“Correct. And still right.” He moves behind me again, adjusting one of my earrings—gentle, unhurried. “You look perfect, by the way.”
“Lethally perfect or socially acceptable perfect?”
“Yes.”
He meets my eyes in the mirror, and the humor fades just enough for honesty to settle in its place. “You scare me sometimes, you know that?”
“I scare myself.”
He nods once, then taps my shoulder. “Okay. Then let’s make sure tonight, you’re the one doing the scaring.”
32
Anton
Boris knocks twice before the door opens. He never bothers waiting for permission.
He steps in wearing a full tux: black jacket, crisp shirt, bow tie done right. It takes a second to recognize him. Gone is the hoodie, the smart-ass tech gremlin who lives on caffeine and sarcasm. Tonight, he looks like someone who belongs at a gala, not behind a keyboard.
“Package delivered,” he says. “Our girl’s inside.” The door clicks shut behind him.
I’m standing by the window of the Westside Hotel, eight floors up. It’s 7:30 PM; the sky’s already gone dark, bruised purple fading into black. Across the street, the Imperial burns bright, every chandelier, spotlight, and camera flash competing forattention. The red carpet glows like a vein, a trail leading straight into the ballroom’s mouth.
From here, I can pick out faces: the valet line, a swarm of photographers, Caleb Whitfield smiling like he owns the city.
My heart does that thing it shouldn’t—just stops for a beat when I see her.
She steps under the awning, and the lights hit her—emerald satin, catching every flash like it’s made of water and fire. The dress fits her like it remembers her shape. She pauses for half a second under the cameras, calm face, steady hands, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.
Caleb’s beside her, smiling for the reporters, his hand hovering just a little too close.
I want to break his fucking wrist.Suka blyat.
He talks, she nods, but I know the difference between nerves and discomfort. From up here, I can read both.
Lev is at my shoulder before I register him moving. He’s bored for two seconds, then curious. He shifts to the window and leans in, eyes narrowing.
“Yeah,” he says, low. “She looks like a damn cover model.”
I turn away. Eyes back on what matters.
Dima’s on the couch loading a small pistol, checking the slide like it’s muscle memory. Lev’s sprawled backward on an armchair, chewing on a mint he stole from the minibar, already dressed in his tux but somehow still looking like trouble.
“How’s she holding up?” I ask.
“Shaky hands, but she’s smiling. Whitfield’s eating it up. He walked her in through the red carpet entrance—press lights, reporters, the whole thing. Security didn’t even blink.” Boris swipes the tablet. “She’s wearing both signals. Bracelet’s transmitting clean, watch mic is live. And the earpiece,” he taps his ear, “works like a charm.”
Lev steps away from the window, muttering something under his breath as he crosses to the minibar. He grabs the bottle of whiskey and pours two fingers into each glass like the silence is pissing him off.
“Guy’s hand was practically on her back,” he mutters. “You want me to shoot him before dessert?”
He’s not kidding. And it’s not just me.
Every man in this room would burn that ballroom to the ground if she said the word.
He walks over and drops one of the glasses in front of me with a soft thunk.
“You’re gonna need this.”
