That's what they call me now. Maksim "Steel" Petrov.
Except right now, the words loop through my head like a song I can't stop hearing. Elena was a ballerina. Prima ballerina at the Moscow Bolshoi, the best of the best, moving across stages like she was made of light and music and dreams I didn't deserve.
Until someone killed her for it.
I press my palm against the cool glass, trying to ground myself. Trying to remember that this Sonya Morozova—whoever she is—isn't Elena. Isn't my problem.
Except she is connected. To Alexei. To the Morozov family. To the reform movement that got my wife killed.
And she's a former ballerina.
Former.
What does that mean? Retired? Injured?
Sergei returns with a physical file—old school, the way I prefer. Paper doesn't crash, doesn't get hacked, doesn't betray you with deleted browser history. He sets it on my desk and steps back, waiting.
I open it.
Sonya Morozova. Twenty-nine years old. Born in St. Petersburg, trained at the Vaganova Academy, joined the Mariinsky Ballet at eighteen. Made principal dancer at twenty-three—youngest in the company's recent history.
Career ended at twenty-four.
I flip to the next page, already knowing what I'm going to find, dreading it anyway.
There's a newspaper clipping, Russian text with a grainy photo. The headline translates to "Tragedy at the Mariinsky: Principal Dancer Injured in Opening Night Accident."
Accident.
I read the article twice, my Russian getting rusty but still good enough to understand what happened. Opening night of Giselle. Her partner—Anton Kozlov—failed to catch her during a lift. She fell. Shattered her ankle in front of two thousand people.
Career over.
Just like that.
The article includes quotes from witnesses, from the theater management, from Anton himself expressing his devastation at the "tragic accident." It includes a photo of Sonya being carried offstage, her face twisted in pain, her white costume pooling around her like a shroud.
It includes everything except the truth.
Because I know that this wasn't an accident.
Ballerinas don't just fall.
They're dropped.
I flip through more pages. After the Mariinsky, there are medical records—three surgeries, extensive physical therapy, permanent mobility limitations. Then a complete pivot: she came to the States a year after the accident, enrolled in grad school at NYU, started working in galleries, and earned a degree in art history.
Three years ago, during her second year at NYU, she opened her own gallery in Manhattan—knowing exactly what she wanted to build even while still studying. Upper East Side, high-end clientele, specializing in Russian imperial art, known for understanding the provenance and history of pieces that most people only see in museums, exactly the kind of Russian artifacts that flow through Bratva channels when legitimacy isn't an option.
The gallery's been successful. Very successful. She's made a name for herself and built something real from the ruins of her dance career.
She survived.
She survived, and I don't know why that matters so much. I turn to the last page of the file.
It's a still image, pulled from what looks like a security camera. Grainy, black and white, timestamped from last night at 11:57 PM.
Sonya is dancing.
