Anton Kozlov didn't drop her by accident.
He did it because she tried to leave.
The video keeps playing—another lift, another moment of perfect trust, her body suspended in his hands while two thousand people watch and applaud and have no idea they're witnessing the setup for her destruction.
I click on another video.
This one is from a gala performance, Giselle, two weeks before the accident. She's in the mad scene—the moment when Giselle realizes her lover betrayed her and dances herself to death. It's supposed to be tragic, beautiful and heartbreaking.
But Sonya makes it devastating.
She moves through the choreography like she's actually dying, like her heart is actually breaking, and somewhere around minute three, I realize I'm hard.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I'm watching a twenty-four-year-old woman dance herself to death on a screen, and my body is responding like she's here, and her pain and beauty and broken grace are somehow the most erotic thing I've ever seen.
I haven't been aroused in fifteen years.
Fifteen years of nothing. No desire, no interest, no physical response to any woman who's tried. I've had offers—plenty of offers. Beautiful women, experienced women, women who understand the Bratva world and wouldn't expect anything beyond a night with me.
I turned them all down.
Because the last time I wanted someone, the last time I felt desire and possession and the need to claim, she died carrying our child on our bedroom floor while I held her and failed her and promised her I'd never be weak again.
But here I am, wanting this former ballerina with a desperation that feels like drowning.
I consider closing the laptop right now, but I can't.
I search for more videos and find her performing Don Quixote, La Bayadère, Sleeping Beauty. Watch her move and turn and fly across stages in cities I've never been to, partnered by men whose hands on her body make me want to break things.
Watch her smile during curtain calls, watch her bow to thunderous applause, watch her be whole and perfect and everything she'll never be again because Anton Kozlov decided to destroy her.
By the time Sergei returns at nine-thirty, I've watched maybe a dozen videos and I'm adjusting myself at my desk like a teenager.
"Background check on Anton Kozlov came back," Sergei says quietly. "Preliminary results only, but you need to see this."
He hands me the tablet. I scan the report, my jaw tightening with every line.
Anton Kozlov. Thirty-eight years old. Born in Moscow, trained at the Bolshoi Academy. Started his career at the Bolshoi alongside more senior dancers before transferring to the Mariinsky at twenty-eight. Was Sonya Morozova's primary partner for two years before the accident.
Current location: unknown. Last confirmed activity: credit card usage in the New York area approximately six weeks ago, then nothing.
He left Russia three years ago—two years after destroying Sonya's career. Trail went cold until these recent NYC sightings. Why?
"Your invitation to Saturday's exhibition is confirmed," Sergei adds. "Seven PM opening, private viewing."
"Good." I force myself to focus. "What else?"
"The shipping contracts need your signature. Dmitri wants to discuss the Boston territory dispute. And—" He pauses, reading something on his tablet. "There's been increased federal activity around the Manhattan art market. Nothing concrete, but worth monitoring given your new interest in the area."
"Keep an eye on it. If the feds are sniffing around galleries, I want to know why."
Sergei makes a note, but he's watching me with that expression that means he's about to say something I won't like. "Permission to speak freely?"
"When have you ever needed permission?"
"This sudden interest in Sonya Morozova and her gallery—"
