I'm so busy staring at the eggs and spiraling into panic that I almost miss the moment when the energy in the room shifts.
It's seven forty-five. The gallery is full—collectors in expensive suits, art critics with their notebooks, a few society types who attend every opening whether they care about art or not. Champagne flows, conversations buzz, Maya moves through the crowd with practiced ease.
And then the door opens, and everyone stops talking.
Not dramatically. But there's a pause, a collective inhale, the kind of shift that happens when someone genuinely important or really dangerous walks into a room full of people pretending to be those things.
I turn toward the entrance.
And see him.
Six-foot-three, maybe more. Silver-streaked dark hair that probably looked distinguished instead of old when he was younger. Ice-blue eyes that sweep the room like he's cataloging exits and weaknesses. A three-piece suit that costs more than some cars, fitted perfectly to a body that's clearly more muscle than a forty-something businessman usually have.
He moves through the crowd like he owns it, and people part for him without realizing they're doing it.
I know who he is before anyone says his name.
Maksim "Steel" Petrov. Philadelphia Bratva boss. And Alexei's biggest opponent in the reform movement. The man who's spent fifteen years blocking every attempt at legitimacy, cooperation, progress.
And he's here. In my gallery. In New York City, which is supposed to be neutral territory.
Looking directly at me.
Our eyes meet across the room, and something passes between us—recognition, challenge, something sharper and more complicated than simple acknowledgment. He starts walking toward me, the crowd parting like water, and I have maybe ten seconds to decide how to handle this.
Professional. Polite.Don't let him see that you're rattled.
Don't let him see that you're one wrong word away from a complete breakdown.
He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and dark, cedar and leather and danger.
"Ms. Morozova." His voice is rough, like he doesn't use it much for talking. Like he's more comfortable with silence or violence. "Impressive collection."
"Mr. Petrov." I keep my voice steady, professional. "I wasn't aware you were interested in Russian imperial art."
"I'm interested in many things." His eyes move over my face, studying me like I'm one of the pieces on display. "Especially when they involve my... associates' families."
Associates. Not friends. Not allies.
Because Alexei is trying to reform the Bratva world, and Maksim is standing in his way at every opportunity.
"Alexei is my cousin," I say carefully. "But I run an independent business. The gallery has nothing to do with family politics."
"Everything has to do with family politics, little ballerina." He's still watching me, those ice-blue eyes missing nothing.
The world stops.
Little ballerina.
Anton's name for me. The pet name he used backstage, during rehearsals, whispered against my ear before lifts.
My face must show something—shock, fear, rage—because Petrov's expression shifts slightly. Not quite concerned. More like... interested.
He's watching me the way a predator watches prey, trying to figure out if I'm going to run or fight.
I force myself to breathe. To remember that he's not Anton. That I need to pull myself together before I give away more than I should.
"You're okay? You look—"
