Prologue
Alexei
The Balshov mansion smells like money and rot. Expensive cigars, spilled vodka, and perfume making the air sickly sweet. The sound of laughter cuts through the music—sharp, brittle, false. I shouldn’t have come, but Yuri insisted. And when Yuri insists, you show up or risk his wrath. The old man’s paranoia is getting worse. Everyone knows it. Everyone’s waiting for the day his mind finally cracks in half.
I move through the room, greeting faces I don’t trust, shaking hands that have left blood on the same streets as mine. It’s meant to be a birthday party for Yuri’s stepdaughter, but she’s little more than an excuse for him to parade his wealth and remind everyone of who actually holds the power in this room.
I haven’t seen her in years, not since Nadia moved in and made the house unbearable with her voice, her perfume, her presence—a constant reminder of what we were… My father married my ex-girlfriend because that’s what he does—he takes what’s mine, just to remind me that he can.
I spot Nadia across the room now, draped in gold and glitter, eyes sharp with hunger. She raises her glass toward me. I look away before I remember what it felt like to despise Nadia properly.
Then I see her...Anya.
She stands by the piano, half hidden behind a vase of white lilies. The girl I used to callzayka—little bunny—because she’d follow me around like a shadow, then dart off the second I turned to look.
But this isn’t that girl anymore. She’s taller, her frame slender but not fragile, the soft curve of a woman where there used to be awkward limbs and too-big sweaters. Her hair is a rich, warm brown, the color of chestnuts in autumn, twisted into something delicate that bares the pale skin of her throat. I notice her eyes—deep brown, soft as velvet, with flecks of amber caught in the chandelier light. Her dress is light, almost innocent… except there’s nothing innocent about the way she looks at me when our eyes meet. It’s a split second, but it’s enough to make my pulse jump.
No, Alexei.
Don't go there.
If Yuri ever thought, even for a second, that I wanted her, he would ruin her just to punish me.
I force my gaze away and join my brothers near the bar. Viktor is nursing a drink in silence, his expression unreadable. Mikhail is talking animatedly about shipments, drawing a sharp look from Viktor that shuts him up—for a moment, at least.
Mikhail leans in closer, voice low.
“Father’s slipping,” he says. “He’s drawing too much attention. The other families are losing patience.”
Viktor says nothing, but the slight narrowing of his eyes tells me he agrees.
“It’s only a matter of time before you take over,” Mikhail insists. “You’re already the one they follow. Everyone knows it.”
Dmitri gives a distracted nod of agreement, his dark brows furrowed in that way that suggests his mind is focused elsewhere. I can't help but wonder what's going through his mind. Apart from being my brother, Dmitri is also mysovetnik, and we work closely together. I know what it means when he has that look—trouble is looming, and he hasn't decided whether to handle it on his own or share it with me. I make a mental note to ask him about it later.
We can't afford a slip right now.
“Enough,” I say, tone clipped. “You want to live through the week, you keep that mouth shut.”
Mikhail quiets down, but the truth hums between all of us anyway. Yuri is a storm about to break, and when he goes down, he’ll try to take us all with him.
“Attention, please!” Nadia’s shrill voice cuts through the crowd. “Our birthday girl has a surprise for us.”
I turn, already dreading whatever she’s planned. Anya looks like she wants the floor to open up and swallow her. Nadia nudges her forward, smiling like a cat that’s cornered a mouse.
“Sing for us,detka,” Nadia says.
Anya’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t argue. It’s not worth the time and effort, especially since Nadia would ignore it anyway. Nadia isn't Anya's mother—that was Katarina, Yuri's second wife, whi died when Anya was twelve. Now, Nadia plays stepmother, though she's only a few years older than Anya herself and has about as much maternal instinct as a snake.
Anya’s eyes dart to her stepfather, who gives her the kind of smile that makes my hands itch for violence. Then, she lifts her chin and takes the microphone. Her fingers tremble at first, but when she starts to sing, the room changes.
The noise fades. Conversations die mid-word. Her voice is soft, pure, and achingly human, rising above everything like something holy that doesn’t belong here. An aria. Not the kind of thing that fits this world, but maybe that’s the point.
I can’t look away.
Each note winds around my ribs, tighter and tighter, until it’s hard to breathe. She’s nervous at first, but then her eyes find mine. Just for a heartbeat. And I see her steady herself on it. On me.
Something dark cracks open inside me, something I don’t want to name. When she finishes, the room erupts into polite applause. Yuri beams like he owns her. Nadia claps with that tight little smirk she gets when she’s jealous.
