No. He doesn't.
The first hairline fracture appears in my composure. Thin as piano wire. I ignore it.
I dial Victoria's number. The phone buzzes in my palm, cold and smooth against my scarred knuckles. It rings. And rings.
The lobby is empty now, chandeliers dimming to half brightness. The marble expanse looks vast. Wrong somehow. Champagne glasses sit abandoned on tables, lipstick smudges on crystal rims. A program lies facedown on the floor, pages splayed.
Her voicemail picks up. That polished voice she uses for business:"You've reached Victoria Ainsley. Leave a message."
I end the call without leaving one.
Zakhar's already moving, phone pressed to his ear. "Davis," he says to the next man in command of tonight's security detail. His voice drops into command mode, clipped and final. "Gather everyone. We need to find Mrs. Severyn. Now."
He crosses to the window, scanning the street outside.
Victoria is not careless with time. She doesn't wander. She doesn't lose herself in conversation with strangers.
Which means this isn't forgetfulness.
The realization lands cold.
I dial her number again. It rings. The sound burrows into my skull, steady and meaningless. Five rings. Six. Seven.
"You've reached—"
I call again immediately.
"You—"
My pulse beats steady in my neck. Training from a lifetime ago surfaces. The lessons learned in Moscow's cold winters, when panic meant death and control meant survival. Breathe. Think. Calculate.
But underneath that iron discipline, pressure builds. The kind I haven't felt since I was fifteen years old and watched my world end while my hands shattered under a boot heel.
Fear. Real. Visceral.
Alexei's pacing now. His movements are tight, controlled, but barely. Like a spring wound too far, one more rotation fromsnapping. "This is wrong. This whole night, the timing, the invitations—"
He stops, turning to face me. "He wanted us distracted."
"Say it," I tell him.
"Luan! That son of a bitch orchestrated this. He wanted us here while—" Alexei's smile is all teeth, nothing warm or human in it. "I'm going to enjoy tearing him apart."
I'm already dialing Luan's number.
From here we can hear the theater erupt into applause. Music swells, triumphant fanfare announcing the return to performance.
Luan answers on the first ring.
"This is not a good time, Maksim." His voice is tight, controlled, but underneath, I hear it. Tension. Background noise filters through. Engines, shouting, the unmistakable sound of weapons being loaded.
"Victoria is gone," I say. "If you had anything to do with that, you will regret it for the very short remainder of your life."
Silence. Then cursing, rapid and vicious in Albanian.
"I am not responsible for Victoria's disappearance." His accent thickens, consonants going hard. "But I believe my father is."
Everything stops.
