I'm wearing a floor-length gown in deep emerald silk that pools around my feet like liquid. The fabric catches the light when I move, shimmering like water in moonlight. Strapless. Elegant. Fitted through the bodice before flowing to the floor ingraceful lines. The kind of dress that requires a specific type of confidence to wear.
The men are in tuxedos. Black and white perfection. Tailored to fit their bodies with the precision that only obscene amounts of money and patience can buy.
Maksim looks like old money incarnate. Every line sharp. Every detail flawless. His bow tie is perfectly straight, not a millimeter off center. His cufflinks catch the light when he moves, understated but expensive. He wears wealth and power like a second skin. Like he was born to it, which he was, even if he had to reclaim it through blood and determination.
Zakhar fills out his tuxedo in a way that should be illegal. Broad shoulders straining slightly against the fabric despite the expert tailoring. The formal wear doing nothing to hide the warrior underneath. Every movement controlled. Precise. He looks civilized in the way a caged predator looks civilized. Dangerous. Like violence wrapped in silk and pretending to be domesticated.
Alexei complained the entire time he was getting dressed. I heard him from three rooms away. Said he was suffocating. That tuxedos were invented by sadists who hated comfort. That he'd rather face another cage fight than endure another black tie event.
But he looks devastating. All dark hair slicked back, sharp cheekbones, and that grin that promises trouble even when he's trying to behave. The formal wear somehow makes his wildnessmore apparent. Like putting a frame around chaos and calling it art.
My men. All three of them. Looking like they could buy this opera house and everyone in it without checking their account balance first.
I let myself feel it for a moment. The pride. The possession. The particular thrill of walking into this glittering space on their arms and knowing that I'm theirs and they're mine. That every person in this building can see we belong together.
This morning feels like a lifetime ago instead of just hours. The domestic peace of breakfast. The easy touching and stolen kisses. The support they offered without hesitation. The way they accepted what I built instead of trying to dismantle it or take control.
I tried to call Jelena today. Multiple times. Needed to update her on the new developments. Tell her about the Severyn Bratva's support. Discuss how to integrate their resources. Figure out how to move forward with this new alliance.
But she didn't answer. Her phone went straight to voicemail. No text response. No callback.
Unusual, but not immediately alarming. Jelena keeps odd hours. Follows leads at all times of day and night. Sometimes goes dark for days when she's deep into surveillance or extraction planning.
I'll go to Maison Lyra tomorrow. Speak with her and the rest of the core team in person. It's better that way anyway. Some conversations shouldn't happen over the phone.
I'm wondering what Luan Krasniqi was doing at the house this morning. The visit felt significant. Urgent.
My thoughts are interrupted by movement beside me. Zakhar leans close, his shoulder pressing against mine. His breath warm against my ear. The scent of his cologne wrapping around me.
"Do you remember," he murmurs, voice low enough that only I can hear over the pre-performance chatter around us, "the last time we were both in a private balcony?"
Desire floods through me instantly. Immediate. Undeniable. Memory crashing over me like a physical wave.
The polo club. The risk of being seen. The crowd below watching horses while he made me come against the railing. The way pleasure and danger tangled together until I couldn't separate them.
My lungs forget their rhythm. My thighs clench beneath the silk of my gown. Arousal swift and sharp and impossible to hide.
"Whatever you're whispering about that got her looking like that," Maksim says from my other side, voice dry with amusement and hunger, "needs to wait until we're home."
Zakhar pulls back slightly. Just enough that I can turn my head to see his face. His eyes have gone dark. Hungry. Promising things that make my pulse race.
"Later," he says. Not a question. Not even a suggestion. A certainty. A promise.
The lights begin to dim. Slowly. Deliberately. Conversations around us fade to whispers, then to expectant silence. The orchestra swells, instruments finding harmony, filling the massive space with sound that vibrates through the floor and into my bones.
The curtain rises with smooth precision. Red velvet parting to reveal the stage. The performance begins.
La Bohème. Puccini's masterpiece about love and poverty and sacrifice. About passion that burns bright and brief and transforms everyone it touches.
The set is beautiful. Sparse but evocative. The lighting creates shadows and warmth. The performers move with practiced grace.
And then the soprano begins to sing.
