He curses under his breath, low and vicious in Russian.
My vision blurs. Panic slices through me, sharp and cold.
“I’ve been trying to call my father since last night,” I say, voice shaking uncontrollably. “Since I found out all this—but he’s unreachable. He’s completely unreachable. What if—what if they—”
Fear claws at what’s left of my composure.
“No.” Dimitri’s voice cuts clean and sharp through the panic. “Vivian. Look at me.”
I force my eyes up to his.
“Don’t cry,” he says—not harsh, but firm, commanding. “It’ll only distract you from the goal. What matters is that she’s alive. She’s alive, and now we know exactly where she is.”
My breath trembles out of me.
Alive.
Alive.
I swallow hard, pushing the grief and terror down, caging them where they can’t ruin me.
He’s right.
I take a long, shaky breath and nod.
His tone shifts—gentler, lower, threaded with something too raw to name.
“When this is over,” he murmurs, “I want you gone from this life.”
I shake my head immediately. “There’s no gone anymore.” My voice is barely air. “There’s only after.”
Something flickers in his eyes—pain, pride, fear. All of it at once.
He pulls me into him, arms strong, steadying, grounding. His warmth sinks into me, loosening the tension that’s been strangling my chest since we landed.
He helps me stand.
“You’ve seen your mother,” he says. “Now it’s time for you to eat something and sleep a few hours.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off with a look—the kind that brooks no argument.
“It’s about to get rough,krasavitsa.” His hand slips to the small of my back, guiding me toward the kitchen. “And I need you sharp when it does.”
***
The operation unfolds like a ballet of violence.
By noon, Sylvester slips into the building through the service tunnels, silent as a shadow, a ghost among the pipes and hidden passages. Every movement calculated, every step measured. He’s the unseen hand ready to tip the scales.
Meanwhile, Dimitri and I glide into the gala under our aliases—Sophia and David Winslow. The room is a temple of power and pretense: the rich perfume of cigars, the sharp fizz ofchampagne, marble floors gleaming under crystal chandeliers, and walls lined with men who would kill with a smile.
I force myself to breathe evenly, my pulse hammering beneath the facade. Every curve of my smile, every tilt of my head is deliberate, a weapon honed for precision.
Dimitri is beside me, perfect posture, casual charm masking the storm coiled beneath his suit. His hand brushes mine lightly now and then, a silent signal, a tether. I tighten my grip, letting him know I’m with him—locked in, unflinching.
I move through the room with practiced grace, pouring champagne into glasses with a steady hand, exchanging pleasantries with people whose wealth is built on lies. Every smile I give is a dagger, every laugh calculated.
And through it all, I feel the electricity of being his—not just in name, not just in danger, but in every touch, every glance. Together, we are a front. Together, we are the storm waiting to break. If he had come on this date with another woman, I would have died of jealousy.
