This was Act II beginning with a promise of worse to come.
"Ms. Morozova." Petrov's voice cuts through my panic. "Do you know who did this?"
I should lie. Should protect myself, handle this privately, not involve the Bratva boss who opposes everything my cousin stands for.
But I'm so tired of being alone with this.
So tired of carrying Anton's obsession by myself.
So I tell him the truth.
"Yes," I whisper. "I know exactly who did this."
Chapter four
First Blood
Maksim
I can't stop watching her.
Even while the police take statements and her assistant coordinates with insurance, my eyes keep finding Sonya Morozova. She's standing near the shattered windows in that burgundy dress, her arms wrapped around herself, face too pale.
But she's not falling apart.
She's moving through ballet positions without realizing it. Fourth position while talking to the police—one foot slightly forward, weight distributed perfectly. When she shifts to explain the stolen photographs, she moves to fifth position, her body finding classical form like muscle memory.
It's mesmerizing.
Sergei appears at my elbow, voice low. "NYPD is treating it as vandalism. Three men, early twenties to mid-thirties. Professional movement—former military or private security. Total time inside: eighty-four seconds."
"Weapons?"
"Not visible, but the way they moved suggests they were armed. This was surgical, Pakhan. They knew exactly what they were taking and where to find it."
I finally look at him. "Which means someone cased the gallery beforehand."
"Security system was accessed remotely four days ago. Tuesday night. Video loop inserted, alarms disabled for the delivery entrance. Professional work."
Four days ago. Tuesday night.
Someone was already in the building. Already planning everything for tonight.
My hand moves without thinking, tracing Elena’s name on my palm. The pattern is automatic, soothing.
Except halfway through, I add an S.
E-L-E-N-A-S.
I stare at my hand, at the invisible letters, and something cold settles in my chest. This is how it starts—obsession disguised as protection.
I won't do that again.
But even as I think it, I'm watching Sonya, and my body remembers the weight of her against my chest. The silk of her dress, the scent of her perfume, the way she fit perfectly in my arms.
Remembers how hard I got, pinning her to the floor while glass fell.
By 9:30, most guests are gone. Sonya stands alone near the Fabergé display, staring at the eggs like they might have answers.
