The elevator opens directly into the underground garage where a matte black Bentley waits. As we slide into the leather interior, Nicolai continues his briefing.
"The event is at The Pierre. Vito Rosso has taken over the Grand Ballroom. Guest list includes two senators, a federal judge, three police commissioners, and enough old money to bail out a small nation."
"The usual suspects," I murmur, watching the city lights blur past the window. "Everyone pretending not to know they're breaking bread with criminals."
"In fairness, most of them are criminals too," Nicolai points out. "Just with better press coverage."
The car glides to a stop beneath the awning of The Pierre, one of New York's most prestigious hotels. Doormen in crisp uniforms rush to open our doors, their eyes carefully trained not to linger on my face or body.
Nicolai offers his arm. "Ready?"
I take a slow, centering breath. "Always."
We enter the hotel's opulent lobby with its marble floors and crystal chandeliers, but bypass the main areas for a private elevator that will take us directly to the ballroom level. Nicolai's phone buzzes.
"Father's asking where we are," he mutters.
"Tell him we're making an entrance." I adjust one of my earrings. "And Rafa?"
"Still no sign of him."
The elevator doors open to reveal a reception area outside the Grand Ballroom. Two security teams—one Russian, one Italian—flank the massive double doors, scanning each arriving guest with practiced efficiency. They straighten to attention when they see us.
"Miss Petrov, Mr. Petrov," one of the Russians murmurs with a deferential nod.
Beyond the doors, I can hear the refined murmur of New York's elite mixing with the subtle strains of a string quartet. The sounds of power and privilege consolidating itself.
"Shall we?" Nicolai asks.
I lift my chin. "Let's get this over with."
The doors swing open, and for one suspended moment, I am framed in the entrance like a painting. The conversationsnearest the door falter, then ripple outward into silence as heads turn one by one.
The Grand Ballroom of The Pierre is a masterpiece of old-world elegance—soaring ceilings adorned with intricate moldings, walls in cream and gold, and glittering chandeliers that cast everyone in the most flattering light possible. Round tables draped in white linen surround a central dance floor, each centered with arrangements of white orchids and blood-red roses—a deliberate echo of my dress, I realize. Someone has been planning this aesthetic for months.
I scan the room with practiced nonchalance, cataloging faces and positions. My father stands with Vito Rosso near the center of the room, both men in identical black tuxedos that can't disguise the predators beneath. Alexei looms beside them, massive and forbidding in his formal wear, looking like he'd rather be breaking bones than making small talk.
But there's no sign of Rafa.
The absence is conspicuous. Deliberate. A statement.
I take a glass of champagne from a passing server and begin my progression through the room, Nicolai at my side. Years of training have perfected this dance—the careful modulation of my smile, the precise pressure of my handshake, the calculated warmth in my eyes that never quite reaches their depths.
"Kira." My father materializes before me, his voice smooth as polished stone. "You're late."
"Fashion dictates a proper entrance," I reply, allowing him to kiss my cheek for the benefit of watching eyes. "Where is my fiancé?"
A flash of irritation crosses my father's face, then smooths out into diplomatic neutrality. "Vito assures me he's on his way."
Vito steps forward then, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips with old-world courtesy. As a Don, he carries himselfwith the confidence of a man who has ordered deaths over breakfast and closed billion-dollar deals over lunch.
"Ms. Petrov," he pauses, then starts again. "A vision worthy of your reputation. My brother is a fortunate man."
"A fortunate man who apparently can't tell time," I observe with a cool smile.
Vito's eyes hardened for a fraction of a second before crinkling in manufactured amusement. "Rafa operates on his own schedule. One of his few... indulgences I permit."
The subtext is clear: Vito allows Rafa’s disrespect only because it amuses him to do so. Power dynamics laid bare in a single sentence.
