Rafa
The code is beautiful.Perfect. A digital masterpiece that would take the average hacker years to crack.
Three monitors surround me in the dim light of my apartment, each displaying a different aspect of the security algorithm I've been refining for the past seventeen hours straight. This is my real engagement—with encryption, not with some Bratva princess I've never met. With this code, I will uncover who is using my code and stealing money.
My phone buzzes for the ninth time in twenty minutes. I glance at the screen: Vito.
I ignore it and return to my work. Five more minutes and I'll have the backdoor secured, leaving no trace that?—
The phone rings again. This time, the specialized ringtone I've programmed for emergencies cuts through my concentration. With a growl of frustration, I snatch it up.
"What?"
"Where the fuck are you?" Vito's voice is deadly calm. The kind of calm that precedes someone being buried in New Jersey swampland.
I glance at the clock on my computer: 8:47 PM.
Shit.
The engagement gala started at 8:00.
"I'm working," I say, already calculating how long it will take to shower and get to The Pierre. "Lost track of time."
"You lost track—" Vito cuts himself off, and I can practically hear him counting to ten in Italian, something our mother taught him for controlling his temper. "Rafa, there are two senators and a federal judge waiting to meet my brother, the man who's marrying the Petrov Heiress. The Petrovs themselves are here, including your future wife."
"I'll be there in thirty minutes," I say, already shutting down my systems.
"Make it twenty." He hangs up.
I stand, stretching muscles cramped from hours of immobility, and stare at the tuxedo hanging on my closet door. The formal costume for tonight's charade. Rina, my sister-in-law, had it delivered yesterday. A slow, rebellious idea forms. If I'm going to be forced into this sham marriage, I might as well make my position clear from the start.
The shower is quick and perfunctory. I don't bother shaving the stubble that's accumulated over the past two days of coding marathon. My hair remains untamed, still damp as I pull on the tuxedo shirt and pants.
The bow tie I leave deliberately askew. The jacket I shrug on without bothering to button it properly.
In the mirror, I look exactly like what I am: a man who'd rather be anywhere else, doing anything else. Perfect.
If Vito wants to parade me around like a show pony, he can deal with one that refuses to perform.
The drive to The Pierre takes eighteen minutes in Manhattan traffic. I toss my keys to the valet with a generous tip that makes him ignore my disheveled appearance. The hotel lobby is old-world opulence—crystal chandeliers, marble floors, the quiet hum of money being spent.
I bypass the public areas, heading straight for the private elevator that will take me to the Grand Ballroom. Two more security teams—Russian and Italian—give me a look of thinly disguised disapproval as I approach. The Italian guards straighten when they recognize me.
"Mr. Rosso," one murmurs, pressing the button to summon the elevator. "They're waiting for you, sir."
"I bet they are," I mutter, stepping inside.
The elevator rises smoothly. I use the brief moment of privacy to run my fingers through my hair, intentionally messing it further. If I'm going to make a statement, it might as well be unmistakable.
The doors open, and I step out to face the ornate double doors of the Grand Ballroom. Without waiting for an announcement, I push them open and stroll inside.
The effect is immediate. Conversations halt mid-sentence as heads turn toward me. The string quartet falters briefly before continuing their bland rendition of Vivaldi. I scan the room with deliberate casualness, taking in the assembled power players of New York's elite—politicians, judges, business leaders, all pretending not to know they're drinking champagne with two of the most dangerous crime families on the East Coast.
Then I see Vito cutting through the crowd toward me, his smile fixed but his eyes promising retribution.
"You're late," he hisses, grabbing my arm with bruising force and steering me toward a less-populated corner.
"Traffic," I lie, allowing myself to be moved.
