Anya’s spine straightens beside me.
“Polina.” Her voice drops to something cold. “Still recycling dresses?”
The air between them freezes.
Polina’s smile falters for half a second before she recovers. “The sapphires are exquisite. Sri Lankan, if I’m not mistaken?” Her gaze drops to Anya’s throat, and her hand starts to rise toward the necklace.
“Touch me,” Anya says, stepping forward before I can move, “and I’ll break every finger on that hand. Roman doesn’t share, and neither do I.”
Several heads turn. In Bratva circles, public threats carry weight that whispers never do.
“My apologies, Mrs. Volkova.” Polina makes the name sound like an insult. “I didn’t realize you were so territorial.”
“Now you fucking know.”
My hand finds the small of Anya’s back, to back the threat she just made. Pride blooms in my chest at the fire in her voice,at the way she’s staring down a woman who’s murdered more people than most soldiers.
Dmitri chooses that moment to materialize at Polina’s elbow.
He’s holding a champagne flute, and his amber eyes are fixed on Anya with the kind of stare that makes my finger itch for a trigger.
“Cousin.” He uses the familiar address without the patronymic, an insult to my rank that he knows exactly how to deploy. “Happy to see you both, still together.”
“You’re a suka, Dmitri. In the old days, I wouldn’t have just broken your legs. I would have cut the stars off your knees myself and sent the video to every Vor from Moscow to Vladivostok.”
Dmitri’s face pales. The stars on a Vor’s knees mean I kneel to no one. Cutting them off is the ultimate punishment, worse than death, because it announces to the entire brotherhood that you’re nothing. That you never were.
“Offers can always be revisited.” His voice wavers despite his best efforts. “Especially when husbands prove to be less protective than they promised.”
I lean in close enough to smell the fear spiking off his skin, close enough that only he can hear what I say next. “You’re breathing borrowed air, cousin. I gave you three hours at the Ritz. I’m feeling less generous tonight. Na huy, before I decide you’re not worth the patience.”
Anya’s hand presses flat against my chest.
“He’s not worth the bullet, Roman.” Her voice carries just far enough for Dmitri to hear. “Not yet.”
She’s right. Killing him now ruins the operation.
I step back.
Anya turns back to Dmitri and Polina with a smile that could freeze vodka mid-pour. “The auction starts at midnight, I believe? We should circulate. So many old friends to greet.”
Polina’s stiletto clicks against marble. “Of course. Midnight, upper deck. Do bring your checkbooks. Vadim does so love it when family participates in his little ventures.”
She pivots on emerald heels and walks away. Dmitri follows, but not before his gaze slides over Anya one more time with possession he has no right to feel.
I make a silent list of bones I’ll break first.
* * *
We’re standing at the roulette table pretending to watch the wheel spin when Anya’s breathing changes.
“Roman.” My name cracks when it leaves her mouth. “It’s almost time.”
“I know.”
“I can’t fucking believe he will do this.” Her voice is low and vicious, fury barely contained. “Vadim took my life’s work and turned it into a weapon.”
I wait for the guilt. The blame. It never comes. Her eyes are dry. Her hands are steady. She doesn’t want to apologize; she wants to burn the world.
