Alexei breaks first.
"Pizdets."
The word hangs in the air, Russian profanity somewhere between holy shit and we're fucked, and it's the most honest thing anyone's said since we walked through the door.
Victoria's smile sharpens into something that could draw blood.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that this arrangement is going to cost me far more than I calculated.
2
VICTORIA
Pizdets.
The Russian curse lands in my mind like a diagnosis. The twin with the feral grin said it out loud, but I'm thinking it now, tasting the shape of it. This situation is fucked. Completely, utterly, spectacularly fucked.
Water drips from my hair onto expensive carpet, each drop a small act of vandalism. The air conditioning bites at my wet skin, sharp enough to raise goosebumps along my arms, but I don't shiver. I stand in the doorway of my father's office like I own it. Chin up, shoulders back, performing composure while my pulse beats a warning rhythm in my throat.
The afternoon sun slants through the windows behind my father's desk, turning the room into a stage. Dust motes dance in the light like evidence of decay. Chlorine clings to my skin, sharpand chemical, mixing with the smell of old leather and older money. The silence stretches, thick and dangerous.
Three men. Three very dangerous men.
I recognize them instantly.
Maksim Severyn stands by the window, all six feet of tailored precision and coiled violence. Pakhan of the Severyn Bratva. Blonde hair catching the light, ice-blue eyes that could frost glass, suit cut perfectly. Beautiful. Cold. Lethal. He's watching me with the focused intensity of a man trying to read a contract in a language he doesn't quite trust.
The Zverev twins flank him like matched weapons serving the same master.
The one by the door—Zakhar, the Avtoritet, Maksim's right hand—watches me with the attention of a sniper calculating distance and windage. Dark hair, green eyes, built like violence given human form in a suit. His hands are clasped loosely in front of him, but I'm not fooled. That's the posture of a man ready to move, not one at rest.
The other twin—Alexei, the wild card—sits sprawled in my father's leather chair like he's holding court in a kingdom he's already decided to burn down. Same coloring as his brother, but where Zakhar is stillness, Alexei is barely contained motion. Even sitting, he looks ready to explode into action. A scar cuts through his left eyebrow like punctuation. He's grinning at me like I'm the best entertainment he's had all year.
They launder their money in-house. Everyone knows that. The Severyn Bratva doesn't need my father's failing private banking business for financial services.
Which means they're here for something else.
Something worse.
My stomach tightens, but I keep my face blank. Bored, even. Let them see what I want them to see. A spoiled socialite dripping pool water on Persian rugs, too vapid to understand the danger she's in.
It's not normal for a twenty-three-year-old woman to recognize the Pakhan of Chicago's most powerful Russian crime syndicate on sight. Not normal to know the Zverev twins by reputation, to understand the particular flavor of violence each one brings to the table.
But I stopped being normal a long time ago.
So I do what I've learned to do when cornered. I weaponize my face, my body, my apparent harmlessness. Let them think I'm decoration. Pretty things are always underestimated.
The silence has stretched too long. They're all staring at me like I'm a problem they're trying to solve, and my father looks like he's actively dying of shame and fear in equal measure.
I let my mouth curve into something that might pass for a smile. "You wanted to see me, Father?"
My voice comes out steady. Polished. The product of expensive schools and etiquette lessons designed to turn little girls into acceptable society wives.
Father's face contorts, fear and fury fighting for dominance behind his florid complexion. His gaze drops to the water pooling around my feet, darkening the antique rug he loves more than he's ever loved me.
Do I care about his precious rug? Let me think.
No.
